Читать книгу Mystery in Red - Sidney Clark Williams - Страница 3

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Said he, “My son, you’ll rue the day,

To me way hay yoh yah!”

Said he, “My son, you’ll rue the day,

And a long time ago.

“When off to sea you go away,

And a long time ago.”

And often since have I thought of his word,

To me way hay yoh hah.

And often since have I thought of his word,

And a long time ago.

With a supplementary “Ago-o” the voice died away in a meditative rumble. The only immediate comment was the sardonic “Ah!” of a passing gull. At the impact of an extra-vigorous roller the boat gave slightly to starboard.

Now the voice aft of the cabin resumed its contented droning:

“A monkey’s heart and a donkey’s liver,

Blow, boys, blow,

A monkey’s heart and a donkey’s liver,

Blow, my bully boys, blow.”

The two men smoking forward by the rail exchanged tolerant smiles. A curious pair. In his trim yachting clothes the elder somehow suggested a figure from “Pinafore.” Small and chunky, with twinkling blue eyes, and a short gray beard that edged up his cheek bones.

The younger and taller was rising six feet, with the leanness of a grayhound. A Roman nose of the most authoritative mold, and gray eyes with the glint of steel. Something about him a little scornful, but nowise bitter. And the air of a man ever ready to spring to action. He removed the briar that rested comfortably on his outthrust chin to say:

“Ed’s happy.”

“He usually is with himself, Slim.”

The elder man pinched his Havana. “Ed’s a romantic cuss,” he resumed.

“So are you, Pop.”

With his puckered lips, the smoke of the little man’s cigar spiralled past the tip of his nose.

“What’s one to think when Caswell, the eminent neurologist, is seen shepherding flappers at roadhouses and all-night cabarets?”

“Just how do you pick up this information?”

The tall man laughed.

“Oh, I’m a scientist.”

Rotated against the reef of beard, the little man’s cigar came to rest in the corner of his mouth. He clamped it there for further observation.

“Delancey, the chemist, is less scientific in such inquiries than Caswell, the physician. Besides, I’m a harmless old feller. And besides—again—I’ve got an excuse. After tinkering sprained minds all day it’s healthy to relax with gals that haven’t got any. . . . Now Ed——”

His suspended utterance was due less to delicacy than to overwhelming competition of the voice preceding a face by a far corner of the cabin:

“Ramble-away, Ramble-awa-ay,

Here comes the young kid they call Ramble-Away.”

The chantey-man regarded his companions quizzically. With his high-rolled ducks, and soft shirt open at the throat, he was a picture of power at ease. A big fellow of thirty or so, with a superb chest, a slope of thigh and leg trim as a clipper ship, and a large, smooth-shaven, deeply sunburned face.

“What’s doing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Caswell. “We’re praying for a little more wind.”

“If the Lord fails to furnish it, we’re going to set you to singing against the sails,” added Delancey.

“Go to the deuce. We’re out; and that’s the great thing. Isn’t it?”

He looked about with vast appreciation, and proceeded to answer himself:

“It sure is. Thanks to you, Pop. And God bless Columbus for being born to-day; especially this year, when it comes Friday. . . . Three days without even a square root. How’d you think of this, Pop?”

“Don’t know. Maybe Andersen made me. I could see he wanted one more cruise before tying the old Viva up for the season. And I thought there might be a lark or two left in the meadows. Then I like Nyatt without the summer litter of off-islanders from Sepoya and Screechhaven.”

He waved his cigar to port.

“You see where we come in, Ed,” Delancey observed.

“He can’t hurt my feelings.”

Anthony turned to examine the horizon.

“What time will we get there?”

“By sunset, I guess.”

Caswell consulted his watch.

“I thought of asking Andersen to start the auxiliary. He will anyway, if he needs it. Wind’s freshening a bit.”

He cocked an eye at mackerel clouds proceeding in tidy procession. Then he shaded his eyes, suddenly alert.

“By George, there it is.”

“What is?” asked Delancey.

“The island.”

Overboard went the cigar.

“I don’t see it.”

The three lined up at the rail.

“Over there.”

Caswell gesticulated.

“See that bit of scarlet?”

“Is it a painted island?” asked Anthony.

“Painted by the hand of God.”

Caswell grasped the rail impatiently, as if he would push the boat on. Stooping a little, Delancey got his head in line.

“Right,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s bayberry, and sumach, and scrub oak, and heather, and rambling vines. All the divine litter of Nature ripening in the sun.”

Anthony stood with feet wide apart, his slate-gray eyes fixed on the still small, but growing, spot of bright color. In anticipation he savored its richness.

“Thanks,” he said without turning his head.

“Welcome,” replied Caswell.

With a little screwed-up smile he reached for a button set in the rail. Then as quickly turned with a muttered, “I forgot,” to call to a man standing at the wheel:

“Shall we be in before sunset, Andersen?”

