Part 58 (1/2)

Morrell leaned forward, his reserve of manner laid aside, his whole being radiating sympathetic charm.

”My dear chap, don't,” he begged, laying his hand on Sansome's forearm.

”A genuine pa.s.sion is the most glorious thing on earth even in callow youth! But when we old men of the world--” The pause was eloquent.

”She's a headstrong filly,” he went on in a more matter-of-fact tone, after a moment, ”takes a bit of handling. You'll pardon me, old chap, if I suggest that you've gone about things a bit wrong.”

”How is that?” asked Sansome. Under the influence of drinks, confession, and sympathy, he was in a glow of fellow-feeling.

”Believe me, I know women and horses! You've ridden this one too much on the snaffle. Try the curb. That high-spirited sort takes a bit of handling. They like to feel themselves dominated. You've been too gentle, too refined. She's gentle and refined for two. What she wants is the brute--'Rape of the Sabines' principle. Savage her a bit, and she'll come to heel like a dog. Not at once, perhaps. Give her a week.”

”That's all very well,” objected Sansome, whose eyes were s.h.i.+ning, ”but how about that week? She'll run to that beast of a husband with her story--”

”And be sorry for it afterward--”

”Too late.”

Morrell appeared to think.

”There's something in that. But suppose we arranged to get the husband out of the way, where she couldn't run to him at once--” he suggested.

They had more drinks. At first Morrell was only sardonically amused; but as his imagination got to working and the creative power awoke, his interest became more genuine. It was all too wildly improbable for words--and yet, was anything improbable in this impossible place? At least it was amusing, the whole thing was amusing--this super-refined exquisite awakened, to an emotion so genuine that what judgment he had was now obscured by the eagerness of his pa.s.sion; the situation apparently so easily malleable; the beautiful safety of it all for himself. And it did not really matter if the whole fantastic plot failed!

”I tell you, no,” he broke his thoughts to reply to some ill-considered suggestion, ”The good old simple methods are the best--they're all laid out for us by the Drury Lane melodramas. You leave it to me to get rid of him. Then we'll send the usual message to her that he is lying wounded somewhere--say at Jake's road house--”

”Won't that get her to thinking too much of him?” interrupted Sansome anxiously.

Morrell, momentarily taken aback, gained time for a reply by pouring Sansome another drink, ”He's more sense left than I thought,” he said to himself; and aloud: ”All you want is to get her out to Jake's.

She'll go simply as a matter of wifely duty, and all that. Don't worry.

Once she's there, it's your affair; and unless I mistake my man, I believe you'll know how to manage the situation”--he winked slyly--”she's really mad about you, but, like most women, she's hemmed in by convention. Boldly break through the convention, and she'll come around.”

Sansome was plainly fascinated by the idea, but in a trepidation of doubt, nevertheless.

”But suppose she doesn't come around?” he objected vaguely.

Morrell threw aside his cigarette and arose with an air of decision.

”I thought you were so crazy mad about her?” he said in tones that cut.

”What are you wasting my time for?”

”No, no! Hold on!” cried Sansome, at once all fire again. ”I'll do it--hold on!”

”As a matter of fact,” observed Morrell, reseating himself, and speaking as though there had been no interruption, ”I imagine you have little to fear from that.”

He went into the street a little later, his vision somewhat blurred, but his mind clear. Sansome, by now very pot-valiant, swaggered alongside.

”By the way, Ben,” said Morrell suddenly, ”I hope you go armed--these are bad times.”

”I have always carried a derringer--and I can use it, too!” boasted Sansome, swinging his cane.

Morrell, left alone, stood on the corner for some time diligently engaged in getting control of himself. He laughed a little.