The Red Ledger

by Frank L. Packard

  "Never can get a bet when I have anything!" complained the owner of the deuces. "You fellows are misers. Hello, here's the Count! What's the matter, Count? You look sad!"

  A short, slim, dapper little man, immaculately dressed, his hair worn short and pompadour fashion, his small black moustache waxed and pointed, stood in the doorway.

  "What desolation!" The Count shrugged his shoulders, and flung out his hands in a gesture of mock despair. "It is but five o'clock, and the ladies are already gone to their toilettes for the evening. I fall over servants making their preparations everywhere——"

  "That's why we took refuge here," laughed one of the men. "Better sit in till dinner."

  "And," resumed the Count, as though no interruption had taken place, "I come to the gun-room and I find—poker! What desolation!" He crossed the room, and joined Stranway beside the table. "Poker! Always poker! Now, écarté—piquet—I am sure you agree with me, Mr. Stranway, since you are not playing?"

  Stranway laughed. "Well, I don't know, Count. I've nothing against poker, though I confess I like piquet. Écarté I don't care for."

  "Ah!" exclaimed the Count delightedly. "You play piquet! Adorable! We will play, Mr. Stranway."

  The men at the table were chaffing now:

  "Look out for him, Mr. Stranway.... Keep him down to a mill a point.... There's a fresh pack on the mantel over there.... Better change your mind and sit in here....

  "Oh, là, là, what a babel!" protested the Count, stuffing his fingers into his ears. "Here, Mr. Stranway"—he pulled out a table in the corner—"let us get as far away from them as possible."

  And Stranway, laughing outright, took his place opposite the Count.

  Count De Moreau split the new pack, handed half to Stranway, and began to discard up to the sevens.

  "What delight!" said he vivaciously. "And the point, Mr. Stranway—for what shall we play?"

  "Anything you like, Count," responded Stranway easily. "If a dollar"—casually—"interests you—say a dollar a point."

  Stranway's eyes apparently were on the cards in his hand, but the Count's quick start, almost imperceptible and well controlled though it was, did not escape him. There was no hesitation, however, in the Count's reply—it came on the instant:

  "Mais certainement, Mr. Stranway—that is but worthy of the king of games! You will cut? Ah! The deal is yours."

  They played through the first partie—six hands—and during that half-hour's play the Count paid very strict attention to his game. More than once Stranway caught a furtive, puzzled, speculative glance from the other's restless black eyes, and translated it with a grim inward chuckle—the Count was evidently trying to decide whether he was playing with a young spendthrift American millionaire, or an adversary who was leading him on only to open finally with masked batteries and overwhelm him. In the last hand Stranway, however, removed the Count's suspense. A blunder cost Stranway a rubicon. Count De Moreau credited himself with their combined scores, added a hundred—and Stranway was on the wrong side of two hundred and ninety-four dollars.

  After that Stranway lost steadily and heavily—with the most imperturbable good humour. The Count, vivacious again, laughed and chatted gaily. They played three more parties, and were in the midst of another when the dressing bell rang. Presently the poker party broke up and strolled over to Stranway and the Count.

  "Well, how goes it?" inquired Marland, the man of the two deuces.

  Stranway looked up with a laugh.

  "By Jove!" he said. "It's nip and tuck, regular see-saw! This game will settle it."

  Count De Moreau shot him a grateful glance.

  "Well, the dressing bell's gone," advised Marland. "You'd better hurry."

  "Right!" said Stranway pleasantly, and resumed his play.

  One by one the others sauntered out of the gunroom. And then, on the last hand, another blunder resulted in a rubicon against Stranway—he owed Count De Moreau exactly one thousand and sixty-eight dollars.

  The Count spread out his hands deprecatingly.

  "What diable luck you have had!" he exclaimed.

  Stranway smiled, as he produced his pocketbook.

  "Nonsense!" he said. "I'm only lending you this, Count. Just wait until I get my revenge!"

  "Ah! Charming!" cried the Count effusively. "You shall have it, mon cher Stranway!"

  Stranway unostentatiously permitted the other to obtain a rather comprehensive view of the interior of his pocketbook. It was filled with crisp new bills, and none of a lower denomination than a hundred dollars. He handed the Count three bills—two for five hundred, and one for a hundred dollars.

  The Count, with a bow, placed the money in his pocket.

  "My porte-monnaie is in my room, Mr. Stranway," he explained. "I will give you the change upstairs."

  "Be sure you don't forget it," laughed Stranway, replacing his pocketbook. "Thirty-two dollars, Count!" He got up from his seat. "Well, I guess we'd better take Marland's advice and hurry."

  The Count slipped his arm through Stranway's as they left the room—and arm in arm they traversed the intervening rooms and halls, and, laughing and joking, mounted the broad central staircase together.

  As they reached the landing, Stranway, whose attention had been given to a story that the Count was relating with all the address of a born raconteur, mechanically stepped a little to one side to allow passageway, as the faint rustle of a dress caught his ear; but mechanically, too, he lifted his eyes—and the next instant, in spite of himself, he caught his breath.

  Coming toward them along the hall, was the Orchid! She looked full into Stranway's face without a trace of recognition, favoured the Count with the tiniest of smiles—and passed on. Stranway, to save his soul, could not help it—he stared after her.

  "Ah!" whispered the Count, pressing Stranway's arm playfully. "Divine, eh, my boy? She is coiffeuse to Miss Blaine. But, oh, là, là, very cold—beware!"

  Chapter XIX.