The Viva’s skipper turned his straw-colored mustache and faded blue eyes to the still brilliant but fast setting October sun.

“If the wind, she don’t fail, Captain,” he answered.

The wind did not fail. A fresher following breeze sent the Viva flying with effortless speed that makes the boat under canvas one with sky and water; with Nature herself in benevolent mood.

Now and then they passed boats of the scallop fleet, like themselves Nyatt bound, but slower with their burden of bivalves for city markets.

Once a power boat passed them,—a long, black boat with slender lines and powerful engines, tearing towards the island like a flying fish. And just before Grant’s Point was sighted the steamer from the mainland overtook the Viva. With the usual vague smiles, and waving of hats and handkerchiefs by passengers clustered on the deck, she went ahead.

Now the sun was low. And into its splendor gulls were flying with crimsoned wings. With brighter color, almost magenta it seemed in comparison, the moors stretched their low rampart to the left of the town.

As the island’s horseshoe opened to receive them, village houses seemed to advance in welcome. No monumental pile, but a profusion of seasoned brick and old frame houses of mellow aspect. Some with ivy at once affording protection and claiming support. Others with cupola and captain’s walk reminiscent of wives that watched no longer, and whalers that went no more to sea. Here and there plumes of autumn foliage showed yellow and scarlet above the serried roofs.

Alert for the narrow and winding channel, Andersen stood with the chart before him. The steamer was already discharging her passengers as they picked their way past the lighthouse on the Point. A half-turn of the wheel to port. They dropped anchor as the old bell brought from Portugal chimed six in the North Tower.

Now Caswell let go the rail, with an impatient shake of cramped fingers, and smiled at Andersen with a lift of his mouth that mounted to a wave of his beard.

“Good,” he said. “Have a cigar.”

Andersen gravely accepted the token, and tucked it away.

“So,” he said. “You will go ashore, Captain?”

Caswell looked at the purpling sky.

“What do you say?” he inquired of Delancey and Anthony.

“Yes.” And, “Ditto,” they replied.

“All right. I’d like to feel the island under foot to-day. Just that. Dinner on the boat, Andersen.”

The skipper touched his cap.

“Yes, Captain.”

He turned to a sailor lounging aft with curt command to lower a boat, and went below to complete his instructions.

“Want anything?” Caswell asked his companions.

“Only my cap.”

Turning, Anthony plunged down the companionway. Delancey smiled, and tucked away his pipe.

Presently they were sliding through a clear expanse of amethyst water. Over the harbor, smooth as a mill-pond, drifted the pleasant smell of burning autumn leaves. The little boats off the Point sat like birds that settle for the night with drowsy head under a wing.

As they landed at the steamboat wharf the usual reception committee was frankly engaged in examining the Viva. Hackmen turned chauffeur with admission of motors to an island really too small for anything but a Ford; scallopers who had tied up early, or not gone out for the day; two or three old deep sea sailors with mahogany color set for life by ocean winds; truant boys, and a smattering of the riff-raff of the town.

A little apart stood a tall man examining Caswell’s boat with marine glasses. Possibly able to say, had he experience: “About sixty feet over all. Good lines. Probably good speed. Looks like a Herreschoff,” etc.

He turned as they stepped on the wharf, and virtually brushed aside their first questioner, interrogating them about a taxi.

“Are you Griffis?”

The tall man looked at Delancey, who returned his regard with interest. As he delayed his answer the question was repeated:

“Griffis?”

“Suppose I am.”

At Delancey’s smile Caswell looked nervous.

“What,” he said to himself, “is Slim going to do now?”

“Ericsson is expecting you,” said the would-be identifier.

“Oh, is he?”

“He’s up to the hotel now.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to look him up in the morning.”

As Delancey turned to Caswell and Anthony, standing a few feet aside, the persistent stranger stepped between.

“Better come now.”

“I can’t leave my friends here.”

“Bring ’em along.”

“But, my dear fellow, it’s about dinner time.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “there’s plenty of grub at the hotel.”

“Now what’s this all about?”

The man gave no ground.

“They told me to get you. . . . There’s a room ready.”

Suddenly Delancey laughed.

“Oh, well,” he said. “If that’s the case, come on.”

“My car’s here.”

Their guide limped on ahead. That he was lame Caswell had noted as he listened to his colloquy with Delancey, sizing him up with a physician’s eyes. A big man, he stood above six feet and probably weighed over two hundred pounds. There was a look of strength, limited to the discerning by signs of disease. While his right foot was not deformed to the extent of club malformation, it was misshapen and braced. His face was brick-red. Behind one ear were several yellowish scars, with kindred scars on the back of each hand. They looked like signs of some disorder of the blood.

