“Not altogether. I have a sort of unofficial position at the Embassy, perhaps as important as my last one, only not quite so prominent.”
“Still as great a scaremonger as ever? Do you remember those discussions you used to start at the debating society?”
“I remember them all right,” Lavendale assented grimly; “and since you ask me the question, let me tell you this, Jim: I’ve lived, as you know, during the last seven years in the diplomatic atmosphere of Paris, of London and Berlin. I tell you soberly that anything I felt and believed in those days I feel and believe twice as strongly to-day. Just look over your left shoulder, Jimmy. Isn’t that rather a queer-looking couple for a fashionable roof-garden!”
Moreton turned a little lazily around. An elderly man and woman who had just entered were being shown to an adjacent table. The man was apparently of some seventy years of age, his morning clothes were of old-fashioned cut and he wore only a little wisp of black tie. His grey beard was cut in the fashion of a century ago, his thick hair was long and unkempt. His companion, who seemed but a few years younger, wore the simplest of dark travelling clothes, some jet jewellery, a huge cameo brooch fastened a shawl at her throat, and she carried a leather handbag.
“Don’t they look as though they’d come out of the ark!” Lavendale murmured.
Moreton had risen slowly to his feet.
“Queer thing that you should spot them, Ambrose,” he remarked. “This is what you might call something of a coincidence.”
“You don’t mean to say that you know them?” Jim Moreton nodded.
“My Uncle Ned and my Aunt Bessie,” he said. “I must go and speak to them.”
He crossed toward the elderly couple, shook hands with the man, who greeted him cordially enough, and submitted to an embrace from the lady. Lavendale could hear, every now and then, scraps of their conversation. Toward its close, his friend turned and beckoned to him. Lavendale, who had been eagerly awaiting a summons, rose at once and approached the trio.
“Aunt,” Moreton explained, laying his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, “this is Mr. Ambrose Lavendale, a graduate of my year at Harvard. Uncle, Lavendale has just returned from Europe, and he was talking to me about you. He is, like the rest of us, tremendously interested in what all the world is saying about you and your latest discovery.”
Lavendale shook hands with the elderly couple, who greeted him kindly.
“Discovery, eh?” Mr. Moreton observed jocularly.
“That does seem rather an inadequate word,” Lavendale admitted. “I think one of your own newspapers here declared that you had learnt how to bottle up the lightnings, to—”’
“Oh, those fool papers!” Mr. Moreton exclaimed irritably. “Don’t talk to me about them, young fellow.”
“I would much rather talk to you about what they are aiming at,” Lavendale said simply. “Are you going to give any demonstration, sir—I mean, of course, to the scientific world?”
The inventor glanced up at his questioner with a little twinkle in his hard, blue eyes.
“Say, you’ve some nerve, young fellow!” he declared amiably. “However, I am very fond of my nephew here, and if you’re a friend of Jim’s you shall be one of a very select company to-morrow morning. The scientific world can wait, but I am going to set the minds of the newspaper people at rest. I am going to show them what I can do. I was thinking of asking you, anyway, Jim,” he went on, “and you can bring your friend with you. Twelve o’clock sharp. Riverside Drive.”
The two young men were both profuse in their thanks. Mr. Moreton waved them away.
“There will be just three or four newspaper men,” he continued—“I put the names of the principal papers into a bottle and drew lots—the reporters who came down to New Jersey agreed to that—you two, your aunt and a young lady. You can go and finish your dinner now, boys. Your aunt and I, Jim, are going to a movie afterward. We’re going to make a real night of it.”
The two young men shook hands and made their adieux. As soon as they had resumed their places, Lavendale leaned across the table toward his friend with glowing face.
“Jimmy, you’re a brick,” he declared. “We’ll have another bottle on the strength of this. The very night I arrive, too! Whoever heard of such luck! I don’t suppose I should ever have got within a hundred yards of him but for you.”
“He’s a shy old bird,” Moreton admitted. “We certainly were in luck to-night, though.”
“I wonder who the girl is who’s going to be there,” Lavendale remarked idly.
