Part 8 (1/2)
The boy dived through one part.i.tion-door and reappeared by way of another with the deft certainty of a trained pantomime.
”Says t' come in.”
Whitaker found himself in the presence of an ashen-faced man of thirty-five, who clutched the side of his roll-top desk as if to save himself from falling.
”Whitaker!” he gasped. ”My G.o.d!”
”Flattered,” said Whitaker, ”I'm sure.”
He derived considerable mischievous amus.e.m.e.nt from Drummond's patent stupefaction. It was all so right and proper--as it should have been. He considered his an highly satisfactory resurrection, the sensation it created as complete, considered in the relation of antic.i.p.ation to fulfilment, as anything he had ever experienced. Seldom does a scene pa.s.s off as one plans it; the other parties thereto are apt to spoil things by spouting spontaneously their own original lines, thus cheating one out of a crus.h.i.+ng retort or cherished epigram. But Drummond played up his part in a most public-spirited fas.h.i.+on--gratifying, to say the least.
It took him some minutes to recover, Whitaker standing by and beaming.
He remarked changes, changes as striking as the improvement in Drummond's fortunes. Physically his ex-partner had gone off a bit; the sedentary life led by the average successful man of business in New York had marked his person unmistakably. Much heavier than the man Whitaker remembered, he wore a thick and solid air of good-natured prosperity.
The hair had receded an inch or so from his forehead. Only his face seemed as it had always been--sharply handsome and strong. Whitaker remembered that he had always somewhat meanly envied Drummond his good looks; he himself had been fas.h.i.+oned after the new order of architecture--with a steel frame; but for some reason Nature, the master builder, had neglected sufficiently to wall in and conceal the skeleton.
Admitting the economy of the method, Whitaker was inclined to believe that the effect must be surprising, especially if encountered without warning....
He discovered that they were both talking at once--furiously--and, not without surprise, that he had a great deal more enlightenment to impart to Drummond than he had foreseen.
”You've got an economical streak in you when it comes to correspondence,” Drummond commented, offering Whitaker a sheet of paper he had just taken from a tin doc.u.ment-box. ”That's Exhibit A.”
Whitaker read aloud:
”'DEAR D., I'm not feeling well, so off for a vacation. Burke has just been in and paid $1500 in settlement of our claim. I'm enclosing herewith my check for your share. Yours, H. M. W.'”
”Far be it from me to cast up,” said Drummond; ”but I'd like to know why the deuce you couldn't let a fellow know how ill you were.”
Whitaker frowned over his dereliction. ”Don't remember,” he confessed.
”I was hardly right, you know--and I presume I must have counted on Greyerson telling.”
”But I don't know Greyerson....”
”That's so. And you never heard--?”
”Merely a rumour ran round. Some one--I forget who--told me that you and Stark had gone sailing in Stark's boat--to cruise in the West Indies, according to my informant. And somebody else mentioned that he'd heard you were seriously ill. More than that nothing--until we heard that the _Adventuress_ had been lost, half a year later.”
”I'm sorry,” said Whitaker contritely. ”It was thoughtless....”
”But that isn't all,” Drummond objected, flouris.h.i.+ng another paper. ”See here--Exhibit B--came in a day or so later.”
”Yes.” Whitaker recognized the doc.u.ment. ”I remember insisting on writing to you before we turned in that night.”
He ran through the following communication:
”DEAR DRUMMOND: I married here, to-night, Mary Ladislas. Please look out for her while I'm away. Make her an allowance out of my money--five hundred a month ought to be enough. I shall die intestate, and she'll get everything then, of course. She has your address and will communicate with you as soon as she gets settled down in Town.
”Faithfully--