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  In Friendship's Guise

  BY WM. MURRAY GRAYDON

  AUTHOR OF "The Cryptogram," etc.

  1899

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER.

  I.--The Duplicate Rembrandt

  II.--Five Years Afterwards

  III.--An Old Friend

  IV.--Number 320 Wardour Street

  V.--A Mysterious Discussion

  VI.--A Visitor from Paris

  VII.--Love's Young Dream

  VIII.--An Attraction in Pall Mall

  IX.--Uncle and Nephew

  X.--A London Sensation

  XI.--A Mysterious Discovery

  XII.--A Cowardly Communication

  XIII.--The Tempter

  XIV.--The Dinner at Richmond

  XV.--From the Dead

  XVI.--The Last Card

  XVII.--Two Passengers from Calais

  XVIII.--Home Again

  XIX.--A Shock for Sir Lucius

  XX.--At a Night Club

  XXI.--A Quick Decision

  XXII.--Another Chance

  XXIII.--On the Track

  XXIV.--A Fateful Decision

  XXV.--A Fruitless Errand

  XXVI.--A Thunderbolt from the Blue

  XXVII.--An Amateur Detective

  XXVIII.--A Discovery

  XXIX.--The Vicar of Dunwold

  XXX.--Run to Earth

  XXXI.--Noah Hawker's Disclosure

  XXXII.--How the Day Ended

  XXXIII.--Conclusion

  IN FRIENDSHIP'S GUISE.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE DUPLICATE REMBRANDT.

  The day began well. The breakfast rolls were crisper than usual, thebutter was sweeter, and never had Diane's slender white hands poured outmore delicious coffee. Jack Clare was in the highest spirits as heembraced his wife and sallied forth into the Boulevard St. Germain, witha flat, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. From thewindow of the entresol Diane waved a coquettish farewell.

  "Remember, in an hour," she called down to him. "I shall be ready bythen, Jack, and waiting. We will lunch at Bignon's--"

  "And drive in the Bois, and wind up with a jolly evening," heinterrupted, throwing a kiss. "I will hasten back, dear one. Be surethat you put on your prettiest frock, and the jacket with the erminetrimming."

  It was a clear and frosty January morning, in the year 1892, and thestreets of Paris were dry and glistening. There was intoxication in thevery air, and Jack felt thoroughly in harmony with the fine weather.What mattered it that he had but a few francs in his pocket--that thequarterly remittance from his mother, who dreaded the Channel passageand was devoted to her foggy London, would not be due for a fortnight?The parcel under his arm meant, without doubt, a check for a nice sum.He and Diane would spend it merrily, and until the morrow at least hisfellow-workers at Julian's Academy would miss him from his accustomedplace.

  Bright-eyed grisettes flung coy looks at the young artist as he strodealong, admiring his well-knit figure, his handsome boyish featureschiseled as finely as a cameo, the crisp brown hair with a slighttendency to curl, his velvet jacket and flowing tie. Jack nodded andsmiled at a familiar face now and then, or paused briefly to greet amale acquaintance; for the Latin Quarter had been his little world forthree years, and he was well-known in it from the Boulevard St. Michelto the quays of the Seine. He snapped his fingers at a mountedcuirassier in scarlet and silver who galloped by him on the Point Royal,and whistled a few bars of "The British Grenadiers" as he passed thered-trowsered, meek-faced, under-sized soldiers who shouldered theirheavy muskets in the courts of the Louvre. The memory of Diane'slaughing countenance, as she leaned from the window, haunted him in theAvenue de l'Opera.

  "She's a good little girl, except when she's in a temper," he said tohimself, "and I love her every bit as much as I did when we were marrieda year ago. Perhaps I was a fool, but I don't regret it. She was asstraight as a die, with a will of her own, and it was either lose heraltogether or do the right thing. I couldn't bear to part with her, andI wasn't blackguard enough to try to deceive her. I'm afraid there willbe a row some day, though, when the Mater learns the truth. What wouldshe say if she knew that Diane Merode, one of the most popular andfascinating dancers of the Folies Bergere, was now Mrs. John Clare?"

  It was not a cheerful thought, but Jack's momentary depression vanishedas he stopped before the imposing facade of the Hotel Netherlands, inthe vicinity of the Opera. He entered boldly and inquired for MonsieurMartin Von Whele. The gentleman was gone, a polite garcon explained. Hehad received a telegram during the night to say that his wife was veryill, and he had left Paris by the first train.

  The happiness faded from Jack's eyes.

  "Gone--gone back to Amsterdam?" he exclaimed incredulously.

  "Yes, to his own country, monsieur."

  "And he left no message for me--no letter?"