His eyes had suddenly strayed once more over the brilliant yet uneasy panorama of flashing lights, huge buildings, the throbbing and clanging of cars, across the distant line of the river to the blue spaces beyond. The leader of the little orchestra behind was playing a familiar waltz. Suzanne and he had danced it together one night in London. He was for a moment oblivious of the whole gamut of his surroundings. The world closed in upon him. He heard her voice, felt the touch of her fingers, saw a gleam of the tenderness which sometimes flashed out from beneath the suffering of her eyes. His friend glanced at him in wonder. The insistent voice of a waiter brought him back from his reverie.
“French or Turkish coffee, sir?”
Lavendale made a heedless choice and climbed down to the present.
“‘Way back somewhere, weren’t you?” Jim Moreton remarked.
His friend nodded. “I have left behind a great deal that one remembers.”
Moreton’s Dramatic Demonstration
AT a few minutes before twelve on the following morning Lavendale and his friend were conducted by a coloured butler across a very magnificent entrance-hall of black and white marble, strewn with wonderful rugs, through several suites of reception rooms, and out on to a broad stone piazza at the back of Mr. Moreton’s mansion on Riverside Drive. It was here that Lavendale received one of the surprises of his life. Mr. and Mrs. Moreton were seated in low wicker chairs, and between them, a miracle of daintiness in her white-linen costume and plain black hat, was—Suzanne.
Lavendale forgot his manners, forgot the tremendous interest of his visit, forgot everything else in the world. He stood quite still for a moment. Then he strode forward with outstretched hands and a very visible gladness in his face.
“Suzanne!” he exclaimed. “Why, how wonderful!”
She laughed at him gaily as she accepted his greeting.
“You did not know that I was here?” she asked. “But why not? Men and women have travelled many times round the world before now to learn its secrets.”
Lavendale recovered a little of his self-possession. He shook hands with Mrs. Moreton, who was beaming placidly upon them, mutely approving of this unexpected romance. The great inventor turned him round by the shoulder, and indicated four men of varying ages who formed the rest of the little company.
The four men had risen to their feet. One of them, a well-set-up, handsome young fellow, shook hands with Lavendale.
“I was a year before you at Harvard, wasn’t I?” he remarked. “We think that Mr. Moreton is just a little hard upon us. We; represent, to use his own words, the undeniable force, and to do it we have to forget that we are human, and persist. This may be very annoying to Mr. Moreton, but as a rule it is the world that benefits.”
The inventor, who had disappeared for a moment in the interior of the room which led out on to the piazza, suddenly stood upon the threshold. His face seemed to have become graver during the last few moments, and he motioned them impatiently back to their places. Then, with a reel of what seemed to be fine wire in his hand, he made his way to the further end of the broad balcony which completely encircled the house, and carefully stretched a length of the wire from the edge of the building to the stone balustrade. As soon as he had accomplished this, he drew from his pockets what appeared to be a pair of black gloves of some spongy material, and a tiny instrument about the size of a lady’s watch, which none of them could see. He drew on the gloves with great care,
placed the instrument between the palms of his hands, and turned to his nephew.
“Just ring the bell there, will you, Jimmy?” he directed.
The young man obeyed. The little group now were all standing up, their eyes fixed upon that strip of thin wire. Mr. Moreton slowly drew his palms together several times, pausing once to glance at the small instrument which lay concealed between them. Footsteps were heard approaching around the side of the house, and a coloured servant in livery, carrying a tray in his hand, appeared. He had no sooner set his foot upon the wire than he stopped short, gave a wild jump into the air, came down again, jumped again, and slowly, with the salver still in his hand, began to dance.
“Touch the bell,” the inventor ordered, in a voice tense with suppressed emotion.
His nephew obeyed at once and again there were footsteps. Another servant, carrying a chair, came round the corner, paused for a moment as though in amazement on perceiving the antics of his predecessor, stepped on to the wire, leaped into the air, and commenced to perform almost similar gyrations. Mr. Moreton’s breath was coming fast, and he seemed to be the victim of some peculiar emotion. This time he only glanced toward the bell, which his nephew pushed. Again there were footsteps. A third servant, with a box of cigars, appeared, gave a little exclamation at the extraordinary sight before him, stepped forward on to the wire, leaped up till his head almost touched the sloping portico, and commenced throwing the cigars into the air and catching them. Mr. Moreton glanced from the three performers toward his little audience. The expressions on their faces were absolutely indescribable. Meanwhile, the dancing of the three men in livery became more rapid. The man with the salver and glasses began throwing them into the air and catching them again, the servant on the outside was now occupied in balancing a cigar on the tip of his nose, while his neighbour on the right was twirling the wicker chair which he had been carrying on the point of his forefinger. Mr. Moreton stretched out his hand toward the spell-bound, stupefied little company.
