“That’s one of the men,” said Nolan, “that started with Mr. Rumson and Hewitt from Delmonico’s.”
Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no hitch, smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of them on the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the signal and knew that within call were friends.
The yellow cigarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden building of two stories. It was linked to the road by a curving driveway marked on either side by whitewashed stones.
On verandas enclosed In glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under red candle-shade and, protruding from one end of the house and hung with electric lights in paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing. In the rear of the house stood sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the autumn leaves showed yellow painted fingers and arrows pointing, and an electric sign, proclaimed to all who passed that this was Kessler’s. In spite of its reputation, the house wore the aspect of the commonplace. In evidence nothing flaunted, nothing threatened From a dozen other inns along the Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was no way to be distinguished.
As directed in the note, Wharton left the car in the road. “For five minutes stay where you are,” he ordered Nolan; “then go to the bar and get a drink. Don’t talk to any one or they’ll think you’re trying to get information. Work around to the back of the house. Stand where I can see you from the window. I may want you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson.”
On foot Wharton walked up the curved drive-way, and if from the house his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the second story the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty. Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside the house, was there any sign that his visit was expected. He stood in a hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that he guessed led to the private supper-rooms. On his left was the restaurant.
Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as though resting in preparation for those to come, it an air of peaceful inactivity. At a table a maitre d’ho’tel was composing the menu for the evening, against the walls three colored waiters lounged sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a pale youth with drugged eyes was with one hand picking an accompaniment. As Wharton paused uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, nasal tenor raised his voice and sang:
“And from the time the rooster calls
I’ll wear my overalls,
And you, a simple gingham gown.
So, if you’re strong for a shower of rice,
We two could make a paradise Of any One-Horse Town.”
At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual, she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.
“I am Mrs. Earle,” said the woman. “I wrote you that note. Will you please come this way?”