The Sixty-First Second Read online

  *CHAPTER VI*

  Teddy Beecher was a fair representative of the second generation. Hestill retained the rugged democracy of the father who had fought his wayto a moderate fortune in the troubled regions of the coal-fields. Tohim a man was a man, whatever the quality of his coat. Left an orphanat fourteen, he had passed victoriously through boarding-school andcollege without seriously troubling the peace of mind of those who werecompeting for scholarship honors. He was liked because he liked everyone, not with a politic assumption, but from a veritable enjoyment oflife and men.

  After graduation, he had gone West on a ranch with several of hisclassmates, for the pure love of adventure and the delights of the greatopen spaces. Having thus begun his education, he continued it byknocking about the world, with periodic excursions in search of biggame. He had known a great many types of men without knowing them inthe least, and he appealed to all women without being deeplyimpressionable to their influence. His philosophy of life was very wellsummed up in a remark he had made on his return to New York--that hewould probably go to work if he couldn't find anything better to do.

  When he awoke the day after Rita Kildair's party, it was with the clearand dispassionate vision of the morning. The dramatic occurrences ofthe night before flashed instantly into his consciousness, arousing allthe energy of his young curiosity. He recalled the promise to solve themystery he had made in a moment of enthusiasm, and with a renewed zestbegan to consider how he should prove himself.

  Several things immediately rose up to perplex him in the strange anddramatic climaxes at which he had assisted--the twisted undercurrents ofwhich he was still completely ignorant. Why had Garraboy, and then RitaKildair, adopted an attitude of suspicion toward him when he hadreturned? For Garraboy's hostility he found a ready answer in themutual antagonism that had risen from the first exchange of glances; butthe reception he had received at the hands of Mrs. Kildair thoroughlymystified him.

  "Of course, if the ring wasn't found in the search," he said, gettingout of bed and ringing for his man, "it's got to be in the studio; ofcourse--no way around that. Whoever took it the second time didn't getmuch opportunity to hide it, either--unless it was hidden after thecandle was lit; there was a chance then--every one was stumbling around.By Jove! I believe that's how it was done. But then, why the deuceshould more than one person return?"

  He stopped and suddenly remembered his own return.

  "That's so; a man might come back to offer help. But why a woman? Andwho the deuce came back after I did--Miss Lille or Mrs. Bloodgood?"

  At this moment the door opened on Charles, whom he had inherited withone half of the luxurious apartment from Freddie Duyckerman, who hadgone to England for the hunting season.

  "Your bath is ready, sir," he said, standing with that perfectly vacuousexpression which had been carefully trained to express neither joy,grief, hilarity, nor the natural surprise which he might haveexperienced at beholding his master, brush in hand, standingabsent-mindedly before a great copper platter that was near the window.

  "Telephone up to the stables; I'll take Judy to-day," said Beecher,passing into the bathroom.

  A touch of the cold shower set his nerves to tingling and sent his mindto recalling pleasantly the pretty faces of the evening before, afterthe manner of young gentlemen of leisure with a proper share of vanity.Two figures rose immediately--Rita Kildair and Nan Charters. Heremembered them both without excitement, but with different emotions.

  "By George, Rita's a thoroughbred," he said. "She has them allbeat--mysterious as a sphinx. Prettiest sight in the world, seeing hermanipulate a crowd. Jove, but she has nerve!" Then he reflected alittle guiltily that he had rather deserted her for other shrines, andhe resolved enthusiastically to make amends by throwing himself, heartand soul, into the recovery of the ring.

  "By George, it's something to have the confidence of a woman like that!"he exclaimed, sublimely fatuous. "That old mammoth of a Slade wouldgive ten years of his life, I'll bet, to stand where I do with her."

  Then he remembered Nan Charters, with a little movement of impatience atthe thought of his sentimentality.

  "What the deuce got into me last night?" he said, displeased withhimself. "I acted like a school-boy. I suppose she thinks she's got meon her scalp-belt--easy as a stage-door Johnny. What the deuce got mewabbling so? These actresses are full of tricky stuff."

  He resolved that he would show her his complete indifference by notcalling for at least a week, maybe two, and concluded, with profoundpenetration:

  "Good game. She'll remember how I started in, and wonder what changedme. That's it--keep 'em guessing."

  He went into the dining-room, where the coffee was boiling in thepercolator, and sat down, after assuring himself by a trip to theopposite bedroom that Bo Lynch was still sleeping the profound sleep ofthe unjust..