“The Hamlin Trio, gentlemen, jugglers and dancers, imported from the Winter Garden at great expense for your entertainment! Good-morning!”
With one bound he was through the window. They heard the bolt slipped into its place. From behind the glass he turned and waved his hand to the newspaper men. Then he disappeared.
“Spoofed, my God!” the journalist who had spoken to Lavendale, exclaimed.
For a single moment they all looked at one another. The trio of entertainers were redoubling now their efforts. There was a roar of laughter.
“The joke’s on us,” one of the other newspaper men admitted candidly, “but what a story! We’d better get along and write it, you fellows,” he added, “before they have it up against us.”
“Is there any chance,” a third man inquired, “of Mr. Moreton talking to us reasonably?”
His wife beamed placidly upon them.
“Not one chance in this life,” she assured them. “If you knew the language poor dear Ned has used about you gentlemen of the Press worrying him down at Lakeside during the last few months, you’d only wonder that he has let you off so lightly.”
“Then, perhaps,” Lavendale’s acquaintance suggested, “we’d better be getting along.”
The Hamlin Trio at the other end of the piazza, suddenly ceased their labours, made a collective bow and disappeared. The newspaper men still lingered, looking longingly at the bolted window. Mrs. Moreton shook her head.
“Just leave him alone for a little time,” she begged. “He has got a down on you newspaper gentlemen, and the way they worried him down at New Jersey has pretty well driven him crazy. Don’t try him any more this morning, if you please,” she persisted. “It’s my belief this little joke he’s played on you kept him out of the hospital.”
The silvery-haired old lady, with her earnest eyes and the little quaver in her tone, triumphed. The little company reluctantly dispersed. Lavendale and Suzanne were on the point of following the others when a head was thrust cautiously out of a window on the second story of the house.
“Has the Press of the United States departed?” Mr. Moreton inquired.
“They’ve all gone, dear,” his wife called out soothingly.
“Then bring the others in to luncheon,” Mr. Moreton invited.
“I’ll bring them in right away,” Mrs. Moreton promised. “Say, that’s a good sign, young people,” she added, turning to them cheerfully. “He has hated the sight of company lately, but I did feel real uncomfortable at sending you away without any offer of hospitality. He has locked this window fast enough,” she added, trying it, “but come right along with me and I’ll show you another way in.”
They followed her along the piazza. Lavendale and Suzanne fell a little way behind. It was their first opportunity.
“How long have you been here?” he asked eagerly. “What did you come for? Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I have been in New York four days,” she told him. “I was on the City of Paris. We passed you near Queenstown. As for the rest, I suppose I am here for the same reason that you are. Monsieur Senn, the great electrician, has been working on the same lines as Moreton for years, and he persuaded me to get a letter from the American Ambassador in Paris and come out here. I do not suppose, though, that it is any use. They say that Mr. Moreton is like you—American inventions for the American people.”
“I’ve wobbled once or twice,” he reminded her.
“Of course, there’s always a chance,” she murmured.
“Say that you are glad to see me?” he begged.
She gave his hand a little squeeze. Then Mrs. Moreton turned round with a motherly smile.
“If you’ll take your cocktail in the smoking-room with Jimmy, Mr. Lavendale,” she said, “I’ll look after Miss de Freyne.”
* * * * *
Luncheon was a meal of unexpected simplicity, served by a couple of trim waiting-maids in a magnificent apartment which overlooked the Hudson. Mr. Moreton was in high good-humour over his latest exploit, and they all indulged in speculations as to the nature of the stories which would appear in the evening editions. Underneath his hilarity, however, Lavendale more than once fancied that he noted signs of an immense tension. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, the great inventor would break off as though he had lost the thread of what he had been saying, and look uneasily, almost supplicatingly around him until some one supplied him with the context of his speech. Towards the end of the meal, after a brief silence, he turned with curious abruptness towards Lavendale.