  "Indeed, no, monsieur; he departed in great haste."

  An appeal to a superior official of the hotel met with the sameresponse, and Jack turned away. He wandered slowly down the gay street,the parcel hanging listlessly under his left arm, and his right handjingling the few coins in his pocket. His journey over the river, begunso hopefully, had ended in a bitter disappointment.

  Martin Von Whele was a retired merchant, a rich native of Amsterdam, andhis private collection of paintings was well known throughout Europe. Hehad come to Paris a month before to attend a private sale, and had therepurchased, at a bargain, an exceedingly fine Rembrandt that had butrecently been unearthed from a hiding-place of centuries. He determinedto have a copy made for his country house in Holland, and chance broughthim in contact with Jack Clare, who at the time was reproducing for anart patron a landscape in the Luxembourg Gallery--a sort of thing thathe was not too proud to undertake when he was getting short of money.Monsieur Von Whele liked the young Englishman's work and came to anagreement with him. Jack copied the Rembrandt at the Hotel Netherlands,going there at odd hours, and made a perfect duplicate of it--adangerous one, as the Hollander laughingly suggested. Jack applied thefinishing touches at his studio, and artfully gave the canvas anappearance of age. He was to receive the promised payment when hedelivered the painting at the Hotel Netherlands, and he had confidentlyexpected it. But, as has been seen, Martin Von Whele had gone home inhaste, leaving no letter or message. For the present there was nolikelihood of getting a cheque from him.

  The brightness of the day aggravated Jack's disappointment as he walkedback to the little street just off the Boulevard St. Germain. He triedto look cheerful as he mounted the stairs and threw the duplicateRembrandt into a corner of the studio, behind a stack of unfinishedsketches. Diane entered from the bedroom, ravishingly dressed for thestreet in a costume that well set off her perfect figure. She was apicture of beauty with her ivory complexion, her mass of dark brownhair, and the wonderfully large and deep eyes that had been one of herchief charms at the Folies Bergere.

  "Good boy!" she cried. "You did not keep me waiting long. But you lookas glum as a bear. What is the matter?"

  Jack explained briefly, in an appealing voice.

  "I'm awfully sorry for your sake, dear," he added. "We are down to ourlast twenty-franc piece, but in another fortnight--"

  "Then you won't take me?"

  "How can I? Don't be unreasonable."

  "You promised, Jack. And see, I am all ready. I won't stay at home!"

  "Is it my fau
lt, Diane? Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?"

  "You can help it that you have no money. Oh, I wish I had not given upthe stage!"

  Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. Shetore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threwherself on a couch.

  "You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should wantfor nothing--that you would always have plenty of money. And this is howyou keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"

  She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words ofthe lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the FoliesBergere, fell from her lovely lips--words that brought a blush of shame,a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.

  "Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.

  Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms aroundhis neck.

  "Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.

  "I always do," he sighed.

  "And, please, please get some money--now."

  "You know that I can't."

  "Yes, you can. You have lots of friends--they won't refuse you."

  "But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan mea few pounds--"

  "Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped hisprotests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear--youcan pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such ajolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."

  Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist awoman's tears and entreaties--least of all when that woman was hisfascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walkingrapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist,Jimmie Drexell.

  "How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hatethese rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in atemper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But Iforget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willingslave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if heraffection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Whyis a man ever fool enough to get married?"

  * * * * *

  On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is abrasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popularwith them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the LatinQuarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. VonWhele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare.Tete-a-tete with him, across the little marble-topped table, was hisfriend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England, andwhose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill was anOxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's age; hewas handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met and afavorite with women, but a close observer of character would haveproclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come intoa large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.

  The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy withribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girlscoquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks,and glasses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the brasserie werea mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerousnationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the Goddess ofArt. Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group oflong-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while othersplayed on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute tothe evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the clickof billiard balls came from an adjoining apartment. Out on theboulevard, under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers andpleasure-seekers flowed unceasingly.

  "I consider this a night wasted," said Jack. "I would rather have goneto the Casino, for a change."

  "It didn't much matter where we went, as long as we spent our lastevening together," Victor Nevill replied. "You know I leave for Rometo-morrow. I fancy it will be a good move, for I have been going thepace too fast in Paris."

  "So have I," said Jack, wearily. "I'm not as lucky as you, with a pot ofmoney to draw on. I intend to turn over a new leaf, old chap, and you'llfind me reformed when you come back. I've been a fool, Nevill. When mymother died last February I came into 30,000 francs, and for the lastfive months I have been scattering my inheritance recklessly. Verylittle of it is left now."

  "But you have been working?"

