[The Great Secret]
An unexpected trip in the motor had delayed Atherton's departure for town, and it was after nine o'clock when he ran quickly up the stairs which led to Blagden's room, confidently expecting to find Bellingham there before him. The morning had dawned, revealing no trace of the secretary, and Atherton had taken advantage of an errand in the village to telephone Blagden to be on the lookout for the fugitive in the neighborhood of eight o'clock. But now, to his disappointment, he entered the room to find Blagden and Mills alone, Blagden lying on the couch, eyes half closed, pipe in mouth, Mills sprawling in the easy chair, extracting minor chords of unspeakable melancholy from Blagden's guitar. Both were clearly bored, and glad of a chance to vent their indignation upon Atherton.
"You're an idiot of a fellow," observed Blagden. "Where's this friend of yours? We've been here since seven o'clock."
"Yes," added Mills. "Hurried our dinner, too. Worst thing in the world for a man. We thought from your telephoning that it must be important."
Atherton, weary from loss of sleep, dropped into a chair. "Well, I imagine it is important," he rejoined. "He'll be here, I'm sure. Unless--" he added thoughtfully, "something may have happened to him. I shouldn't be greatly surprised if that was the trouble. But you fellows needn't make such a row about it. It hasn't done you any harm. We were supposed to meet to-night anyway."
Mills laid aside the guitar. "That's right," he assented, "this was to be the experience meeting. And as you are the originator of the whole thing, Blagden, you'd better begin. How did you get along with the lovely lady? Was it a real adventure?"
Blagden puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. "Yes," he at length replied, "It surely was. The lovely lady is interested in stocks and she has a--what is the technical word in such cases--friend, isn't it? Gentleman friend? Yes, that's it. She has a gentleman friend who gives her tips on the market and--" he paused dramatically--"whose tips are always right. She never loses, and always wins."
Both of his hearers laughed. "You mentioned the 'Arabian Nights' that evening in the café," scoffed Mills. And Atherton added, "That's just like a woman. Why did she pick out the one impossible story in the world? Anything else I'd have believed, out of compliment to her good looks. But a friend who beats the stock market. Never. That's incredible."
"Yes," Blagden admitted, "on general principles, I'd agree with you. And yet I must say that her story was most convincing. I saw the house where she lives; saw the tickers, large as life, installed by her friend; saw her very dainty little account book, with its record of six months' trading in cotton, grain and stocks, and with every transaction showing its profit--a clean slate."
There followed silence. Then Atherton asked, still unbelievingly, "But why does she confide in you? If she's got such a good thing--the tips, I mean, not the gentleman friend--why isn't she satisfied? Why does she tell you her troubles?"