  But hardly had he begun on the iced grape-fruit when a lank figure inpeppermint pajamas appeared at the doorway, brushing from hissleep-laden eyes the long wisps of hair which, carefully treasured toconceal the bare upper regions, now hung about his sharp, superciliousnose.

  "Why the devil don't you breakfast with a chap?" he said, emerging.

  "Hello, Bo," said Beecher pleasantly. "Up till four or five, trainingfor your polo match this afternoon?"

  "Well, Fontaine was there; we call it pairing off."

  "Auction?"

  "Yes, damn it. I cut that little wild ass of a Plunket six timesrunning. He'd gamble away his grandmother on a couple of aces. I say,Teddy," he continued, with a little more animation, emptying a bottle ofmineral water which Charles, knowing what might be termed the regularityof his habits, had set out for him, "do you ever try a flier in themarket?"

  "I have been such a fool."

  "Look here; I've got a sure thing. Eddie Fontaine gave it to us lastnight--in dead secrecy, of course. Worried it from the old man, and youknow old man Fontaine is the real thing. The whole Atlantic Trustbusiness was patched up at a conference yesterday afternoon. Majendie'sto get all the backing he needs."

  "Well, what of that?"

  "Why, you ignoramus, that means the banks have let up on the trustcompanies and are coming to the support of the market. Everything's'way down below where it ought to be. Stocks'll go up twenty points intwo weeks. I've taken another thousand of Northern Pacific myself.Better get in on it."

  "Thanks; I'll circulate my money on a horse-race--something I knowabout. By the way, Majendie was there last night."

  "He was, was he?" said Lynch, with more animation. "How did he seem?"

  "Cool as a cucumber," said Beecher, who, however, was surprised to findhow little he remembered of any one else's conduct. "I was in at one ofMrs. Kildair's affairs. By the way, Nan Charters was there."

  "Oh, was she?" said Lynch sleepily, hesitating between the call of hisbedroom and the cooling aspect of the waiting grape-fruit.

  "Know anything about her?" asked Beecher, perceiving he would gainnothing by indirection.

  "Never met her," said Lynch. "Charlie Lorraine was crazy about her acouple of years ago. We thought he was going to marry her. I believethey were engaged, or had an understanding."

  "No scandal?"

  "Oh, she's perfectly straight. Charlie's a good proposition, but thatdidn't seem to hurry her any. She has a lot of 'em buzzing after her."

  "I say, Bo," said Beecher suddenly, "did you ever run up against afellow called Garraboy?"

  "What's he do?"

  "He's a broker."

  Lynch reflected, yawning behind his hand. His occupation in life wassupposed to be stocks and bonds, according to the city register.

  "Nope, never heard of the fellow."

  "Who'd know at the club?"

  "Ask Jack Lindabury or Tom Bovee. Well, ta-ta; I'm going to sleep out abit for the match. Tell Charles to default me to the manicure and thescalpist," said Lynch, who termed thus the prim, middle-aged person whohad guaranteed to pr
eserve his numbered hairs. "By the way, how about alittle bet on the match? I'll give you six to five."

  "Done for fifty," said Beecher obligingly.

  "See you at luncheon," said Lynch, who was soon heard plunging heavilyinto bed.

  Beecher belonged, without yet being one of them, to that set who livewhat in England is called a gentleman's life--racing, hunting, playingpolo, seeking the sensations of big game or big fish, rather courtingdanger, drinking hard as a matter of pride, on the theory of thesurvival of the fittest, consuming the night in battles of cunning andphysical endurance at the card-table. Beecher had returned to thissociety partly because most of his friends "belonged," partly because,being an idler himself, he liked their busy days dedicated to sensation,and their curious standards of what was and what was not permitted to bedone. He had not as yet plunged into the whirl, being more curiouslyinterested in the various sides of New York life that opened before him.He preserved, in the midst of the nervous American excess of hiscompanion, a certain old-world moderation. He entered their card gamesin a desultory way for an hour or two at a time, but without thatengulfing, brutal passion for mastery which kept Bo Lynch at thecard-tables until dawn. When he joined a group at the bar, he drankwith them as long as he wished and no longer--a difficult matter where awithdrawal usually was greeted with taunts; but there was about Beecher,young as he was, an atmosphere of authority which came from havingproved himself among men the world over.