His clothes meant nothing. They were the sort “tailor made” for men’s shops. And his general personality was about equally revealing. He might be a plasterer at fifteen a day, or a corner grocer scraping out four or five thousand a year, with his bottler’s license withdrawn. But neither of these would sport the motor to which he led them,—a seven-seater with a hundred-and-forty wheel base, and its wine-colored upholstering of a sort seen commonly in road palaces of motion picture stars.

“Hop in,” he said, motioning for Delancey to take the seat beside him. The others followed, with Caswell’s “Be back at nine” to one of his crew waiting by the dinghy.

“It seems you spotted me,” Delancey remarked as they settled themselves in the car. “But I don’t know you.”

“Bjerstedt. Come from Dakota. . . . Mostly called ‘Buster.’”

Ejecting his words gustily, the big man stooped to the self-starter. The engine roared, and they were suddenly under way.

Up the wharf and past the Yacht Club, its flag still flying but no sign of life about. Across North Milk Street, with its museum where reposed the bones of whales, and hard by harpoons driven by the hands that slew them. Through the Square, on the right flanked by a shuttered, melon-colored caravansary, and sharp left to the gate of a rambling frame structure with “Stimson House” neatly framed over the door.

The ride so soon over, it seemed almost like taking a Pullman to cross the street. Bjerstedt stepped out a bit awkwardly, giving himself the benefit of a half-minute or so in announcing, “Here we are.”

Limping a little, he led on to the door, which he opened without hesitation, and stepped through an entry into a room on the right. The office, seemingly, and parlor, too. The open register invited from a marble-topped table, and a bottle of ink beside it.

Delancey stooped to pick up the pen—then hesitated. By Massachusetts law registration under an assumed name is almost as heinous as forging a bank check. However, Bjerstedt spared him pangs of guilt.

“Kate’s out somewhere,” he announced with a cursory inspection. “I know the room. Come on.”

With now and then an impatient clutch at the banister he conducted them up a rather dark flight of stairs, their tread heavily padded in the middle; then up another, after a turn to the right.

The door he opened was almost at the head of the second flight. As he fumbled for the electric button, for it was twilight now,—a sound like that of a chair overturned on a hardwood floor came from the next room on the right.

The room they stood in seemed simple enough with the flooding light. They took inventory without Bjerstedt, who at once departed to find Ericsson. A rather large, square chamber with a neatly made double bed. Straw matting on the floor, and a maple set. By the crockery pitcher on the commode stood a bottle.

“Well?” said Caswell, as Delancey moved to examine it.

“Well, what?”

“How are you going to get out of it?”

“I thought you said you wanted adventure.”

“Maybe I did. But——”

“Then don’t be ungrateful. I’m giving it to you.”

“What will you do when this chap Ericsson comes?”

“Let’s not worry about that. Do you suppose this bottle’s good?”

Delancey shook it a little, and turned it bottom up for a sign of tampering with the glass.

“Looks all right,” he observed. “And ‘Lawson’s Dundee’ is a nice label.”

By a convulsion of his whiskers Caswell managed to convey,—“Well, I wash my hands.” Then he turned to Anthony with a dry little laugh:

“Isn’t Slim the biggest ass, Ed?”

Anthony had surveyed the pair with elation of a lad out with his elders. Now he smiled broadly, and reverted to his favorite medium:

“My gal’s a high-born ladee.

She’s dark, but not too shadee;

Feathered like a peacock, just as gay——”

“Do you teach mathematics by singing, Ed?” asked Caswell.

“He certainly never teaches singing that way,” Delancey volunteered.

“How do you know?” asked Anthony.

“Oh, any boob could tell.”

“Ask this one.”

Three pairs of eyes focussed on a figure just inside the half-opened door.

“What is the question?” the newcomer inquired, as he closed the door behind him.

“It seems to be,—‘Who are you?’”

Delancey carefully put down the bottle.

“My name is Ericsson.”

The newcomer affably complied. He had the air of a man ready to oblige in anything.

“Then you’re the man——”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

He interrupted Delancey’s magisterial declaration. Then hurried to conciliate:

“I assure you it’s all right.”

“That’s comforting, of course. But we’re not here for theatricals.”

Mr. Ericsson put forth a protesting hand.

“Of course. I know how you feel. But I assure you I can explain.”

“Well,” said Delancey, “why should I play Griffis?”

“No reason if you don’t want to. But I’ll be obliged if you do.”

He looked inquiringly at Caswell and Anthony, who had retired to the side-line. Next at Delancey. Finally, at the bottle.

“Suppose,” he suggested with a sudden smile, “we lubricate discourse.”

“Well, since you’re the host——”

Delancey regarded him ironically. At the thrust his rather ruddy cheek showed rising color.

“Take my word, it’s good Scotch,” he said.

“Oh, it’s your bottle——?”

“I had it sent up.”

“If that’s the case——”

Delancey retired to a chair with a half-apologetic smile.

“Thanks. Allow me.”