“Say, you’ve come a long way to see nothing, young man,” he remarked.
“I have had the pleasure of meeting you, sir,” Lavendale replied politely, “and, after all, I never believed the things they were saying in London.”
“What were they saying?” Mr. Moreton demanded brusquely.
“There was a report there when I left,” Lavendale answered, “that you had learnt at last the secret of handling electricity by wireless, handling it, I mean, in destructive fashion.”
“Oh! they said that, did they?” Mr. Moreton observed, smiling to himself.
“To be absolutely exact,” Lavendale went on, “they said that you had professed to discover it. A great scientific man whom I met only a few days before I left England, however—Sir Hubert Bowden—assured me that mine would be a wasted journey because the thing was impossible.”
A suddenly changed man sat in Mr. Moreton’s place. The unhealthy pallor of his skin was disfigured by dark red, almost purple patches. His eyes were like glittering beads. He struck the table fiercely with his hairy fist.
“Bowden is an ass!” he exclaimed
“He is an ignorant numskull, a dabbler, a blind follower in other men’s footsteps. Impossible to me—Moreton?”
“My dear! My dear!” his wife murmured anxiously from the other end of the table.
The inventor turned to one of the servants.
“Telephone to the garage for the car to be here i
n ten minutes,” he ordered. “I have had my little joke,” he went on, as the girl left the room. “This afternoon we’ll get to business.”
His fury seemed to pass away as suddenly as it had come. He ate and drank nervously but with apparent appetite. As soon as the meal was over he. commenced smoking a black cigar, and, excusing himself rather abruptly, left the room.
“Do you suppose,” Lavendale asked his hostess, “that he is really going to give us a demonstration?”
“I don’t know,” she answered uneasily. “I wish I could get him somewhere right away from every one who talks about inventions and electricity. You put his back up, you know, Mr. Lavendale. He was quite all right before you handed him that sort of challenge.”
“I am sorry,” Lavendale murmured mendaciously.
In a few minutes they received an urgent summons. They found Mr. Moreton waiting in a large, open car below. He had quite recovered his temper. His face, indeed, shone with the benign expression of a child on its way to a treat.
“Miss de Freyne and Mr. Lavendale, you can sit by my side,” he ordered. “Jimmy, you get up in front. The man knows where to go.”
They swung round and in a few minutes turned into Central Park. At a spot where the road curved rather abruptly, the car came to a standstill. Mr. Moreton stepped out. From his pocket he drew a small skein of what seemed to be white silk, and a tiny instrument with a dial face and perforated with several holes.
“Hold that,” he directed Lavendale.
The latter obeyed. Mr. Moreton drew the thread of white silk backwards and forwards through one of the apertures in the instrument, the finger on the dial face mounting all the time from zero. When it reached a certain figure he drew it out and, stooping down, stretched it across the path from the hedge to the curbstone. Then he glanced up and down and around the corner. The park was almost deserted, and there were only a few loungers in sight. From the small bag which he had brought with him in the car, Mr. Moreton next produced a square, black box with a handle in the side, and a pair of black india-rubber gloves which he hastily donned. Then, with the box in his hand, he turned the handle which protruded from its side. A queer, buzzing little sound came from the interior, a sound which, low though it was, thrilled Lavendale from its utter and mysterious novelty. It was a sound such as he had never imagined, a sound like the grumblings of belittled and imprisoned thunder. The finger on the dial moved slowly. When it had reached a certain point, Mr. Moreton paused. He clasped the machine tightly in his hands. The mutterings still continued, and from a tiny opening underneath came little flashes of blue fire. The inventor stepped into the car, motioning the others to follow him, and gave an order to the driver. They backed to a spot by the side of the road, about a hundred yards away from where the thread of white silk lay stretched across the pavement. Mr. Moreton gripped the instrument in his rubber-clad hand and leaned back in the car, his eyes fixed upon the corner. His expression had become calmer, almost seraphic.
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