Part 27 (1/2)

”I guess I understand,” said the colonel with a laugh. ”I'll tell her!”

The colonel spent that evening in the grill room of the Homestead.

Though it was not the same as it had been, and though patronage of the better sort had fallen off considerably, it was still a jolly enough sort of place of its character to be in. A number of ”men about town,”

as they liked to be called, were in, and Colonel Ashley was sipping his julep when there entered Mr. Kettridge, the relative of Mrs. Darcy, whose jewelry shop he was managing pending a settlement of her estate.

”Good evening, Colonel,” he called genially. ”Will you join me in a Welsh rabbit?”

”Thank you, no. I'm afraid my digestion isn't quite up to that, as I've had to cut out my fis.h.i.+ng of late. But what do you say to a julep?”

”Delighted, I'm sure,” and they sat down at one of the half-enclosed tables in the grill and ordered food and drink. They had become friends since the colonel's first visit to the store, and the friends.h.i.+p had grown as they found they had congenial tastes.

The evening pa.s.sed pleasantly for them. They talked of much, including the murder, and the colonel was more than pleased to find that the jeweler had no very strong suspicion against young Darcy.

”I've known him from a boy,” said Mr. Kettridge, ”and, though he has his faults, a crime such as this would be almost impossible to him, no matter what motive, such as the dispute over money or his sweetheart.

He may be guilty, but I doubt it.”

”My idea, exactly,” returned the colonel. ”Now as to certain matters in the store on the morning of the murder. The stopped clocks, for instance. Have you any theory--”

Came, at that instant, fairly bursting into the quiet grill room, some ”jolly good fellows,” to take them at their own valuation. There were three of them, the center figure being that of Harry King, and he was very much intoxicated.

”h.e.l.lo, Harry! Where have you been?” some one called.

King regarded his questioner gravely, as though deeply pondering over the matter. It was often characteristic of him that, though he became very much intoxicated, yet, at times, under such conditions, Harry King's language approached the cultured, rather than degenerated into the common talk of the ordinary drunk. That is not always, but sometimes. It happened to be so now.

”I beg your pardon?” he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.

”I said, where have you been?” remarked the other. ”We've missed you.”

”I have been spending a week end in the country,” King remarked, with biting sarcasm. ”Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you know--” there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on--”I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form.”

There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.

King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.

”I said I was--_golfing_,” he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort. ”And now, Cat,” and he nodded patronizingly to the white-ap.r.o.ned and respectful bartender, ”will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to--let us say Polonius!”

”Why Polonius?” some one asked.

”Because, dear friend,” replied King softly, ”he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks. And now--” he raised his gla.s.s--”to all the G.o.ds that on Olympus dwell!”

And they drank with him.

Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.

”Gad, but he's got a wad!” somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.

There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.