Part 42 (1/2)

A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by specious wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul--and here he was.

A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood before the feaster.

He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed.

Jones half rose.

”h.e.l.lo,” said he confusedly, with his mouth full--then he subsided into his chair.

”I must apologise for being late,” said the tall man, placing his hat on a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat.

”I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper.”

He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out a gla.s.s of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in his pocket.

”That's right,” said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: ”I will have a wing, please.”

Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had placed on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himself some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring.

For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said:

”Look here,” said he, ”I want to make some explanations.”

”Explanations,” said the long man, ”what about?”

Jones laughed.

”That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in my pocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that would have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an impertinence--perhaps you will believe that.”

The long man bowed.

”But,” went on Jones, ”by a man who was driven by circ.u.mstances to seek hospitality without an invitation.”

The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helping himself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only for reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-b.u.t.tons.

”By circ.u.mstance,” said he, ”that is interesting. Circ.u.mstance is the master dramatist--are you interested in the Drama?”

”Interested!” said Jones. ”Why, I _am_ a drama. I reckon I'm the biggest drama ever written, and that's why I am here to-night.”

”Ah,” said the other, ”this is becoming more interesting still or promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to the general. Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that the thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself pressed by Circ.u.mstance into queer and dramatic positions, those positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that thread of--what shall we call it--that is the backbone of the thing we call Story.”

”Oh, Justice isn't bothering after me,” said Jones--Then vague recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back.

”Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?” said he.

The other bowed.

”Good heavens,” said Jones, ”I ought to have known you. I've seen your picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays--haven't read your books, for I'm not a reading man--but I've been fair crazy over your cinema plays.”

Kellerman bowed.