Love Insurance

by Earl Derr Biggers

  He stopped, for the girl was smiling. And it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to.

  "I'm sorry, really," she said. "But I can't help it. All I can see now is your triumphant entrance last night—your masterly exposure of that silly necklace—your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that Harrowby and I might be married on Tuesday. In the light of all that has happened—how can you expect to appear other than—"

  "Foolish? You're right. And you couldn't possibly care—just a little—"

  He stopped, embarrassed. Poorly chosen words, those last. He saw the light of recollection in her eye.

  "I should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope—for me—"

  "If we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different—and Harrowby had never been—I might—"

  "You might—yes?"

  "I might not say what I'm going to say now. Which is—hadn't we better return to the hotel?"

  "I'm sorry," remarked Minot. "Sorry I had the bad taste to say what I have at this time—but if you knew and could understand—which you can't of course— Yes, let's go back to the hotel— the shortest way."

  He turned, and looked toward the towers of the De la Pax rising to meet the sky—seemingly a million miles away. So Peary might have gazed to the north, setting out for the Pole.

  They went back along the ramparts, over the dry moat, through the crumbling gates. Conversation languished. Then the ancient graveyard, ghastly in the gloom. After that the long lighted street of humble shops. And the shortest way home seemed a million times longer than the longest way there.

  "Considering what you have told me of— Harrowby," she said, "I shall be leaving for the north soon. Will you look me up in New York?"

  "Thank you," Minot said. "It will be a very great privilege."

  Cynthia Meyrick entered the elevator, and out of sight in that gilded cage she smiled a twisted little smile.

  Mr. Minot beheld Mr. Trimmer and his "proposition" basking in the lime-light of the De la Pax, and feeling in no mood to listen to the publicity man's triumphant cackle, he hurried to the veranda. There he found a bell-boy calling his name.

  "Gen'lemun to see you," the boy explained. He led the way back into the lobby and up to a tall athletic-looking man with a ruddy, frank, attractive face.

  The stranger held out his hand.

  "Mr. Minot, of Lloyds?" he asked. "How do you do, sir? I'm very glad to know you. Promised Thacker I'd look you up at once. Let's adjourn to the grill-room."

  Minot followed in the wake of the tall breezy one. Already he liked the man immensely.

  "Well," said the stranger, over a table in the grill, "what'll you have? Waiter? Perhaps you heard I was coming. I happen to be the owner of the yacht in the harbor, which somebody has rechristened the Lileth."

  "Yes—I thought so," Minot replied. "I'm mighty glad you've come. A Mr. Martin Wall is posing as the owner just at present."

  "So I learned from Thacker. Nervy lad, this Wall. I live in Chicago myself—left my boat— Lady Evelyn, I called her—in the North River for the winter in charge of a caretaker. This Wall, it seems, needed a boat for a month and took a fancy to mine. And since my caretaker was evidently a crook, it was a simple matter to rent it. Never would have found it out except for you people. Too busy. Really ought not to have taken this trip—business needs me every minute—but I've got sort of a hankering to meet Mr. Martin Wall."

  "Shall we go out to the boat right away?"

  "No need of that. We'll run out in the morning with the proper authorities." The stranger leaned across the table, and something in his blue eyes startled Minot. "In the meantime," he said, "I happen to be interested in another matter. What's all this talk about George Harrowby coming back to life?"

  "Well, there's a chap here," Minot explained, "who claims to be the elder brother of Allan Harrowby. His cause is in the hands of an advertising expert named Trimmer."

  "Yes. I saw a story in a Washington paper."

  "This morning George Harrowby, so-called, confronted Allan Harrowby and denounced Allan himself as a fraud."

  The man from Chicago threw back his head, and a roar of unexpected laughter smote on Minot's hearing.

  "Good joke," said the stranger.

  "No joke at all. George was right—at least, so it seems. Allan Harrowby cleared out this evening."

  "Yes. So I was told by the clerk in there. Do you happen to know—er—Allan?"

  "Yes. Very well indeed."

