“It’s really a pity that Van Arlen’s such a harlequin!” muttered Van Noost Prigson to himself, and then went to join his elder nieces at the window.
Van Arlen was once more in his room, and had locked the door—but he didn’t go to sleep. He had his hand in his breast-pocket, and his fingers were clutching a little packet that seemed to burn them.
Borrowed? No—not borrowed; it was stolen—it was not his. And yet he was not a thief—he had already as good as put it back,—only the execution was awanting to complete his intention. He strained his ears listening for Prigson and the others to go out at the front door. As soon as they were gone, he would hurry to the office and put back the money! Why were they dawdling like that? If anything happened to prevent his going—if he were to find the lock out of order. Why did they not start? If there were a fire in a street he had to pass—if he were to meet with an accident.... Do be quick, Prigson! the money is burning me—if I start now, we shall be in the street at the same time—then I shall have to go with him, and he will have to walk slowly on account of the ladies. Which way shall I go? My hat—where did I put my hat? If Prigson were to take my hat by mistake—happily it has a mourning band on it. Why don’t you go, Prigson? Have you given up the plan?
There was a knock at the door, and his wife entered.
“Are you going out, Van Arlen?”
“No, my dear, no.”
“I thought you looked as if you were going to start.”
“Certainly not, certainly not! Go now, make haste, or you’ll be late.”
“Perhaps you’re going to give us a surprise.”
“No, no—I’ve too much to do—and I don’t care about operas, where people die singing. Good-bye, Hortense, good-bye! Don’t let the girls come up, I’m too busy.”