III
Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his amiability that after the coffee he said:
“Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way all you have to do is to tell me what it is.”
“Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking—”
Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to think—alone.
Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and somebody to love? Why had the springtime—since the night before—come to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes, tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks, so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking—if he would be honest with himself—of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was.
He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his father noticed it.
“What's up, Tom?”
“What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking.”
“Terrible thing, my boy—thinking at meal-time,” said E. H. Merriwether, with a self-conscious look of badinage.
“Yes, it is. I'll quit.”
“Is it anything about which you need advice—or help, my boy?” said the great little railroad dynast, very carelessly.
His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as though it were a weakness.
“No, indeed. There is nothing the matter—really. I was thinking I'd like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your next tour of inspection.”
The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up.
“Will you?” he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost tremble.
“Yes.”
And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very close to each other.
On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face. He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas. Her complexion was beautiful. No more!
On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience, and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it. Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity.
He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose faces looked too intelligent for footmen.
“I wish to see Mr.—er—your master.”
“Does he expect you, sir?” The tone was not as respectful as footmen in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether millions. “No; but he knows me.”
“Who knows you, sir?”
“Your master.”
“Could you tell me his name, sir?”
“No; but I can tell you mine.”
“He's not at home, sir.”
“I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment.”
“I'm sorry, sir. He's not in.”
The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the man.
“I am anxious to see him.”
“Im sorry. I can't take it, sir,” said the footman, with such melancholy sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul.
Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had compelled even the footmen to obey him!
“But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir—”
“Thank you. Take it anyhow.”
He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars, and almost turned green.
“I—I d-daresent, sir!” he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.
Tom left him, walked across the Avenue to the Park, and sat down on a bench. He settled down to think calmly over the mysterious affair, and looked about him.
The grass in the turf places had taken on a definite green, as though it were May. The trees were not yet in leaf, making the grass-greenness seem a trifle premature, but Tom noticed that the buds on the trees and shrubs were bursting; there were little feathery tips of tender red and pale green—tiny wings about to flutter upward because the sun and the sky beckoned to them to go where it was bright and warm. The sky was of a spotless turquoise, as though the spring cleaning up there had been thorough. The clouds were of silver freshly burnished for the occasion. The air was alive, laden with subtle thrills; it throbbed invisibly, as though the light were life, and life were love. He saw hundreds of sparrows, and they all twittered; and all the twitterings were very, very shrill, and yet very, very musical. And also they twittered in couples that hopped and darted and aerially zigzagged—always together and always twittering!
A policeman stopped and said something to a nurse-maid. The nurse-maid said something to the policeman. He was young and she was pretty. Then the policeman said nothing to the nurse-maid, and the nurse-maid said nothing to the policeman. Then two faces turned red. Then one face nodded yes. Then the other face walked away, swinging a club; and—by all that was marvelous!—swinging the club in time to the tune the sparrows were twittering—in couples—the same tune, as though the club-swinger's soul were whistling it!
Tom smiled uncertainly—he wanted to give money, lots of it, to the policeman and to the nursemaid; and he knew it was impossible—it was too obviously the intelligent thing to do! So, instead, he drew a deep breath.
Instantly there came to him not the odor of spring and of green things growing, but of sweet peas and summer winds, and changing, evanescent faces, pink-and-white as flowers, with flower-odor associations and eyes full of glints and brightnesses that recalled dewdrops and sunlight and stars. And these glittering points shifted in tune to the twittering of birds and the swinging of Park policemen's clubs.
Love was in the air! Love was making Tom Mer-riwether impatient, as that love which is the love of loving always makes the mateless man.
He could no longer sit calmly. He could not sit at all. He craved to do something, to do anything, so long as it was motion. Therefore he walked briskly northward. At Ninetieth Street he halted abruptly. He had begun to walk mechanically and he could think of what he did not wish to think. So he shook himself free from the spell and walked back.
An hour had passed. He again rang the bell of 777. The same footman opened the door.
“Is he in?” asked Tom, impatiently.
“Yes, sir—he is, sir. I told him the moment he came in, sir.” He looked as uncomfortable as a lifelong habit of impassivity permitted.
“What did he say?” asked Tom.
“He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me.”
“And you said?”
“I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank you, sir! This way, sir.”
The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any menial he announced:
“Mr. Merriwether!”
The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous visits—recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game? Also the new question: Where is she?
The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.
“Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?” And he motioned him to a chair.
“Thank you.”
“How can I serve you?”
“Who is the woman?” said Tom, abruptly. “Your fate!” answered the man.
“Her name?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Her address?”
“I don't know it.”
“What is your game?”
“I have money enough for my whims and time enough to gratify my desire to help you. Eugenics is my hobby. I recognize that I cannot fight against the decree of destiny.”
“I am tired of all this humbug.”
“I ask nothing of you now. You can go or you can come. You can go to India or to Patagonia—or even farther. You may send detectives and lawyers, or even thugs, to me. You may cease your search for her—if you can!”
“You have roused my curiosity—”
“That is a sign of intelligence.”
“I tell you now that I don't believe a word of what you say.”
“Free country, young man.”
“I've had enough of this nonsense—”
“Though I am always glad to see you, young sir, and would not wound your feelings for worlds”—the man's voice was very polite, but also very cold—“I might be forgiven for observing that I did not ask you to call.”
“I'll give you a thousand dollars—”
The man stopped him with a deprecatory wave of the hand.
“One of the pearls I offered you, Mr. Merriwether, is valued at ten thousand dollars. You did not select that one; but I'll exchange the one you took for it—now if you wish.”
“That's all very well, but—” Tom paused, and the man cut in:
“Do you wish to see her from a safe distance? Or do you wish to talk to her without seeing her? Or—”
“To see her and talk to her!”
“Wait!”
The man intently regarded the tip of Tom's left shoe for fully five minutes. Then he raised his head and clapped his hands twice. The black manservant with the fez appeared.
The man said something in Arabic—at least it sounded so to Tom. The black answered. The man spoke again. The black replied:
The man said what sounded to Tom like, “Ay adad.”
The negro answered, “Al-sabi! Al-sabi wal Saboun.”
The man waved his hand dismissingly and the negro salaamed and left the room.
After a moment the man turned to Tom and said, with obvious perplexity: “I am not sure it is wise for me to meddle, but perhaps it is written that I am to help you three times. Who knows?”
He stared into Tom's eyes as though he would read a word there—either yes or no. But Tom said, a trifle impatiently:
“Well, sir?”
“Go to the opera to-night. Take seat H 77. No other seat will do.”
“H 77—to-night,” repeated Thomas Thorne Merriwether.
“The opera is 'Madame Butterfly.'”
“Thanks,” said Tom, and started for the door. He halted when the man spoke.
“It is the seat back of G 77. None other will do.”
“Good day, sir,” said Tom, and left the room.