Ericsson produced a corkscrew. As he worked at the bottle his involuntary guests took stock of his appearance. He was probably thirty-odd, with flaxen hair and blue eyes. Of medium height, thick rather than fat. His voice low and well pitched counteracted the impression of his slightly theatric attire, including the belted coat of Broadway. With his very pleasant expression he seemed somehow ingenuous. Delancey modified his first impression that here was a beguiling fellow.

“Ah,” he sighed, when he had removed the cork with authentic “Plop!” and ritualistically up-ended the bottle.

“Now we’re set. For once they didn’t forget the glasses. . . . Say when. . . . Take it neat? . . . Rather have charged water? . . . Is that right? . . . Here goes. . . . Happy days!”

Sitting with much content, he sipped, and smiled.

“Now,” he said, “let me get this off my chest. I did expect Griffis.”

“What Griffis?” asked Delancey.

“What one? The moving picture man.”

“And what’s he supposed to be doing here?”

“Why, making a picture.”

Ericsson looked surprised. Delancey put on again the expression of the duelist.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty cheeky?”

“Not when you know,” Ericsson protested.

“I can’t go on with the masquerade.”

“Not until Monday?”

“What happens then?”

“Griffis will be here.”

“What will I look like then?”

“Oh, we can pass it off as a little joke.”

For the moment Ericsson looked perturbed. Then his face cleared.

“You know, you do look a lot like him.”

“Thanks,” said Delancey. “But you could hardly know that in advance of seeing me. So I suppose there must be some other reason for wanting me to pose as Griffis.”

“Well, to be perfectly candid, there is.”

“Out with it.”

“Won’t you help yourself? . . . All of you.”

Ericsson pointed invitingly to the bottle.

“Thanks. Not just now,” said Delancey. Caswell and Anthony declined with murmurs.

“Sorry. I think I will.”

Ericsson poured himself a stiff drink, sipped it appreciatively, and plunged in.

“You see, I’m making this picture with Griffis.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, an island idyl. Most characteristic stuff in the world here. It will beat ‘Cape Cod Folks’ by a mile.”

“No doubt. . . . Now why must I be Griffis?”

“No real reason. Only some of the boys got uneasy.”

“What boys?”

Delancey crooked an inquiring finger.

“I’m afraid I am a roundabout fellow,” said Ericsson. “But I’m coming to it. I mean boys that have taken stock in the company.”

“Does it happen Mr. Bjerstedt is one of them?”

“Yes. Stumpy has some.”

“That explains his pressing warmth in bringing us here. About what, may I ask, are the boys uneasy?”

“Oh, they don’t understand about these things. They expect a screen play to happen like a mushroom.”

“About how much of it has happened so far?”

“I’ve got the preliminary work done. Picking the sites, selection of supernumeraries; all that sort of thing.”

“Now they want action.”

“In a hurry.”

“Which they get——?”

“When Griffis comes. . . . I’m no technical director.”

“I see. How many are sighing to see him?”

“Oh, a dozen or so.”

“So many questions. And I don’t quite see it yet.”

Now Delancey poured himself a drink, and took it thoughtfully.

“What makes the islanders so impetuous?”

“They’re mostly off-islanders.”

“What’s Bjerstedt doing here?”

“I’m not quite sure. Came to rest, I think.”

Delancey put down his glass.

“Much as I would like to oblige you,” he said, “I’m afraid I must decline. You see, while it happens I’ve never been here before, my friend Caswell knows the place well. I don’t want to do anything embarrassing to him.”

“All right. Of course, it’s only a joke.”

Ericsson was pure affability.

“I wonder,” asked Caswell, who had luxuriated in an armchair, watching the smoke of his cigar spiral to the ceiling, “if you were ever at Harvard, Mr. Ericsson.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t I see you in a performance of the ‘Agamemnon’? Let’s see,—about ten years ago?”

“I was the Queen.”

“Thought so.”

Caswell’s cigar rotated to the other corner of his month. And a quiver of satisfaction slightly agitated his beard.

“Know the Carley Simkinses?” he pursued.

“Oh, yes.”

Ericsson was aglow with pleasure.

“The salt of the earth. Carrie was no end kind in my undergraduate days. And old Carley is a trump. He tolerated me in spite of the bad bridge I played. . . . They’re friends of yours, I suppose.”

Again Caswell’s cigar travelled to the opposite side.

“I brought up the children. . . . Met you there once.” . . . Puff, puff. . . . “Not surprising you don’t remember me. It’s my job to be inconspicuous. And look at people all the time. Tiresome business. . . . Ah, Slim . . .”

Now the smoke screen drifted towards Delancey.

“Why not give the young man his joke. I don’t mind.”

“All right then,” said Delancey.

“But I’m afraid you don’t relish the idea at all,” Ericsson protested.

“It’s done.”

“Well, you’re a trump. Of course, you are dining with me.”

