Helmar made no answer, and it was not until the supper was served in the little private room, and the waiter had withdrawn, that they again returned to the subject. “What is it about Jack, anyway?” Helmar asked. “I was out at his place the other day, and he seemed to be making no end of trouble; everybody stirred up about him. What’s he been doing?”
Vaughan helplessly shook his head. “Search me,” he answered, “you know I scarcely see him now. He travels with a different crowd these days. But I guess since he joined the Mayflower he’s changed quite a lot; playing the market, I hear, and drinking pretty hard, and sort of gone to pieces generally.”
Helmar looked thoughtful. “That’s bad,” he said shortly, and after a pause, “Never happen to hear any gossip about him and a girl, do you?”
Again Vaughan shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he answered, “if he’s doing anything of that sort, it’s news to me. That is, I mean, anything really out of the way. Jack likes a good time, of course; we’ve always known that; but I don’t believe he’s that kind. I guess he’s all right enough that way. At any rate, I’ve always understood that he was about as good as engaged to Marjory Graham, and that ought to keep a fellow straight, if anything could.”
Helmar nodded. “Yes,” he answered abruptly, “I should say it ought. Well, never mind. Now I want to hear how things are going with you, Arthur. We’ll talk about Jack later on.”
And then, with the progress of the supper, the talk ran along as such talks will; each telling of past experiences, losses, gains; of future plans, hopes, fears; speaking of classmates and friends; skimming the passing events of the day; comparing notes on the thousand and one subjects that crowd the lips so readily when friends of long standing, who meet but seldom, settle down to the luxury of a leisurely, comfortable talk.
Meanwhile, far out on the Escomb Road, the big motor bowled swiftly along. Carleton’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head was on his shoulder, and she was smiling up into his face. Very charming, very young and innocent she looked, unless, in some occasional passing flash of light, one could have seen the look in her eyes which lay behind the smile. “Oh, this is so nice, Jack,” she murmured; even the tone of her voice was a subtle caress, and she nestled a little closer to his side; “I could keep on like this for ever; you were so good to take me, dear.”
Carleton did not at once answer, and when he did, his tone seemed scarcely sentimental. Drowsiness, indeed, brought on by his many potations, rather than sentiment, appeared to be the spell which bound him, and his mind wandered irresponsibly in a dozen different directions at one and the same time. “Say,” he asked suddenly, “how’d you know where a letter’d get me, anyway?”
Had the girl’s mood been real, the matter-of-fact, commonplace tone must have driven her to sudden anger; as it was, her sense of humor saved her, and after a moment or two, half in spite of herself, she gave a little laugh. “Why,” she answered lightly, “from your good-looking friend, Doctor Helmar, of course,” and the next instant she could have bitten her tongue out for the chance words, as Carleton, for the moment startled into his senses, with a sudden exclamation sat bolt upright in his seat. “Helmar,” he cried, as everything in one instant’s flash came back to him, “to-night was the night. Oh, Lord, I wouldn’t have done this for a thousand dollars.” Then leaning forward, to the chauffeur, “Here there, you, stop a minute!” he cried; and fumbling in his pocket for his watch, he glanced at it, and then looked quickly around him. “Ten o’clock,” he muttered, “we can make it;” then, aloud, “Put her round now, driver, and head her straight for town; let her out, and let her go!”