Part 3 (1/2)

Miss Ellersly bit her lip and colored, but I noticed also that her eyes were dancing.

Sam introduced the Englishman to me--Lord Somebody-or-other, I forget what, as I never saw him again. I turned like a bulldog from a toy terrier and was at Miss Ellersly again. ”Let me put a little something on Mowghli for you,” said I. ”You're bound to win--and I'll see that you don't lose. I know how you ladies hate to lose.”

That was a bit stiff, as I know well enough now. Indeed, my instinct would have told me better then, if I hadn't been so used to the sort of women that jump at such an offer, and if I hadn't been casting about so desperately and in such confusion for some way to please her. At any rate, I hardly deserved her sudden frozen look. ”I beg pardon,” I stammered, and I think my look at her must have been very humble--for me.

The others in the box were staring round at us. ”Come on,” cried Sam, dragging at my arm, ”let's go.”

”Won't you come?” I said to his sister. I shouldn't have been able to keep my state of mind out of my voice, if I had tried. And I didn't try.

Trust the right sort of woman to see the right sort of thing in a man through any and all kinds of barriers of caste and manners and breeding.

Her voice was much softer as she said: ”I think I must stay here. Thank you, just the same.”

As soon as Sam and I were alone, I apologized. ”I hope you'll tell your sister I'm sorry for that break,” said I.

”Oh, that's all right,” he answered, easy again, now that we were away from the others. ”You meant well--and motive's the thing.”

”Motive--h.e.l.l!” cried I in my anger at myself. ”n.o.body but a man's G.o.d knows his motives; he doesn't even know them himself. I judge others by what they do, and I expect to be judged in the same way. I see I've got a lot to learn.” Then I suddenly remembered the Travelers Club, and asked him what he'd done about it.

”I--I've been--thinking it over,” said he. ”Are you _sure_ you want to run the risk of an ugly cropper, Matt?”

I turned him round so that we were facing each other. ”Do you want to do me that favor, or don't you?” I demanded.

”I'll do whatever you say,” he replied. ”I'm thinking only of your interests.”

”Let _me_ take care of _them_,” said I. ”You put me up at that club to-morrow. I'll send you the name of a seconder not later than noon.”

”Up goes your name,” he said. ”But don't blame me for the consequences.”

And my name went up, with Mowbray Langdon's brother, Tom, as seconder.

Every newspaper in town published the fact, most of them under big black headlines. ”The fun's about to begin,” thought I, as I read. And I was right, though I hadn't the remotest idea how big a ball I had opened.

V. DANGER SIGNALS

At that time I did not myself go over the bills before the legislatures of those states in which I had interests. I trusted that work to my lawyers--and, like every man who ever absolutely trusted an important division of his affairs to another, I was severely punished. One morning my eye happened to light upon a minor paragraph in a newspaper--a list of the ”small bills yesterday approved by the governor.” In the list was one ”defining the power of sundry commissions.” Those words seemed to me somehow to spell ”joker.” But why did I call up my lawyers to ask them about it? It's a mystery to me. All I know is that, busy as I was, something inside me compelled me to drop everything else and hunt that ”joker” down.

I got Saxe--then senior partner in Browne, Saxe and Einstein--on the 'phone, and said: ”Just see and tell me, will you, what is the 'bill defining the power of sundry commissions'--the bill the governor signed yesterday?”

”Certainly, Mr. Blacklock,” came the answer. My nerves are, and always have been, on the watchout for the looks and the tones and the gestures that are just a shade off the natural; and I feel that I do Saxe no injustice when I say his tone was, not a shade, but a full color, off the natural. So I was prepared for what he said when he returned to the telephone. ”I'm sorry, Mr. Blacklock, but we seem unable to lay our hands on that bill at this moment.”

”Why not?” said I, in the tone that makes an employee jump as if a whip-lash had cut him on the calves.

He had jumped all right, as his voice showed. ”It's not in our file,” said he. ”It's House Bill No. 427, and it's apparently not here.”

”The h.e.l.l you say!” I exclaimed. ”Why?”

”I really can't explain,” he pleaded, and the frightened whine confirmed my suspicion.

”I guess not,” said I, making the words significant and suggestive. ”And you're in my pay to look after such matters! But you'll have to explain, if this turns out to be serious.”