“But we haven’t asked Bjerstedt’s permission.”

Ericsson laughed.

“Oh, he’ll be there. He’s one of my best little watchers.”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m considerably obliged by your consent to be the temporary Griffis. Bjerstedt, and a few other chaps he brought in, are rather on my nerves. I don’t know what sort of men they are used to dealing with. They’ve acted, these last few days, like race-track gamblers who suspect the bookie means to double-cross them.”

“When this picture is under way sufficiently to show the stuff in it, I hope we’ll be able to take up the stock these wise men seem to regret buying, and get ’em out. They’re not a sort I like to deal with. . . . And that’s that.”

He picked up his hat.

“See you down-stairs in a few minutes, if that suits you,” he said as he breezed out.

At the sound of the closing door Delancey turned to Caswell.

“What’s the idea, Pop?” he inquired with slight asperity.

“Which idea?”

Caswell’s expression was one of perplexity.

“Shoving me into an impersonation of this moving picture feller.”

“I thought that was your idea. Didn’t you mean to go through with it?”

“You know I didn’t.”

“Now that’s too bad. I thought you meant what you said about furnishing the old man an adventure.”

Rising, Caswell deposited the butt of his cigar in a convenient cuspidor.

“Anyway, it’s only for a couple of days. And you’ll have the bright companionship of Ericsson and Bjerstedt, while I have only the society of birds. That’s supposing, of course, I find a lark, or a black duck to play with.”

“What am I going to do?” asked Anthony. “Go into storage, or take the Viva, and go sailing?”

“You? By to-morrow noon you’ll be sitting with the old salts of the Pacific Club—spitting at the air-tight stove, and roaring chanteys.”

Delancey regarded Caswell with mock-admiration.

“You certainly have it fixed all nice and pretty. . . . I guess I’m the goat. And maybe it’s my fault. But don’t forget I owe you one, Pop. . . . Now let’s hunt the bathroom, the secret place of a country hotel. If I had a job of murder on hand, it would be my selection for the spot.”

Delancey’s misgiving was ill-founded. They came to the bathroom by guessing the first turn to the left. Only Anthony, leading, stumbled over something unseen in the dim light. It was a case left by the baseboard. At the same time was disclosed a gaslight in the wall above.

“May as well save the other fellow’s toes,” observed Anthony as he brought the light into action. Then he stooped again with:

“Hullo! What’s here?”

Painted on the top of the case with bold stroke was a red triangle.

Delancey laughed.

“I knew that case was floating fast off the Shoals, this afternoon. But I didn’t think it would get settled in the house ahead of us. Wonder what it is.”

Touching it with his foot, Caswell favored his companions with a gnomelike smile.

“Perhaps somebody is running a hooch farm.”

At a slight noise behind them they wheeled as one. Seemingly, there was no one there. They hurried with their toilet, and went down-stairs.

“Will you come in here?” Ericsson called from the office as they reached the lower hall. He stood by the table, waving a shaker with a gesture of invitation.

“I timed you pretty well,” he went on, filling the glasses on a tray before him.

“My dear boy,” said Caswell, with a tug at his whiskers. “Is your company going into liquidation?”

“Only this way.”

In high spirits he conducted them across the hall, to a room already occupied by a group of diners. There were four of them, two men and two women. Two facing the door nodded casually as Ericsson brought his party in.

“It looks as if most of the guests belonged to the eat-and-run club,” he remarked as he shook out his napkin. “Would you like to have those people over there join us?”

“Of course, if it’s the custom of the country,” said Caswell.

Ericsson laughed, quite unabashed.

“It’s not that. And they won’t bore. It just occurred to me it would be nice to have them in on a little surprise.”

“Another one!”

Delancey pushed back his chair, as if resolved to leave.

“Oh, you’ll like this one,” said Ericsson. “Is it a go?”

“We can’t resist you.”

“Then I’ll tell you all I know about them,—and it’s precious little, before I bring them over.

“You can pick out the Englishman all right. Name of Guy Beddle. Kate tells me there’s an ‘Honorable’ tacked on his letters. Supposed to be an embassy man. I don’t know what he’s doing here. May be just staying with his sister. She’s the woman on his right. The Countess Sacardi. Married an Italian who’s not in evidence. Don’t know anything about him. She looks sad. But, say,”—with an eloquent shrug, “she can be an icicle.”

He suspended his commentary while a rosy-cheeked waitress served the soup.

“The other chap,” he resumed, “is one Horace Flaherty. He was a year ahead of me in college. Never saw him from that time to this. Heard he was a consul, and secretary of legation in some Godforsaken country. Maybe it was Bulgaria. Lately he turned up here. Health, I suppose.”

Ericsson paused for a smile of sophistication, and rewarded himself with a generous bite from a roll.