  "Yes, in a sort of a way. But you can imagine how it goes when a fellowturns night into day."

  "It's time you pulled up," said Nevill, "before you go stone broke. Youowe that much to your wife."

  He spoke with a slight sneer which escaped his companion.

  "I like that," Jack muttered bitterly. "Diane has spent two francs tomy one--or helped me to spend them."

  "Such is the rosy path of marriage," Nevill remarked lightly.

  "Shut up!" said Jack.

  He laughed as he drained his glass of cognac, and then settled back inhis seat with a moody expression. His thoughts were not pleasant ones.Since the early part of the year he and his wife had been graduallydrifting apart, and even when they were together at theatres orluxurious cafes, spending money like water, there had been a restraintbetween them. Of late Diane's fits of temper had become more frequent,and only yielded to a handful of gold or notes. Jack had sought his ownamusements and left her much alone--more than was good for her, he nowreflected uneasily. Yet he had the utmost confidence in her still, andnot a shadow of suspicion had crossed his mind. He believed that hishonor was safe in her care.

  "I have wished a thousand times that I had never married," he said tohimself, "but it is too late for that now. I must make the best of it.I still love Diane, and I don't believe she has ceased to care for me.Poor little girl! Perhaps she feels my neglect, and is too proud to ownit. I was ready enough to cut work and spend money. Yes, it has been myfault. I'll go to her to-night and tell her that. I'll ask her to moveback to our old lodgings, where we were so happy. And then I'll turnover that new leaf--"

  "What's wrong with you, my boy?" broke in Victor Nevill. "Have you beendreaming?"

  "I am going home," said Jack, rising. "It will be a pleasant surprisefor Diane."

  Nevill looked at him curiously, then laughed. He took out his watch.

  "Have another drink," he urged. "We part to-night--who knows when wewill meet again? And it is only half-past eleven."

  "One more," Jack assented, sitting down again.

  Brandy was ordered, and Victor Nevill kept up a rapid conversation, andan interesting one. From time to time he glanced covertly at his watch,and it might have been supposed that he was purposely detaining hiscompanion. More brandy was placed on the table, and Jack frequentlylifted the glass to his lips. With a cigar between his teeth, withflushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he laughed as merrily as any in theroom. But he did not drink too much, and the hand that he finally heldout to Nevill was perfectly steady.

  "I must be off now," he said. "It is long past midnight. Good-by, oldchap, and bon voyage."

  "Good-by, my dear fellow. Take care of yourself."

  It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to.Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward. Histhoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a couple ofgrisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly gendarme, andcrossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of students, who werebawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the latest topical songby Paulus, the Beranger of the day--

  "Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."

  Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and lookedwarily about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurriedinstructions, and was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.

  "He will never suspect me," he muttered complacently, as he lit acigar.

  With head erect, and coat buttoned tightly
over his breast, Jack went onthrough the enticing streets of Paris. He had moved from his formerlodgings to a house that fronted on the Boulevard St. Germain. Here hehad the entresol, which he had furnished lavishly to please his wife. Helet himself in with a key, mounted the stairs, and opened the studiodoor. A lamp was burning dimly, and the silence struck a chill to hisheart.

  "Diane," he called.

  There was no reply. He advanced a few feet, and caught sight of a letterpinned to the frame of an easel. He turned up the lamp, opened theenvelope, and read the contents:

  "Dear Jack:--

  "Good-by forever. You will never see me again. Forgive me and try toforget. It is better that we should part, as I could not endure a life ofpoverty. I love you no longer, and I am sure that you have tired of me. Iam going with one who has taken your place in my heart--one who cangratify my every wish. It will be useless to seek for me. Again,farewell. DIANE."

  The letter fell from Jack's hand, and he trampled it under foot. Hereeled into the dainty bedroom, and his burning eyes noted the signs ofconfusion and flight--the open and empty drawers, the despoiled dressingtable, the discarded clothing strewn on the floor.

  "Gone!" he cried hoarsely. "Gone at the bidding of somescoundrel--perhaps a trusted friend and comrade! God help my betrayerwhen the day of reckoning comes! But I am well rid of her. She washeartless and mercenary. She never could have loved me--she has left mebecause she knew that my money was nearly spent. But I love her still. Ican't tear her out of my heart. Diane, my wife, come back! Come back!"

  His voice rang through the empty, deserted rooms. He threw himself onthe bed, and tore the lace coverings with his finger nails. He weptbitter tears, strong man though he was, while out on the boulevard thelaughter of the midnight revelers mocked at his grief.

  Finally he rose; he laughed harshly.

  "Damn her, she would have dragged me down to her own level," hemuttered. "It is for the best. I am a free man once more."