  He was rising from the table when the telephone rang, and, mindful ofhis afternoon engagement with Rita Kildair, he refused an invitation tojoin a party to the polo match. A call from Bruce Gunther urged him tobe one of a gay party of six, bent on a lark for the evening.

  He enjoyed a furious gallop in the park, dressed, and swung alertly upthe Avenue to his club for luncheon.

  There, all the talk was of the stock market which had gone up severalpoints on the morning's tradings. Bo Lynch and Eddie Fontainebuttonholed him and besought him to avail himself of the opportunity: itwas the chance of a lifetime, the crisis was over, stocks simply had togo up. The friends of Majendie, who was one of the directors of theclub, were relieved and jubilant. He had weathered the crisis; therewas nothing more to fear. The story which was told from lip to lip asbeing direct from headquarters was, that at the meeting on the afternoonbefore, Fontaine had declared, with his fist on the table, that he wouldnever be a party to any movement that would jeopardize the future of hislifelong friend, Bernard Majendie. Some who still clung to the shortinterest even added, with an air of knowing more than they could tell,that the attack would now be concentrated on the Associated Trust withthe intention of making an example of John Slade, a Western intruder whowas protected by no ties of association and friendship.

  Beecher, true to his habits of caution, laughingly refused all offers todouble his fortune. Bruce Gunther drew him aside, outlining his programfor the evening.

  The thought of Nan Charters came into Beecher's mind, and he wonderedcuriously if she would be there.

  "I say, Bruce, what's all this hip-hurrah?" he asked as Gunther led himto the dining-room and they took seats at the long mahogany table. "HasMajendie really pulled through? Is the story true about Fontaine?Would you go into the market?"

  "They tell it on Fontaine now, do they?" said Gunther, with a shortlaugh. "It started with my old man, but I guess he was too tough aweight to carry. Ted, I don't know any more than you, but I knowthis--keep out."

  "My opinion," said Beecher, nodding to a new arrival.

  Bruce Gunther was his closest friend--a chum from boarding-school days.He was a stocky, rather ugly type, direct to the point of rudeness, withmore than a trace of his father's power. Gunther Senior had, from along and merciless examination of men, come to regard youth as a naturalmalady, an ebullition of heated blood to be lived down before a man wasfit for great opportunities and the vision of great affairs. When youngGunther was graduated, he called him to his desk, wrote him out a check,and told him to take five years, sow his oats, and be through withit--at the end of which time his career would begin at the bottom of thegreat banking offices of Gunther & Company, New York, London, and Paris.Young Gunther was now completing the last year of his contract with acompressed savageness that would have wrecked any but the strongestconstitution. At heart he awaited the end of his holiday with a feelingof relief and enthusiasm. He was quite unspoiled, and a terror tosycophants and boot-lickers. It was these sturdy, passionate qualitiesof energy and directness in him that had attracted Beecher.

  "Bruce, I'm on a very curious chase," he said, pushing back from thetable, "and I want your help. It's too long and too confidential to tellyou now. But two things I wish you would do for me: find out all you canquietly about two men--Enos Bloodgood and a fellow called Garraboy, abroker."

  "Garraboy--the brother-in-law?" said Gunther instantly. They left thetable and went for cigars and coffee to the first room, to a window thatgave on the Avenue. "I know him. He was blackballed here a couple ofyears ago. There were some ugly stories about him; I'll look 'em up.Bloodgood's another matter. I have heard rumors he was hard hit by themarket. It's easy enough; I know several men I can call up. Can't youtell me the whole thing now?"

  When Beecher had finished, Gunther remained a long moment immersed inreflection.

  "By the Lord Harry, that is a problem," he said, suddenly waking up."The dickens of a tangle! What the deuce was Slade doing there?" Herelapsed into silence again, and as suddenly said decisively: "You'rewrong on one point, Ted. It's not Garraboy or Bloodgood we ought tosuspect first; it's Cheever--the Cheevers."

  "How the deuce are we going about it?" said Beecher.

  "I suppose Mrs. Kildair wants the whole thing kept quiet," said Gunther,rapping absent-mindedly on the arm of his chair.

  "Naturally; besides, I promised."

  "Of course. Well, we'll begin in a practical fashion. You don't mindspending a little money, do you?"

  "I expect to."

  Gunther rose and went to the telephone booths, where he remained forsome time.