  "But you don't know the reason he left?"

  "Why," answered Minot, "I suppose because George Harrowby gave him twenty-four hours to get out of town."

  Again the Chicago man laughed.

  "That can't have been the reason," he said. "I happen to know."

  "Just how," inquired Minot, "do you happen to know?"

  Leaning far back in his chair, the westerner smiled at Minot with a broad engaging smile.

  "I fancy I neglected to introduce myself," he said. "I make automobiles in Chicago—and my name's George Harrowby."

  "You—you—" Minot's head went round dizzily. "Oh, no," he said firmly. "I don't believe it."

  The other's smile grew even broader.

  "Don't blame you a bit, my boy," he said. "Must have been a bit of a mix-up down here. Then, too, I don't look like an Englishman. Don't want to. I'm an American now, and I like it."

  "You mean you're the real Lord Harrowby?"

  "That's what I mean—take it slowly, Mr. Minot. I'm George, and if Allan ever gets his eyes on me, I won't have to prove who I am. He'll know, the kid will. But by the way—what I want now is to meet this chap who claims to be me— also his friend, Mr. Trimmer."

  "Of course you do. I saw them out in the lobby a minute ago." Minot rose. "I'll bring them in. But—but—"

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, never mind. I believe you."

  Trimmer and his proposition still adorned the lobby, puffed with pride and pompousness. Briefly Minot explained that a gentleman in the grill-room desired to be introduced, and graciously the two followed after. The Chicago George Harrowby rose as he saw the group approach his table. Suddenly behind him Minot heard a voice:

  "My God!" And the limp Englishman of the sandwich boards made a long lean streak toward the door. Minot leaped after him, and dragged him back.

  "Here, Trimmer," he said, "your proposition has chilblains."

  "What's the trouble?" Mr. Trimmer glared about him.

  "Allow me," said Minot. "Sir—our leading vaudeville actor and his manager. Gentlemen— Mr. George Harrowby, of Chicago!"

  "Sit down, boys," said Mr. Harrowby genially. He indicated a chair to Mr. Trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. The Chicago man turned to that same proposition. "Brace up, Jenkins," he said. "Nobody will hurt you."

  But Jenkins could not brace. He allowed Minot to deposit his limp body in a chair.

  "I thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled.

  "A common mistake," smiled George Harrowby. "My family has thought the same, and I've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. Mr. Trimmer, will you have a—what's the matter, man?"

  For Mr. Trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition.

  "I want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "See here, you cringing cur—what does this mean?"

  "I thought he was dead," murmured poor Jenkins in terror.

  "You'll think the same about yourself in a minute—and you'll be right," Trimmer predicted.

  "Come, come," said George Harrowby pacifically. "Sit down, Mr. Trimmer. Sit down and have a drink. Do you mean to say you didn't know Jenkins here was faking?"

  "Of course I didn't," said Trimmer. He sat down on the extreme edge of a chair, as one who proposed to rise soon. "All this has got me going. I never went round in royal circles before, and I'm dizzy. I suppose you're the real Lord Ilarrowby?"

  "To b
e quite correct, I am. Don't you believe it?"

  "I can believe anything—when I look at him," said Trimmer, indicating the pitiable ex-claimant to the title. "Say, who is this Jenkins we hear so much about?"

  "Jenkins was the son of my father's valet," George Harrowby explained. "He came to America with me. We parted suddenly on a ranch in southern Arizona."

  "Everybody said you was dead," persisted Jenkins, as one who could not lose sight of that fact.

  "Yes? And they gave you my letters and belongings, eh? So you thought you'd pose as me?"

  "Yes, sir," confessed Jenkins humbly.

  Mr. Trimmer slid farther back into his chair.

