Foe-Farrell Part 19

"Well, what do you say to it?" I asked as Jimmy finished his perusal.

"I say," p.r.o.nounced Jimmy in unfaltering voice, "that the crisis demands a gin-and-vermouth, at once, and that the vermouth should be of the Italian variety."

"Waiter!" I called.

"Nay," said Jimmy, "hear me out. I say further--did you mention a rump-steak underdone?"

"You did," said I.

"And with oysters on the top?"

"It's where they usually go," I pleaded. "I didn't specify.

One takes a lot of these little things for granted."

"Then I say further that, this being one of those occasions on which no time should be lost, you will reach for that collection of _hors d'oeuvre_ on the table behind you, and lift your voice for a bottle of Graves to follow the vermouth and quickly, but not so as to gall its kibe. . . . And I say last of all," he wound up reflectively, helping himself to two stuffed olives and a _hareng sauer_, "that the Professor is running a grave risk, and I wouldn't be in his shoes at this moment."

"You think--" I began nervously.

"Never did such a thing in my life," said Jimmy. "I _know_. He's in one of those beastly Restaurant Cars."

Silence descended on Foe for two months and more. Then I received this long letter:--

Grand Hotel, Paris, May 27th.

"My dear Roddy,--The hunt is up. I took some time getting a move on it: but to-night Farrell has the real spirit of the chase upon him, and is in his room at this moment, packing surrept.i.tiously with intent to give me the slip.

"You will have gathered from a glance at the above address that Farrell is with me; or rather, that I am with Farrell.

I give him full scope with his tastes. It is part of the Plan.

But to-night--knowing that he had gone to his room to pack surrept.i.tiously, and that his berth in the _Wagon-lit_ is booked for to-morrow night at the Gare d'Orleans--I gave myself what the housemaids call an evening-out. This is Paris, Roddy, in the time of the chestnut bloom. A full moon has been performing above the chestnuts. Beneath their boughs the munic.i.p.ality had hung a thousand reflections of it in the form of Chinese lanterns shaped and coloured like great oranges. The band at the _Amba.s.sadeurs_--a band of artists and, as I should judge, conducted by somebody who couldn't forget that he had once been a gentleman--saw the moon rise and at once were stricken with Midsummer madness. It had been recklessly, defiantly, blatantly exploiting its collective shame on two-steps and c.o.o.n song,--shouting its _de profundis_, each degenerate soul bucking up its lost fellow with a challenge to go one better and mock at its h.e.l.l--when of a sudden, as I say, the moon rose, and the conductor caught up his stick, and the whole d.a.m.ned crew floated off on _The Magic Flute_. . . . It wasn't on the programme. It just happened, and no one paid them the smallest attention. . . . But there it was: ten minutes of ecstasy.

"They ceased upon the night: and the next news was that after five minutes' interval they were chained again and conscientiously throwing vim into _Boum-Poump_ with the standardised five thumps of jollity on the kettledrum.

"So the champak odours failed--What is champak? Have the Germans synthetised it yet?--and I awoke from dreams of thee. I walked back by way of the Quais--by the river:"

Dissolute man!

Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can.

"But I have played for safety and am writing this with the aid of a whisky-and-Perrier to hope that it finds you well as it leaves me at present.

"I dare say it struck you as a poorish kind of trick--my inviting you to Prince's and leaving you to pay for the repast.

The reason of my sudden bolt was a sudden report that Farrell intended to start at once for a holiday on the Continent of Europe--that he had been to Cook's and bought himself a circular ticket for the Riviera--Paris, Toulon, Cannes, Nice, etc.--on to Genoa, Paris by Mt. Cenis--that sort of thing. I should tell you that, being chin-deep in winding up my affairs, I had employed a man to watch his movements. Shadowing Farrell is a soft option, even now, when he's painfully learning the rudiments of flight: four months ago he had not even a nascent terror to make him suspicious. Oh, never fear but I'll educate him, dull as he is! Remember your _Ancient Mariner_, Roddy?

Here are two pa.s.sages purposely set wide apart by the author, that I'll put together for you to choose between 'em,--"

(1) As who, pursued with yell and blow, Still treads the shadow of his--Foe, And forward bends his head. . . .

(2) Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

"You may urge that Coleridge--a lazy man and a forgetful--is just repeating himself. But there's a shade of difference; and I'll undertake to deliver back Farrell in whichever condition you prefer; or even to split the shade. But you must give me time.

"As it was, I risked nothing in paying an ordinary professional.

Farrell walked into the office, and my man followed him.

Farrell took some time discussing his route with the clerk.

My man borrowed the use of a telephone-box, left the door open and rang me up. By the time he was put through he had heard all he needed. So he closed the door, and reported. I instructed him, of course, to buy me a similar ticket. 'And,' said my man, 'he is inquiring which is the best hotel at Monte Carlo, and it seems he hardly knows any French." 'Right,' said I. 'Come along at once and collect your fee, for I haven't any time to spare.'

"I thought it possible that Farrell might break his journey to dally with the gaieties of Paris. But he didn't. I found out easily enough at Cook's Office there that he had booked a sleeper and gone straight through. So I went to the Opera, listened to _Rigoletto_, idled most of the next day in the old haunts, and took the usual Sud-Express, with a sleeper, from the Gare de Lyons.