  "Half-past six in my rooms, Ted," he said, returning. "I'll put you upagainst the most interesting character in the United States--a realdetective. Dress and come over."

  "But the girls," objected Beecher, remembering their engagement.

  "The girls can go hang," said Gunther, shrugging his shoulders. "Theycan always wait half an hour. This is something real."

  At five o'clock Beecher called on Mrs. Kildair, and found her out, tohis considerable vexation. The bell-boy gave him a little note, whichhe opened and read:

  DEAR TEDDY:

  Forgive my breaking my engagement. All sorts of sudden and excitingthings have crowded in on me to-day. Come to-morrow for luncheon.

  RITA.

  P.S. Remember--nothing public about last night!

  The prospect of a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Kildair appeased him somewhat,but his anticipations for the afternoon were sorely disappointed, and hestarted aimlessly back, with a feeling that a great hole had been madein the day. As he reached the corner, a red automobile cut in close tothe curb, causing him to step hastily back. Inside he recognized Slade.He watched the red machine come to a stop before Mrs. Kildair's and thenwhirl away, after depositing the massive figure of its owner. Beecher,with a little wounded vanity, lingered a moment, hoping to see himreappear; but, as the sidewalk continued empty, he was forced toconclude that he had come by appointment.

  "She might at least have seen me," he said angrily. "What the deuce hasshe got to see Slade for?"

  All at once he perceived that his steps had led him in the generaldirection of the quarter in which Nan Charters resided, and, as he hadcome to make an impression on one woman, he soon began to considertransferring his attack on another. Only, he remembered that he haddetermined to treat Miss Charters with indifference, to correct anyerroneous ideas that she might have formed from his previous impulsiveconduct.

  "That's so," he said, angry
now at himself, at her, and at a conditionof affairs that left him with an hour of idleness on his hands. "If Icall now, she'll think I'm hot on the trail. I could stop, though, andinquire about her health," he thought, hesitating; "that would seemnatural, after last night."

  But he rejected this as a subterfuge, and continued his slow, unevenprogress down Seventh Avenue, which he had selected at random in searchof a little oddity and interest; and gradually he recognized that thevexation he felt was, in reality, not at being unable to find an excusefor calling on Miss Charters, but the keen sense of disappointment hehad in missing an intimate hour with Rita.

  It was essentially the woman of the world in her that fascinated him,the woman of mysterious experience, of sure knowledge and completecommand of situations. He wished to increase the intimacy of hisposition, because to be favored by her meant something--something thatawoke his masculine sense of supremacy and fed his vanity. Determinedon a long bachelorhood that would open to him all sorts and conditionsof society and adventurous experiences, he had determined likewise toavoid the dangerous field of young girls of his own set and to exercisehis curiosity with women of the world--older women, professional women,with whom an impulsive infatuation brought no risks, but something to betaken at value, a mood that was charming because it would pass.

  All at once an idea came to him that reconciled his easily satisfiedconscience and appeared sublimely politic. He would drop in on NanCharters, just to show his indifference.

  "I'll stay fifteen minutes--be quite formal and a little bored," hesaid, chuckling.

  And he went without too much enthusiasm toward his destination, thinkingof Rita Kildair and planning in his imaginative mind a series ofconfidential conversations for the tete-a-tete on the morrow.

  "To see Miss Charters," he said, giving his card to the boy in theelevator, who turned it over doubtfully, hesitated, and disappeared likea float in an opera, mounting heavenward.

  Beecher ceased to think of Rita Kildair, and prepared himself, smilingastutely, for his approaching scene with the young actress whom heintended properly to discipline for her effrontery in imagining thathe--Edward T. Beecher--had entertained for a moment any other than apolite social interest. Miss Charters excused herself--she was lyingdown and dining out.

  He cast a furious look at the telephone-booth, by means of which shemight personally have assured him of her great regret, and stalked outin a worse temper than ever--Rita Kildair, Nan Charters, all the womenin the world consigned to perdition.

  "Confound them all!" he said, brandishing his cane. "What a lot of timea man wastes over them. She might have telephoned me. They only existin this world to distract us from what we ought to do. I wonder if shedid it on purpose--just to give me an appetite. Well, if she did--she'ssucceeded," he said ruefully.

  He went to his rooms, resolved to meet her at every opportunity, torevenge himself by showing her he could play the game more cleverly thanshe could; and in his angry resolve there was very little trace of theindifference of which he had been so confident.