  "Well," he said, "it's unbelievable, but Henry Trimmer has been buncoed. I met this able liar in a boarding-house in New York, and he convinced me he was Lord Harrowby. It was between jobs for me, and I had a bright idea. If I brought this guy down to the wedding, established him as the real lord, and raised Cain generally, I figured my stock as a publicity man would rise a hundred per cent. I'd be turning down fifty-thousand-dollar jobs right and left. I suppose I was easy, but I'd never mixed up with such things before, and all the dope he had impressed me—the family coat of arms, and the motto—"

  The Chicago man laughed softly.

  "Credo Harrowby," he said.

  "That was it—trust Harrowby," said Trimmer bitterly. "Lord, what a fool I've been. And it's ruined my career. I'll be the laughing-stock—"

  "Oh, cheer up, Mr. Trimmer," smiled George Harrowby. "I'm sure you're unduly pessimistic about your career. I'll have something to say to you on that score later. For the present—"

  "For the present," broke in Trimmer with fervor, "iron bars for Jenkins here. I'll swear out the warrant myself—"

  "Nonsense," said Harrowby, "Jenkins is the most harmless creature in the world. Led astray by ambition, that's all. With any one but Allan his claims wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Poor Allan always was a helpless youngster."

  "Oh — Jenkins," broke in Minot suddenly. "What was the idea this morning? I mean your calling Allan Harrowby an impostor?"

  Jenkins hung his head.

  "I was rattled," he admitted. "I couldn't keep it up before aU those people. So it came to me in a flash—if I said Allan was a fraud maybe I wouldn't have to be cross-examined myself."

  "And that was really Allan Harrowby?"

  "Yes—that was Allan, right enough."

  Mr. Minot sat studying the wall in front of him. He was recalling a walk through the moonlight to the fort. Jephson and Thacker pointed accusing fingers at him over the oceans and lands between.

  "I say—let Jenkins go," continued the genial western Harrowby, "provided he returns my property and clears out for good. After all, his father was a faithful servant, if he is not."

  "But," objected Trimmer, "he's wasted my time. He's put a crimp in the career of the best publicity man in America it'll take years to straighten out—"

  "Not necessarily," said Harrowby. "I was coming to that. I've been watching your work for the last week, and I like it. It's alive—progressive. We're putting out a new car this spring —an inexpensive little car bound to make a hit. I need a man like you to convince the public—"

  Mr. Trimmer's eyes opened wide. They shone. He turned and regarded the unhappy Jenkins.

  "Clear out," he commanded. "If I ever see you again I'll wring your neck. Now, Mr. Harrowby, you were saying—"

  "Just a minute," said Harrowby. "This man has certain letters and papers of mine—"

  "No, he hasn't," Trimmer replied. "I got 'em. Right here in my pocket." He slid a packet of papers across the table. "They're yours. Now, about—"

  Jenkins was slipping silently away. Like a frightened wraith he flitted gratefully through the swinging doors.

  "A middle-class car," explained Harrowby, "and I want a live man to boost it—"

  "Beg pardon," interrupted Minot, rising, "I'll say good night. We'll get together about that other matter in the morning. By the way, Mr. Harrowby, have you any idea what has become of Allan?"

  "No, I haven't. I sent him a telegram this afternoon saying that I was on my way here. Must' have run off on business. Of course, he'll be back for his wedding."

  "Oh, yes—of course," Minot agreed sadly, "he'll be back for his wedding. Good night, gentlemen."

  A few minutes later he stood at the window of 389, gazing out at the narrow street, at the stately Manhattan Club, and the old Spanish houses on either side.

  "And she refused me!" he muttered. "To think that should be the biggest piece of luck that's come to me since I hit this accursed town!"

  He continued to gaze gloomily out. —moon was still shining.

  Chapter 18

  A ROTTEN BAD FIT

  MINOT rose early on Monday morning and went for a walk along the beach. He had awakened to black despair, but the sun and the matutinal breeze elevated his spirits considerably. Where was Allan Harrowby? Gone, with his wedding little more than twenty-four hours away. If he should not return—golden thought. By his own act he would forfeit his claim on Jephson, and Minot would be free to—

  To what? Before him in the morning glow the great gray fort rose to crush his hopes. There on those slanting ramparts she had smiled at his declaration. Smiled, and labeled him foolish. Well, foolish he must have seemed. But there was still hope. If only Allan Harrowby did not return.