"No: I lie. You can't call it idling when you sit--say in the Bois, on any chance bench anywhere--seeing nothing, letting the carriages go by like an idle show of phenomena, but with your whole soul thrilling to a new idea, drinking it in, pus.h.i.+ng out new fibres which grow as they suck in more of it through small new ducts, with a ripple and again a choke and yet again a gurgle, which you orchestrate into a sound of deep waters combining as you draw them home. . . . Oh, yes--you may laugh: but I know now what conception is: what Shakespeare felt like when he sat one night, in a garden, and the great plot of _Oth.e.l.lo_ came teeming. . . .

"Please bear one thing in mind, my dear Roddy, You are never, now or hereafter, to pity me. _Qualis artifex_. . . . I used to smile to myself in a c.o.c.ksure youthful way when great men hinted in great books that one had to make burnt-sacrifice of the eye's delight, the heart's desire; the l.u.s.t of the flesh, the pride of the intellect; see them all consumed to a handful of dust, and trample out even the last spark of that, before the true phoenix sprang; that only when half-G.o.ds go the G.o.ds arrive. But it's true, Roddy! It's true!

"I won't grow dithyrambic--not just yet. I was so sure of my man that it seemed quite worth while to tumble out at Avignon--a place I had never inspected--and fool away another spell among Roman remains, and Petrarch and the rival Popes, and the opening scenes of the Revolution, and just thinking--thinking.

"So I reached Monte Carlo next day, a little after noon; took a bath and a siesta; sauntered into the Casino there, a good forty-eight hours behind time; and caught my man, sitting.

"Are you superst.i.tious, Roddy? Of course you are: and so are all of us who pretend that we are not. . . . Monte Carlo is the h.e.l.l of a hole. I had never seen it before: but as I went into the Casino, all of a sudden I had a queer recollection--of a breakfast-party at Cambridge in young La Touche's rooms, in King's (he was killed in the South African War), and of his saying solemnly as we lit cigarettes that he'd had a dream overnight. He dreamed that he walked into the Casino at Monte Carlo, went straight to the first table on the left, put down a five-franc piece on Number 17, and came out a winner of prodigious sums.

"Well, we are all humbugs about superst.i.tion. I don't believe there's a man existent--that's to say, a tolerable man, a fellow who isn't a prig--who doesn't touch posts, or count his steps on the pavement, or choose what tie he'll wear on certain days, or give way to some such human weakness when he's alone.

We so-called 'men of science' are, I truly believe, the worst of the lot. You can't get rid of one fetish but you have instantly the impulse to kneel to another . . .

"Anyhow, there was my man sitting, and the number 17 almost straight before him, a little in front of his right arm; and this recollection came to me; and I leaned over his shoulder and laid a five-franc piece on the number.

"It won. I piled my winnings on the original stake, _plus_ all my loose cash; and Number 17 won again.

"That's all. You know my old theory that every scientific man should have a sense of mystery--it's more useful to him than to most of his fellows. Anyway I'd tried my luck on Bob La Touche's long bygone dream.

"Several pairs of eyes began to regard me with interest: and the croupier, as he pushed my spoil across, spared me a glance inscrutable but scrutinising. I make no doubt that had I helped to make up the next game, quite a number of the punters would have backed my infant fortune. But I didn't. Farrell had slewed about in his chair for to look up at the newcomer: and at sight of his dropped jaw, as he recognised me, I smiled, gathered up my wealth and walked out.

"I took a seat in the Casino garden, overlooking the sea.

'Sort of thing,' I found myself murmuring, 'might happen once in a blue moon,' and with that was aware that a sort of blue moonlight was indeed bathing the garden, though the moon's reflection lay yellow enough across the still Mediterranean.

[Here, for description, turn up Matt. Arnold's _A Southern Night_: possibly still copyrighted.]

"Farrell came out. He spotted me at once; for to help the moon, as well as to dispel the heavy scent of the gaming-room, I was lighting a cigar. He took a couple of turns on the terrace and halted in front of me. His manner was nervous.

"'Excuse me, Professor--' he began.

"'Excuse me, Mr. Farrell,' I corrected him; 'I am a Professor no longer. You may call me Doctor Foe, if you like. . . . Did Number 17 win a third time?'

"'I--I fancy not," he stammered. 'To tell the truth, your sudden appearance here, when I supposed you to be in London--and at Monte Carlo, of all places--But perhaps you are a devotee of the fickle G.o.ddess? Men of learning,' he floundered on, 'find relaxation--complete change of interest. Darwin--the great Darwin--used to read novels: the worse the novel, the better he liked it--or so I've heard.'

"'As it happens,' said I, 'this is my first visit to Monte Carlo.'

"'Indeed?' He brightened and became yet more fatuous.

'Then we may call it a coincidence, eh?--a veritable coincidence. When I saw you--But first of all, let me congratulate you on your luck.'

"'Thank you,' I said. 'I will make a note that your first impulse on encountering me was to congratulate me on my luck.'

"This seemed to puzzle him for a moment. Then, 'Oh, I see what you mean,' he said. 'But we're coming to that. . . . You gave me a fair turn just now, you did, turning up so unexpected.

But (says I) this makes an opportunity that I ought to have made for myself before leaving London. Yes, I ought. . . . But I want to say to you now, Dr. Foe--as between man and man--that I made a mistake. I was misled--that's the long and short of it.

I never stirred up that crowd, Doctor, to make the mess they did of your--your premises. But so far as any unguarded words of mine may have set things going in my absence--well, I'm sorry.