“One remains. The girl who looks so unlike it is Bostonese. Name of Strong. Fearfully rich family, I believe. She was staying with some Edgecombes who have a nobby old house up Quince Street. They went away a few days ago, but she’s still here. Flaherty seems to be rushing her hard.

“That’s all. Now for it.”

He half-rose, but sank back into his chair with a broad smile.

“That would have been funny. . . . The way I came in to-night, like a man up for sentence, there was no introduction at all. Excepting Dr. Caswell, who identified himself, darned if I know who you are. Of course,”—to Delancey, “you’re Griffis with them. And much obliged all over again. But between ourselves——?”

“I’m Richard Delancey.”

“And——?”

“Edward Anthony.”

“Thanks. Now we’re set. Will you excuse me a moment?”

With the word he rose and hastened across the room.

“A breezy young man,” said Caswell. “It seems he is going to increase our acquaintance considerably. Thanks to you, of course, Slim.”

“Do tell us how they make moving pictures, Mr. Griffis,” jibed Anthony.

Delancey looked half-angry.

“I suppose this is a splendid joke to you. I’ve got to do the acting. And I’m all at sea.”

“But Ed will do the singing.”

Repartee was ended by Ericsson’s return, shepherding the party across the way. And trailing the waitress came, to rearrange the table.

“We have company,” he announced. “I told you you would like them. And I told them they would like you. It’s up to you all to back me up. Now here,” with a wave embracing the delegation from the Viva,—“are Dr. Caswell, Mr. Griffis,—all unknown to fame, and Mr. Anthony. There,” a wave in the opposite direction, “are the Countess Sacardi, Miss Strong, and Messrs. Beddle and Flaherty. Break ranks, please——”

By casual readjustment Delancey found himself seated beside the Countess. Nearly opposite was Anthony, beside Miss Strong, with Flaherty, who looked glum at being dispossessed, at the end of the table next Beddle.

“Now,” said Ericsson with much satisfaction, and called to the waitress somewhere outside: “Oh, Stella.”

“Coming, Mr. Ericsson.”

She appeared with a pail. A pail containing ice and gilt-crested bottles.

Delancey, sitting with Ericsson on his left, read the label: “Roger, 1914.” Also he saw above the year a red triangle. It looked as if made with carmine ink and a pen.

Seemingly, no one else noted it. As Ericsson busied himself with the demeanor of one that serves at a shrine Delancey made swift appraisal of those at the board.

Always abstemious, Caswell peered from his whiskered retreat with the slightly amused look of one who marvelled at nothing, and found a reason for all. Anthony, who was little used to liquor, was sitting with a flush accentuating sunburn, one elbow on the table, and half-turned towards Miss Strong, who seemed to be doing most of the talking between them.

A girl of striking appearance. Slender rather than thin; and a little pale, with eyes of the blue of northern waters, and blond hair that recalled wheat sheaves in autumn sunlight. Fine boned, with turquoise adornment of small ears beautifully modelled. Her simple dinner gown of black suggested sophistication rare among girls of twenty. In gesture, in carriage, in various ways she conveyed an impression of strain. Quite steadily she smoked one of the brands of cheap cigarettes young women of fashion became enamored of in the world war.

Flaherty who was evidently an insatiable raconteur, alternated anecdotes of the beau monde in Newport and Belgrade with fleeting spasms of unnatural glumness in which he regarded Anthony, quite unaware of his displeasure, with baleful eyes. He was a tall middle-weight, with a square smooth-shaven face and twinkling black eyes. He had suavity, and verbal dexterity beyond the average.

Beddle, who seemed rather remote and above proceedings, was one of those with the gift of putting the world on the defensive. He was not large or handsome. Certainly not arrogant. But something emanating from this undistinguished appearing, gray-eyed person caused the average to ask themselves,—“I wonder what he thinks.” Very quiet, he seemed to turn, whenever he was not engaged in conversation, to something far away.

“Is this your professional deportment, Mr. Griffis?”

A little belated, and doubly startled, Delancey turned to find the Countess regarding him with an expression of amused speculation. At his look of surprise she elaborated:

“I mean, are you playing the Napoleon of the silent drama?”

“I don’t feel,” he assured her, “in the least like one.”

“Well, you don’t look like one.”

“Like what——?” he suggested.

“Oh, I won’t give that away all at once.”

“Just a little, then——?”

“I would rather wait until you have had champagne.”

“Your reason, please?”

“Men are most natural when they drink.”

“Every man?”

“I rather think so. Now Guy,” with an appraising glance for her brother, “becomes more congealed. Had it not pleased God to make him an English gentleman, nature might have used him as a cooler in a Paris restaurant.”

“You think ill of us.”

“By no means. I am not a feminist. Certainly not a—what is the feminine equivalent of misogynist?”

“There isn’t any.”

“Then certainly I am not it.”

“To Harmony!” observed Ericsson from his stance at the head of the table.