  Mr. Trimmer, his head down, breathing hard, marched along the beach like a man with a destination. Seeing Minot, he stopped suddenly.

  "Good morning," he said, holding out his hand, with a smile. "No reason why we shouldn't be friends, eh? None whatever. You're out early. So am I. Thinking up ideas for the automobile campaign."

  Minot laughed.

  "You leap from one proposition to another with wonderful aplomb," he said.

  "The agile mountain goat hopping from peak to peak," Trimmer replied. "That's me. Oh, I'm the goat all right. Sad old Jenkins put it all over me, didn't he?"

  "I'm afraid he did. Where is he?"

  "Ask of the railway folder. He lit out in the night. Say—he did have a convincing way with him—you know it."

  "He surely did."

  "Well, the best of us make mistakes," admitted Mr. Trimmer. "The trouble with me is I'm too enthusiastic. Once I get an idea, I see rosy for miles ahead. As I look back I realize that I actually helped Jenkins prove to me that he was Lord Harrowby. I was so anxious for him to do it— the chance seemed so gorgeous. And if I'd put it over—but there. The automobile business looks mighty good to me now. Watch the papers for details. And when you get back to Broadway, keep a lookout for the hand of Trimmer writing in fire on the sky."

  "I will," promised Minot, laughing. He turned back to the hotel shortly after. His meeting with Trimmer had cheered him mightily. With a hopeful eye worthy of Trimmer himself, he looked toward the future. Twenty-four hours would decide it. If only Allan failed to return!

  The first man Minot saw when he entered the lobby of the De la Pax was Allan Harrowby, his eyes tired with travel, handing over a suit-case to an eager black boy.

  What was the use? Listlessly Minot relinquished his last hope. He followed Harrowby, and touched his arm.

  "Good morning," he said drearily. "You gave us all quite a turn last night. We thought you'd taken the advice you got in the morning, and cleared out for good."

  "Well, hardly," Harrowby replied. "Come up to the room, old man. I'll explain there."

  "Before we go up," replied Minot, "I want you to get Miss Meyrick on the phone and tell her you've returned. Yes—right away. You see— last night I rather misunderstood—I thought you weren't Allan Harrowby after all—and I'm afraid I gave Miss Meyrick a wrong impression."

  "By gad—I should have told her I was going," Harrowby replied. "But I was so rattled, you know—"

  He went into a booth. His brief talk ended, he and Minot entered the elevator. Once in his suite, Harrowby dropped wearily into a chair.

  "Confoun
d your stupid trains. I've been traveling for ages. Now, Minot, I'll tell you what carried me off. Yesterday afternoon I got a message from my brother George saying he was on his way here."

  "Yes?"

  "Seems he's alive and in business in Chicago. The news excited me a bit, old boy. I pictured George rushing in here, and the word spreading that I was not to be the Earl of Raybrook, after all. I'm frightfully fond of Miss Meyrick, and I want that wedding to take place to-morrow. Then, too, there's Jephson. Understand me— Cynthia is not marrying me for my title. I'd stake my life on that. But there's the father and Aunt Mary — and considering the number of times the old gentleman has forbidden the wedding already—"

  "You saw it was up to you, for once." "Exactly. So for my own sake—and Jephson's—I boarded a train for Jacksonville with the idea of meeting George's train there and coming on here with him. I was going to ask George not to make himself known for a couple of days. Then I proposed to tell Cynthia, and Cynthia only, of his existence. If she objected, all very well—but I'm sure she wouldn't. And I'm sure, too, that George would have done what I asked— he always was a bully chap. But—I missed him. These confounded trains—always late. Except when you want them to be. I dare say George is here by this time?"

  "He is," Minot replied. "Came a few hours after you left. And by the way, I arranged a meeting for him with Trimmer and his proposition. The proposition fled into the night. It seems he was the son of an old servant of your father's—Jenkins by name."