The Danger Mark Part 67

"Yes."

"Is Klawber?"

"Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, and Amos Flack are interested. Is that what you want to know?"

Duane looked at him, stunned. Dysart stepped nearer, speaking almost in a whisper:

"Well, what about it? Once I warned you to keep your d.a.m.ned nose out of my personal affairs----"

"I make some of them mine!" said Duane sharply; "when crooks get hold of an honest man, every citizen is a policeman!"

Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip:

"Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!" he breathed. "My father is in the next room. Do you want to kill him?"

At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet. Dysart's grip relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway. He was small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a monocle.

Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort:

"I was just saying to Duane, father, that all this financial agitation is bound to blow over by December--Duane Mallett, father!"--as the old man raised his eye-gla.s.s and peeped up at the young fellow--"you know his father, Colonel Mallett."

"Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!" piped the old beau. "How-de-do!

How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour. It is becoming a custom--he! he!--every day from ten to eleven--then a biscuit and a gla.s.s of sherry--then a nap--te-he! Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair--then luncheon at one, and the cigarette--te-he!--and a little sleep--and the drive at five! Yes, Mr. Mallett, it is the routine of a very old man who knew your grandfather--and all his set--when the town was gay below Bleecker Street! Yes, yes--te-he-he!"

Nervous spasms which pa.s.sed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart's visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face:

"Your grandfather was a very fine man," he piped; "very fine! ve-ery fine! And so I perceive is his grandson--te-he!--and I flatter myself that my boy Jack is not unadmired--te-he-he!--no, no--not precisely unnoticed in New York--the town whose history is the history of his own race, Mr. Mallett--he is a good son to me--yes, yes, a good son. It is gratifying to me to know that you are his friend. He is a good friend to have, Mr. Mallett, a good friend and a good son."

Duane bent gently over the shrivelled hand.

"I won't detain you from your drive, Mr. Dysart. I hope you will have a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to know my grandfather's old friends.

Good-bye."

And, erect, he hesitated a moment, then, for an old man's sake he held out his hand to Jack Dysart, bidding him good-bye in a pleasant voice pitched clear and decided, so that deaf ears might corroborate what half-blind and peering eyes so dimly beheld.

Dysart walked to the door with him, waved the servant aside, and, laying a shaking hand on the bronze k.n.o.b, opened the door for his unbidden guest.

As Duane pa.s.sed him he said:

"Thank you, Mallett," in a voice so low that Duane was half-way to his cab before he understood.

That day, and the next, and all that week he worked in his pitlike studio. Through the high sky-window a cloudless zenith brooded; the heat became terrific; except for the inevitable crush of the morning and evening migration south and north, the streets were almost empty under a blazing sun.

His father seemed to be physically better. Although he offered no confidences, it appeared to the son that there was something a little more cheerful in his voice and manner. It may have been only the antic.i.p.ation of departure; for he was going West in a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going with him.

The day he left, Duane drove him to the station. There was a private car, the "Cyane," attached to the long train. Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood.

As the young fellow turned and pa.s.sed beneath the car-windows, he caught a glimpse above him of a heavy-jowled, red face into which a cigar was stuck--a perfectly enormous expanse of face with two little piglike eyes almost buried in the mottled fat.

"That's Max Moebus," observed a train hand respectfully, as Duane pa.s.sed close to him; "I guess there's more billions into that there private car than old Pip's crowd can dig out of their pants pockets on pay day."

A little, dry-faced, chin-whiskered man with a loose pot-belly and thin legs came waddling along, followed by two red-capped negroes with his luggage. He climbed up the steps of the "Cyane"; the train man winked at Duane, who had turned to watch him.

"Amos Flack," he said. "He's their 'lobbygow.'" With which contemptuous information he spat upon the air-brakes and, shoving both hands into his pockets, meditatively jingled a bunch of keys.

The club was absolutely deserted that night; Duane dined there alone, then wandered into the great empty room facing Fifth Avenue, his steps echoing sharply across the carpetless floor. The big windows were open; there was thunder in the air--the sonorous stillness in which voices and footsteps in the street ring out ominously.

He smoked and watched the dim forms of those whom the heat drove forth into the night, men with coats over their arms and straw hats in their hands, young girls thinly clad in white, bare-headed, moving two and two with dragging steps and scarcely spirit left even for common coquetry or any response to the jesting oafs who pa.s.sed.

Here and there a cruising street-dryad threaded the by-paths of the metropolitan jungle; here and there a policeman, gray helmet in hand, stood mopping his face, night-club tucked up snugly under one arm. Few cabs were moving; at intervals a creaking, groaning omnibus rolled past, its hurricane deck white with the fluttering gowns of women and young girls.

Somebody came into the room behind him; Duane turned, but could not distinguish who it was in the dusk. A little while later the man came over to where he sat, and he looked up; and it was Dysart.

There was silence for a full minute; Dysart stood by the window looking out; Duane paid him no further attention until he wheeled slowly and said:

"Do you mind if I have a word with you, Mallett?"

"Not if it is necessary."

"I don't know whether it is necessary."

"Don't bother about it if you are in the slightest doubt."

Dysart waited a moment, perhaps for some unpleasant emotion to subside; then:

"I'll sit down a moment, if you permit."

He dropped into one of the big, deep, leather chairs and touched the bell. A servant came; he looked across at Duane, hesitated to speak:

"Thank you," said Duane curtly. "I've cut it out."

"Scotch. Bring the decanter," murmured Dysart to the servant.

When it was served he drained the gla.s.s, refilled it, and turned in the rest of the mineral water. Before he spoke he emptied the gla.s.s again and rang for more mineral water. Then he looked at Duane and said in a low voice:

"I thought you were worried the other day when I saw you at my house."

"What is that to you?"

Dysart said: "You were very kind--under provocation."

"I was not kind on your account."

"I understand. But I don't forget such things."