As a rule the first of June always found Bartley out of the city. With the coming of the first days of spring, he would begin to grow restless. One would find upon the large rosewood desk in his library various fishing flies, and maps showing far-off lakes and streams. For a while he would even drop his books and pamphlets which told of the 18th century of France, and pore over various guides of the woods and mountains; and then when June arrived, we would take the big car and go wandering forth in search of rest.
But the first of June had come and gone, and it was now the middle of the month. What was worse, there did not seem to be the slightest chance that we could get away for many weeks to come. Down in the Court House a sensational murder trial was slowly dragging itself out to a conclusion—a conclusion not yet in sight. It was this trial which was keeping us in the city, for Bartley's testimony was the hope upon which the defense leaned for an acquittal.
The stay in the city might have been endured if it had not been for the weather. For over a week we had sweltered under the warmest heat spell of many a year. Each morning I rose with but one thought in my mind—that there would be a breeze. But every day the thermometer went a few degrees higher than the day before—while each evening the list of those overcome by the heat grew larger. Bartley, far more of a philosopher than myself, at my constant complaint that it was warm, suggested that I follow the example of Trouble, our Airedale, who retired each morning to the cellar to spend the day.
One evening toward the end of the third week in June I entered Bartley's house in Gramercy Square long after our usual dinner hour. Going to the dining room, I found that Bartley had eaten several hours before. Rance, our old colored man, served me with the air of one who felt insulted over the fact my delay had caused his well-cooked dinner to grow cold. It was not until I was drinking my coffee that he unbent so far as to inform me that Bartley wished to see me in the library.
Bartley's library had once been called the most distinctive room in the city. When he had remodeled the house, he had torn away all the partitions to make one huge room. It ran across the entire front of the house, and had one of the largest fireplaces I have ever seen. The walls were covered with French prints—not copies, but the rare originals of the eighteenth century. Boucher, Fragonard, and their contemporaries covered three of the walls, while the fourth was left for the Belgian—Rops—whose devilish suggestiveness leered at one in over sixty etchings.
Below the etchings ran the bookcases, filled with the books which Bartley loved; not ordinary books, but the rare things upon crime and science, philosophy and psychology—the cream of a lifetime of collecting. And then came the long rows of thin volumes, with their dark red covers—the most extensive collection in the country, of the rare pamphlets and memoirs of the years before the French Revolution.
Bartley was seated by his large rosewood desk, whose surface was covered with books and papers. He even looked cool in his white silk suit, and he smiled when I mentioned the heat. With that he went back to the book he was reading, while I picked up the evening paper and went over to an easy chair. There was nothing of importance in the paper, though the murder trial filled many columns—columns of the usual sob stuff, but with little information. In disgust, I threw the paper aside just as Bartley spoke.
“Pelt,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from Carter. He is very eager to have us come up and visit him.”
I was rather surprised at this, for I had thought Carter was on the other side of the water. Seeing my astonishment, Bartley continued:
“George writes me that his chief has given him the summer to rest in. He is at the old home, and wants us to spend part of the summer with him.”