From the silence of sipping emerged the voice of Caswell:

“If it’s not impertinent, and certainly I am appreciative, how do you do it, Mr. Ericsson?”

“Oh,” said Ericsson, with an airy gesture, “Spain is off there.”

“And only,” observed Flaherty, “a few thousand miles away.”

Delancey turned again to the right. What he saw saluted the eye pleasantly.

“May I remark that is a very charming frock,” he said.

“‘Frock’? What a sophisticated man.”

As the Countess smiled a softer brightness entered the hazel of eyes he first had thought rather cold. Banished also the impression of severity in a profile that reminded him of the face in a precious Roman coin. With her olive complexion she looked rather Italian, but habitually belied it by her coolness of manner.

“Since you seem an apt child,” she said, “I will tell you that ‘frock’ is right. And it is blonde lace. Also I sometimes wear with it a pale yellow hat. It came from Cheruit. But that means nothing to you. . . . Now tell me all about moving pictures.”

“I would rather,” he asserted, “tell you anything else.”

She sighed.

“I can’t call this the modesty of the artist. For usually an artist hasn’t any. Now I’d suspect you of being a business man—if it were not for that look in your eyes.”

“Really? I can’t see it, you know. What is it?”

“Inquiring, and undisciplined.”

“Now we’re getting on.”

“Yes, famously. . . . What do you think of the situation in the Ruhr?”

“Check,” he conceded.

Little time remained for talk of any sort. Bjerstedt seemed responsible for the sudden break-up of the party. Delancey had a glimpse of him standing in the doorway, and fancied Ericsson had seen him a moment earlier. At any rate he soon offered an excuse to go, with a look at his watch in a spasm of memory.

“I don’t want to break this up,” he apologized. “And I hate to go. But I’m late with an engagement. Wish I had forgotten altogether. Won’t you all just stay?”

“You are highly hospitable. I’m sorry to say I must return to my boat.”

Having settled the matter for himself, Caswell turned to Delancey.

“Shall I send the dinghy back for you and Ed?” he inquired.

“Not for me. I’m rather tired. And I guess I’d better go with you.”

“Mr. Anthony can’t go,” the Strong girl announced.

“But I’m afraid I must.”

“It can’t be done. I need you.”

By her positive accent Anthony seemed slightly disconcerted. On Flaherty’s brow appeared a thunder-cloud. With a restraining effort of will it quickly vanished. Addressing Anthony, he even forced a smile.

“You may as well give in. With or without a reason, Miss Strong always gets her way.”

“There’s a reason now,” she said. “I want him to play bridge.”

“I’m not much good at cards.”

“Then I’ll take you for a partner, and share the suffering.”

Anthony looked at Caswell. His struggle was feebler now.

“Sure you don’t need me for anything?”

“Nothing at all. Delancey and I will just turn in. The boat can come for you at any time.”

“Better spend the night ashore,” Miss Strong offered.

“Why not?” Ericsson interjected. “The room I took for Griffis will be vacant unless some of you use it.”

“That’s nice. Then we won’t have to hurry about anything.”

Miss Strong dismissed the matter as settled.

“Shall I see you later?” Flaherty asked with obvious effort at an air of unconcern.

“You might drop in to Rose’s house.”

The party was breaking up as conversation proceeded. Caswell and Delancey went, with Ericsson bustling ahead, and Flaherty coming after with Beddle and the Countess. Their last look at Anthony showed him putting a wrap about Miss Strong’s shoulders, the while she enveloped him with her sudden air of intimacy.

Delancey spoke first, as he opened the gate that admitted them to Lime Street, with its widely spaced lights filtering softly through the maples.

“That’s very quick work. I hope Ed remembers it’s leap year.”

“A good thing if she popped,” said Caswell with a smart tap of his stick.

“Just how do you figure that?”

Taking another trip, Caswell’s cigar came to rest in the left corner of his mouth. Then observation in a spray.

“All the Strongs are neurotic. They lay it, when they admit it, to some woman that married into the family about a hundred years ago. . . . Too much blame on the old girl. The trouble is mostly inbreeding. Old Boston habit, you know. . . . That, and too much money. Family’s richer than mud. Began with leather, and branched out into real estate. Now they just spend, and rot. Two of ’em suicides in the last ten years; and most of ’em queer.”

“Well,” said Delancey with a sardonic accent. “Then I don’t see why you think it would be a good thing for Ed to get involved with them.”

“Plain enough. They need simple, honest blood.”

“As for Ed——”

“Needs romance.”

“It seems to me he moons too much now.”

Caswell tossed his cigar into a neighboring yard.

“That’s it,” he sniffed. “Look at him. Great tackle, star swimmer, champion hammer thrower. Designed by Nature for strenuous living. . . . And what does he do? Teaches mathematics to mutton-headed little boys! And all his spare time he hunts models of sailing ships, or practises torture with chanteys. . . . Bah!”

