In Friendship's Guise Read online

  CHAPTER IV.

  NUMBER 320 WARDOUR STREET.

  The rear-guard of London's great army of clerks had already vanished inthe city, and the hour was drawing near to eleven, when Victor Nevillshook off his lassitude sufficiently to get out of bed. A cold tubfreshened him, and as he dressed with scrupulous care, choosing hisclothes from a well-filled wardrobe, he occasionally walked to thewindow of his sitting-room and looked down on the narrow but livelythoroughfare of Jermyn street. It was a fine morning, with the scent ofspring in the air, and the many colors of the rumbling 'busses glistenedlike fresh paint in the sunlight.

  His toilet completed, Victor Nevill pressed an electric bell, in answerto which there presently appeared, from some mysterious sourcedownstairs, a boy in buttons carrying a tray on which reposed a smallpot of coffee, one of cream, a pat of butter, and a couple of crisprolls. Nevill ate his breakfast with the mechanical air of one who isdoing a tiresome but necessary thing, meanwhile consulting a tinymemorandum-book, and counting over a handful of loose gold and silver.Then he put on his hat and gloves, looked at the fit of his grayfrock-coat in the glass, and went into the street. At Piccadilly Circushe bought a _boutonniere_, and as he was feeling slightly rocky after alate night at card-playing, he dropped into the St. James. He emergedshortly, fortified by a brandy-and-soda, and sauntered westward alongthe Piccadilly pavement.

  A typical young-man-about-town, an indolent pleasure-lover, alwaysdressed to perfection and flush with money--such was Victor Nevill inthe opinion of the world. For aught men knew to the contrary, he thrivedlike the proverbial lily of the field, without the need of toiling orspinning. He lived in expensive rooms, dined at the best restaurants,and belonged to a couple of good clubs. To his friends this was nomatter of surprise or conjecture. They were aware that he waswell-connected, and that years before he had come into a fortune; theynaturally supposed that enough of it remained to yield him a comfortableincome, in spite of the follies and extravagances that rumor attributedto him in the past, while he was abroad.

  But Nevill himself, and one other individual, knew better. The bulk ofhis fortune exhausted by reckless living on the Continent, he hadreturned to London with a thousand pounds in cash, and a secured annuityof two hundred pounds, which he was too prudent to try to negotiate. Thethousand pounds did not last long, but by the time they were spent hehad drifted into degraded and evil ways. None had ever dared towhisper--none had ever suspected--that Victor Nevill was a rook formoney-lenders and a dangerous friend for young men. He knew what aperilous game he was playing, but he studied every move and guardedshrewdly against discovery. There were many reasons, and one inparticular, for keeping his reputation clean and untarnished. It wasa matter of the utmost satisfaction to him that his uncle, Sir LuciusChesney, of Priory Court in Sussex, cared but little for London, andseldom came up to town. For Sir Lucius was childless, elderly, andpossessed of fifteen thousand pounds a year.

  Victor Nevill's progress along Piccadilly was frequently interrupted byfriends, fashionably dressed young men like himself, whose invitationsto come and have a drink he declined on the plea of an engagement. Justbeyond Devonshire House he was accosted eagerly by a fresh-faced,blond-haired boy--he was no more than twenty-two--who was coming fromthe opposite direction.

  "Hullo, Bertie," Nevill said carelessly, as he shook hands. "I was on myway to the club."

  "I got tired of waiting. You are half an hour over the time, Vic. Ithought of going to your rooms."

  "I slept later than I intended," Nevill replied. "I had a night of it."

  "So had I--a night of sleeplessness."

  The Honorable Bertie Raven, second son of the Earl of Runnymede, mighthave stepped out of one of Poole's fashion-plates, so far as dress wasconcerned. But there was a strained look on his handsome, patricianface, and in his blue eyes, that told of a gnawing mental anxiety. Helinked arms with his companion, and drew him to the edge of thepavement.

  "Is it all right?" he asked, pleadingly and hurriedly. "Were you able tofix the thing up for me?"

  "You are sure there is no other way, Bertie?"

  "None, Vic. I have until this evening, and then--"

  "Don't worry. I saw Benjamin and Company yesterday."

  "And they will accommodate me?"

  "Yes, at my request."

  "You mean for your indorsement on the bill?" the lad exclaimed,blushing. "Vic, you're a trump. You're the best fellow that ever lived,and I can't tell you how grateful I am. God only knows what a weightyou've lifted from my mind. I'm going to run steady after this, and witheconomy I can save enough out of my allowance--"

  "My dear boy, you are wasting your gratitude over a trifle. Could Irefuse so simple a favor to a friend?"

  "I don't know any one else who would have done as much, Vic. I was in anawful hole. Will--will they give me plenty of time?"

