Part 32 (1/2)

Louis extended his hands. He was making his one effort.

”There is nothing wrong with me,” he declared. ”I left Stephano's to--as they say in this country--better myself. I am in charge here--next to Monsieur Giatron himself. If Monsieur Giatron should go back to Italy I should be manager. It seemed like a good post. Perhaps I was foolish to leave.”

”Louis,” Mr. Bundercombe protested, ”I guess I didn't come round here to listen to lies. You and I had some little dealings together and I feel I've the right to insist on the truth. Now, then, don't give us any more trouble--there's a good fellow! If you'd rather talk to me alone invite me into the office or behind that desk.”

Louis looked round the room, which was almost empty, save for the waiters preparing the tables for supper.

”Mr. Bundercombe,” he said, with a little gesture of resignation, ”it is because of those dealings that I came to trouble.”

Mr. Bundercombe eyed him steadily.

”Go on!” he ordered.

Louis moved closer still to the table.

”It was those banknotes, Mr. Bundercombe,” he confessed. ”You gave me one packet to be destroyed in the kitchen. I obeyed; but I looked at them first. Never did I see such wonderful work! Those notes--every one seemed real! Every one, as I put it into the fire, gave my heart a pang.

”And then, the other time--when you slipped them under the table to me because Mr. Cullen was about! I took them, too, to the fire. I destroyed one, two, three, four, five--one dozen--two dozen; and then I came to the last two or three, and my fingers--they went slow. I could not bear it. I thought what could be done. My wife she was not well. I could send her to Italy. I owe a little bill. The tips--they had not been good lately.

Behold! There was one ten-pound note left when all the others were destroyed. I put him in my waistcoat pocket.”

”Go on!” Mr. Bundercombe said encouragingly. ”No one is blaming you. Upon my word, it sounds natural enough.”

Louis' voice grew a little bolder.

”For some time I hesitated how to change it. Then one day I came here to see my friend Giatron--we came together from Italy. I hand him the note. I ask him please change. He give me the change and I stay to have a drink with the head waiter, who is a friend of mine. Presently Giatron comes out. He calls me into the office. Then I begin to tremble. He looks at me and I tremble more.

”Then he knows that he have got me. Giatron's a very cruel man, Mr.

Bundercombe. He make hard terms. He made me give up my good place at Luigi's. He made me come here and be his head man. He gives me half as much as Luigi and there are no tips; besides which the place offends me every moment of the day. The service, the food, the wines--everything is cheap and bad. I take no pride in my work.

”I go to Giatron and I pray him to let me go. But not so! I know my work well. He thinks that I will bring clients. Nowhere else could he get a head man so good as I at the wages of a common waiter. So I stay here--a slave!”

The man's story was finished. In a sense it seemed ordinary enough, and yet both Eve and I felt a curious thrill of sympathy as he finished. There was something almost dramatic in the man's sad voice, his depressed bearing, the story of this tragedy that had come so suddenly into his life. One looked round and realized the truth of all he had said. One realized something, even, of the bitterness of his daily life.

Mr. Bundercombe sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

”Tell me why you did not come to me or write, Louis?” he asked.

The man stretched out his hands.

”But it was to you, sir, that I had broken my word!” he pointed out. ”When you gave me that first little bundle you looked at me so steadfastly--when you told me that every sc.r.a.p was to be destroyed; and I promised--I promised you faithfully. And you asked me afterward about that last batch.

You said to me: 'Louis, you are sure that they are all quite gone?

Remember that there is trouble in the possession of them!' And I told you a lie!”

Mr. Bundercombe coughed and poured himself out a little more of the coffee.

”Louis,” he declared, ”you are a fool! You are a blithering idiot! You are a jacka.s.s! It never occurred to me before. I am the guilty one for placing such a temptation in your way. Now where's this Monsieur Giatron of yours?”

Louis looked at him wonderingly. There was a dawn of hope in his face, blended with a startled fear.

”He arrives in ten minutes,” he announced. ”He comes down for the supper.