Part 4 (1/2)
”Call it what you like. The bill is due the day after to-morrow, then the fraud will be detected.”
He uttered the words mechanically, his head bowed upon his breast.
Jack Egerton bit his lip. He could scarcely realise the grave importance of his companion's words.
”Are there no means by which I can a.s.sist you, Hugh?” he asked presently in a sympathetic tone.
”None. There is room enough in the world for everybody to stretch himself. You understand my departure is inevitable. It is either arrest or exile, and I choose the latter.”
”I'm afraid it is; but, look here. Have a trifle on loan from me--say a hundred.”
”Not a penny, Jack. I couldn't take it from you, indeed,” he replied, his voice trembling with an emotion he was unable to subdue. ”With finances at the present low ebb I could never repay you. Perhaps, however, there may be a day when I shall require a good turn, and I feel confident of your firm friends.h.i.+p.”
”Rely on it,” the artist said, warmly grasping his hand. ”You have my most sincere sympathy, Hugh; for bad luck like yours might fall upon any of us. In times gone by you've often a.s.sisted me and cheered me when I've been downcast and dispirited. It is, therefore, my duty to render you in return any service in my power.”
Hugh Trethowen rose, listless and sad. The lightheartedness and careless gaiety which were his chief characteristics had given place to settled gloom and despair. ”Thanks for your kind words, old fellow,” he exclaimed gravely. ”I really ought not to trouble you with my miseries, so I'll wish you farewell.”
The handsome girl, who had been silent and thoughtful, listening to the conversation, was unable to control her feelings, and burst into tears.
”Don't cry, Dolly,” said he in a sorry attempt to comfort her. ”Jack and yourself are old friends whom I much regret leaving, but don't take it to heart in this way.”
Raising her hand reverently to his lips he kissed it, with a murmured adieu.
She did not reply, but, burying her face in the rich silk robe she wore, wept bitterly.
For a moment he stood contemplating her, then, turning to the artist, he said:
”Good-bye, Jack.”
”Good-bye, Hugh,” replied Egerton, wringing his hand earnestly.
”Remember, whatever happens, I am always your friend--always.”
A few brief words of thanks, and Hugh Trethowen s.n.a.t.c.hed up his hat and stick, and, drawing aside the heavy plush _portiere_ before the door, stumbled blind out.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE NECTAR OF DEATH.
Slowly and solemnly the clock of St. James's, Piccadilly, chimed nine.
In his comfortable chambers in Jermyn Street, Hugh Trethowen sat alone.
The graceful indifference of the Sybarite had vanished, the cloud of apprehension had deepened, and with eyes fixed abstractedly upon the flickering fire, he was oblivious of his surroundings, plunged in painful reverie.
The silk-shaded lamp shed a soft light upon the objects around, revealing that the owner of the apartment had debarred himself no luxury, and that, although a typical bachelor's abode, yet the dainty nick-nacks, the cupboard of old china, the choice paintings, and the saddle-bag furniture--all exhibited a taste and refinement that would have done credit to any drawing-room. Upon a table at his elbow was a spirit stand, beside which stood a gla.s.s of brandy and soda; but it was flat, having been poured out half an hour before.
Suddenly he tugged vigorously at his moustache, as if in deep contemplation, and, rising, crossed the room and touched a gong.
His summons was answered by an aged male servant, the venerable appearance of whose white hair was enhanced by his suit of spotless black and narrow strip of s.h.i.+rt front.
”Anybody called, Jacob?”