“On your own statement he’s unfit to cope with the Strong tribe,” Delancey insisted.

“Nonsense! He needs interest in women. And there’s a life job. He’d never understand her. But she right away understood him. That’s good biology, my boy.”

Lighting another cigar, Caswell gave it position one, and beheaded a spray of aged goldenrod. Then he went on:

“Nice girl, I hear. Just a little skittish. Settle down all right, if she gets the right sort of man.”

When Delancey laughed it ended in a sort of falsetto chuckle.

“I see,” he observed, “you and the girl have settled it. Am I expected to be best man?”

“Why count me out? Think I’m too old? . . . Just a moment, Slim. If you don’t mind, let’s take a little stroll in here.”

On their way to the shore they had reached a corner a short distance above the wharf. On one side a street of small houses largely occupied by power-boat fishermen; all that remained where once was manned a famous square rigger fleet. Many were Bravas born of dark-skinned adherents old whalers brought from the south seas. To the left was a comparatively open stretch, with little save a fringe of summer houses standing dark and empty. From this side came the perfume that arrested Caswell’s attention.

The odor of late meadow grass, cut and stacked, mingled with the salt breath of the sea. Its rote came to them with a low note of mighty and peaceful breathing. And the punctuation of crickets unaware their days were nearly done. For a few minutes they walked in silence, savoring it all.

“What do you want——?”

Less question than a command, the salutation came like a blow.

Stepping from behind a hut by the path, a man barred the way. In their second look they realized he carried a gun. Before they recovered from the surprise of that discovery he barked again:

“Well, what is it?”

“This is a public highway,” said Caswell, giving no ground.

“Maybe it is,” said the man with the gun. “But it’s unhealthy for nosey strangers.”

“See here!” Caswell exploded. “What do you mean?”

For answer the man brought his gun to half-cock. A businesslike proceeding with a sawed-off shotgun.

“It’s an outrage.”

“I think I know what’s up, Pop,” said Delancey.

He had strained his eyes during Caswell’s exchange with the blockader to verify an impression of something happening at the near-by end of the bathing beach.

Right or wrong, he stirred the belligerent one to decisive action.

“Vamoose!” he ordered.

“Oh——!” sputtered Caswell.

“Quick!”

The gun came to the stranger’s shoulder. As they did the sensible thing he barked after them:

“Keep moving.”

With a long-visored cap pulled down over his nose, they had no distinct impression of his face. It was only evident that he was of medium height, and stocky. And, judging by his voice, one of nature’s rough-and-ready ones.

“Isn’t that the queerest?” said Caswell, when he thought it discreet to speak. “What do you make of it?”

“Rum runners.”

“What makes you think so?”

“What I saw. You know I’m a sort of owl in the dark. And while you had your little say to the gunman I saw proceedings on the beach beyond us. Maybe two or three hundred yards away.

“There’s a boat off there—a short distance from shore. And men are wading in from her with something on their shoulders. I saw them going and coming as we stood there.”

“Probably some of Ericsson’s stockholders. Your stockholders, too. I forgot that in my excitement,” said Caswell dryly.

“That’s an unpleasant suggestion. More and more, I feel I am foolish to have anything to do with Ericsson.”

“Oh, well,” said Caswell soothingly. “What’s that——?”

From behind came the explosion of an engine brought into action. And the crescendo of triumph as its power was liberated. Then a loud hum, and thundering progress in their direction.

It came with such suddenness that they exchanged no observation. By common impulse they quitted the sidewalk. And largely concealed by a hay cart left outside a stable door, they saw a furiously driven truck go crashing by. It was loaded with something covered by a tarpaulin. And two men crouched on the tail end.

The truck passed the corner they had lately left, and with still accelerating speed vanished in the water-front street that led out to the moors.

“I guess you’re right, Slim,” Caswell conceded as they regained the road. “Let’s get down to the boat before somebody else threatens to pot us.”

The short distance to the wharf they covered without misadventure. Only as they reached its head a rocket was discharged from the shore just back of the light on the Point. Scattering fiery particles, it soared, curved, and fell in swift descent, abruptly extinguished against the dark curtain of sky.

Nothing further occurred until they had walked to where two of Caswell’s crew waited, with the dinghy tied up to a float at the foot of some steps. Then, as they stepped in, came an answering signal from the direction of the Black Rip Lightship. Fainter, because some miles distant, a blue rocket answered the red.

Not caring to discuss the problem before the sailors, pulling industriously towards the Viva, they exchanged only commonplaces on the way across. They climbed the ladder with a sense of relief.

“I snum,” said Caswell as they reached the cabin way. “The old island’s become a lively place.”

Out at sea, some miles to the eastward, a gun barked. From the sound a four- or five-pounder. Its diminishing echoes came racing landward. . . .

Silence.