BELDEN was the only guest at the dinner at Mr. Waddie’s in recognition of his care of Diana. It was a satisfactory affair to him, the principal actor. The to eat was good; the to drink sparkling; the to wit brilliant; the to woo he thought promising.
It was not late when Mr. Belden reached the Millard on return from this fortunate occasion. They were hopping, reciprocating to the Nilvederes. There was tempting wealth of étalage, but Belden slipped through the side door and up to his room. He took from one of his double-locked trunks a small tin case, such as men who have securities keep them in. He unlocked the case and took from it a bundle of papers, old papers carefully enveloped. They were endorsed “Ira Waddy’s Letters.”
Belden opened the parcel and looked at several of the letters. Some were signed “Ira Waddy,” or “Ira”; some “Sally Bishop.” They were such letters as some women exchange with some men, but such as only vile men and women write. Belden seemed to enjoy the tone of these epistles hugely.
“What a bitch that girl was,” he said to himself. “Waddy missed it when he was such a Puritan with her. She was a bad one to have for enemy. She thought getting up the letters a glorious joke. How we roared over some passages. I think I should have let the thing drop after proposing it, if she hadn’t been so mad for it. It was a devilish risky thing to do. The fellow would kill me in a minute if he knew it, but Sally won’t peach before she dies, I think. The other woman is safe, damn her! She and Waddy are the only two people that ever baffled me. But I’ve had what I call a neat revenge—I should think so. She might much better have smiled upon me for her own good. As to Waddy, he don’t seem over-civil now. I shouldn’t mind closing the whole thing up by shooting him. Miss Diana seems to have a liking for fighting men. I’m getting on fast with her. She’s a little of a bolter, but I can soon tame her, once in hand. Well, I thought I would burn these letters, but they’re a little too rich. When I’m engaged to her, I’ll burn ’em and reform. Some people would call it forgery—writing those documents—bah! what’s forgery!”
He began scribbling names in various hands: his own, Ira Waddy, Diana, Betty Bud, Bet Budlong, Sally Bishop, Tootler, Janeway, Sullivan, Perkins, and others, just as recollection seemed to associate those whom he had known in former life or now.
While he was scribbling, there came a knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” called Belden, tossing the papers into their case.
“Hit’s me, sir,” answered a cockney voice.
Belden unlocked the door and admitted a very bandy-legged groom, neatly enough dressed, but topped by a most knavish head and face.
“Well, Figgins,” said his master, “what do you want?”