  "As much as you like. And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite_entre nous_. There are plenty of chaps--good fellows, too--who wouldlike to use my name occasionally. But one must draw the line--"

  "I understand, Vic. I'll be mum as an oyster."

  "Well, suppose we go and have the thing over," said Nevill, "and thenwe'll lunch together."

  They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later theyentered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James. Through a dingy andunpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they passed into thepremises of Benjamin and Company. In a dark, cramped office, scantilyfurnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.

  Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight andinfluence of Victor Nevill's name, the little matter of business, as theJew smilingly called it, was transacted. A three-months' bill for fivehundred pounds was drawn up for Bertie's signature and Nevill'sindorsement. The lad hesitated briefly, then wrote his name in a boldhand. He resisted the allurements of some jewelry, offered him in partpayment, and received the amount of the bill, less a prodigious discountfor interest. The Jew servilely bowed his customers out.

  The Honorable Bertie's face was grave and serious as he walked towardPiccadilly with his friend; he vaguely realized that he had taken thefirst step on a road that too frequently ends in disgrace and ruin. Butthis mood changed as he felt the rustling bank notes in his pocket. Theworld had not looked so bright for many a day.

  "I never knew the thing was so easy," he said. "What a good fellow youare, Vic! You've made a new man of me. I can pay off those cursedgambling losses, and a couple of the most pressing debts, and havenearly a hundred pounds over. But I wish I had taken that ruby braceletfor Flora--it would have pleased her."

  "Cut Flora--that's my advice," replied Nevill.

  "And jolly good advice, too, Vic. I'll think about it seriously. Butwhere will you lunch with me?"

  "You are going to lunch with _me_," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."

  * * * * *

  In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found outto the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antiquetreasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingierrooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or designfailed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from itsneighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate mass,articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long windowcontained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat ofrichly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists ofthe past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amountat which they were priced.

  Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides withcabinets of great age and curious workmanship, oaken furniture belongingto various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded,cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, brass work fromMoorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets andweapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and otherthings too numerous to mention, all of a gen
uine value that put thembeyond the reach of a slim purse.

  In the rear of the shop--which was looked after by a salesman--was asmall office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered thefloor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, thehuge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of pricelesstapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lampwas burning brightly, for very little light entered from the drearycourt on which a single window opened.

  Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over asheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall andcorrespondingly built--a man with a fine head and handsome features, aman to attract more than ordinary attention. His hands were white, slimand long. His eyes were deep brown, and his mustache and beard--thelatter cut to a point--were of a tawny yellowish-brown color, mixed withgray to a slight degree. It would be difficult to analyze his character,for in many ways he was a contradiction. He was not miserly, but hisbesetting evil was the love of accumulating money--the lever that hadmade him thoroughly unscrupulous. He was rich, or reputed so, but inamassing gold, by fair means or foul, lay the keynote to his life. Andit was a dual life. He had chosen the old mansion at Strand-on-the-Greento be out of the roar and turmoil of London life, and yet within touchof it. Here, where his evenings were mostly spent, he was a differentman. He derived his chief pleasures from his daughter's society, from atable filled with current literature, from a box of choice Havanas. Intown he was a sordid man of business, clever at buying and selling tothe best advantage. He had loved his wife, the daughter of a cityalderman and a friend of his father's, and her death twelve years beforehad been a great blow to him. Madge resembled her, and he gave the girla father's sincere devotion.

  Few persons knew that Stephen Foster was the proprietor of thecurio-shop in Wardour street--his daughter was among the ignorant--andbut one or two were aware that the business of Benjamin and Company,carried on in Duke street, belonged also to him. None, assuredly, amonghis sprinkling of acquaintances, would have believed that he could stoopto lower things, or that he and his equally unscrupulous and usefultool, Victor Nevill, the gay young-man-about-town, had been mixed up inmore than one nefarious transaction that would not bear the light ofday. He had taken the place in Wardour street within the past fiveyears, and prior to that time he had held a responsible position aspurchasing agent--there was not a better judge of pictures inEurope--with the well-known firm of Lamb and Drummond, art dealersand engravers to Her Majesty, of Pall Mall.

  A slight frown gathered on Stephen Foster's brow as he put aside thepacket of papers, and it deepened as he recognized a familiar stepcoming through the shop. But he had a cheery smile of greeting readywhen the office door opened to admit Victor Nevill. The young man's facewas flushed with excitement, and he carried in one hand a crumpled copyof the Westminster _Budget_.

  "Seen the evening editions yet?" he exclaimed.

  "No; what's in them?" asked the curio-dealer.

  "I was lunching at the Arlington, with the Honorable Bertie--By theway, he took the hook," Nevill replied, in a calmer tone, "and when Icame out I bought this on the street. But read for yourself."

  He opened the newspaper, folded it twice, and tossed it down on StephenFoster's desk.