  The Road Through the Woods

  Table of Contents

  In his room, Stranway peremptorily dismissed the valet, who, having laid out his clothes, was waiting for him—and sat down on the edge of the bed. The Orchid! The intervals between their meetings were far enough apart, Heaven knew, without being accompanied ever and always by impossible conditions that brushed any initiative on his part in respect of her incontinently aside! And now, for the first time since that night on Charlebois' yacht, he had just seen her again—and exactly the same thing had happened. Yes, and it was strange, too, about that night! He had not been able to find her on the yacht on the way back—and nobody knew where she was! What did it all mean, anyway? Was it the Orchid herself, after all, and in spite of the fact that he had bolstered himself up with the belief on more than one occasion that she was not by any means indifferent to his existence, who saw to it that these meetings left him no loophole to advance his cause?—or was it Charlebois?—or was it both of them in connivance together? And why? She wasn't playing with him. She wasn't the kind of woman who did that sort of thing. He was prepared to stake his life on that. And yet she must know what she had come to mean to him!

  And then, suddenly, Stranway laughed not altogether mirthfully, and, jumping to his feet, began hurriedly to change into his evening clothes. Why should she know, how could she know—she had jolly well seen to it that he had never had a word with her in private! And yet—and yet—once or twice there had been that little tell-tale tinge of colour in her cheeks which had seemed so surely to indicate a different story!

  Stranway wrenched somewhat savagely at his collar. Charlebois had told him he would have "inside assistance" here to-night—why hadn't Charlebois said it would be the Orchid? Well, all right! Let it go at that! Since it was the Orchid who was working here with him, it was absolutely certain that he would see her again before the night was out; it was essential to the plans outlined by Charlebois that he should, and—he smiled now in a sudden grim and determined way—in that case, with that f
act in his possession, he was armed with an opportunity he had never had before. Here was a chance to turn the tables, wasn't it? This time he would have something to do with the mise en scène of the next meeting!

  He was just giving his tie its final twist, when a knock sounded at his door, and the Count, as debonair and correct as the latest fashion plate, entered.

  "I do not intrude?" he smiled. "It is to pay that little balance."

  Stranway's pocketbook lay upon the dresser. He took the money the Count extended, placed it on top of the pile of banknotes inside his pocketbook, closed the pocketbook again, and jocularly slapped the Count on the shoulder with it.

  "What a weight off my mind, Count!" he laughed—and slipped the pocketbook into the inside pocket of his dress coat. "Well, shall we go down?"

  "Just a minute," said the Count; "just a little minute." He pulled at his moustache, hesitated; then, impulsively: "You are a very good fellow, Stranway, a—what you call—good sport. You run a car, eh?"

  "Of course," said Stranway. "Why?"

  "Splendid!" exclaimed the Count. He put both hands on Stranway's shoulders, and pushed him into a chair. "Mon Dieu, my dear boy, then I conscript you!"

  "I'm willing," laughed Stranway again. "What's the game?"

  "Ah!" cried the Count. "Listen! It is a lark, as you say; and Miss Blaine is a good sport, too. After dinner we are to steal away for a little ride in the moonlight, just a little ride, and be back before the outside guests arrive and the dancing begins."

  "Count! Count!" chided Stranway, shaking his head in mock reproof. "So! And where do I come in?"

  The Count laid his forefinger waggishly along the side of his nose.

  "Well, you see," he explained, "I intended to be chauffeur myself, but in the tonneau——"

  "It would be much more conducive to a satisfactory tête-à-tête," completed Stranway, with a grin. "And with a circumspect, trustworthy fellow for a chauffeur nothing is left to be desired. Oh, Count, Count!"

  "Then, you——"

  "Why, of course, I will," cut in Stranway heartily. "I'll see you through, my boy, and here's my hand on it."

  The Count grasped Stranway's hand and shook it effusively.

  "You are, Stranway, you are—a prince!" he cried delightedly. "Right after dinner—I had a car left by the lodge gates, you understand?"

  Stranway got up from his chair.

  "Right you are!" he agreed cheerily. "I'm with you, Count! Depend on me! But we'd better hurry down now, hadn't we, or we'll be late?"

  They crossed the hall and began to descend the stairs. Halfway down Stranway halted suddenly.

  "Count, you are to blame," he complained. "My handkerchief—just a second!"

  He turned, ran lightly up the stairs, entered his room, took out his pocketbook, slipped it into his dress-suit case, locked the case, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and with it in his hand hurried back to the waiting Count.

  "All right," he said. "Sorry to keep you. En avant!"

  The dinner was a very laborious affair—to Stranway. Mr. Blaine's round, somewhat fatuous countenance beamed with a perpetual smile from one end of the table; from the other, through a profusion of hothouse decorations, Mrs. Blaine's beamed with the same smile. Stranway's vis-à-vis was Marjorie Blaine—of course, with the Count beside her. A beautiful girl, Charlebois had called her—and she was, Stranway decided. With her frank blue eyes, her golden hair, a face of perfect oval contour, and with a personality as vivacious and as full of life and fire as the stones of the magnificent diamond necklace that flashed on the white, bare throat, she was a glorious type of young American womanhood.

  In lulls between the heavy battery-play of courses, a Miss Harcourt, seated at Stranway's side, bombarded him with a gatling-like rapid fire of small talk.

  "Wasn't Marjorie just perfectly lovely to-night?... And wasn't the necklace simply divine?... Mr. Blaine had paid ninety thousand dollars for it in Paris—in Paris—just think of the duty on top of that!... Naturally, it was worn only on occasions of state—in honour of the Count to-night, of course.... Everybody was sure it was going to be a match—wasn't it just too delightful for anything?..."

  Finally Mrs. Blaine gave the signal. The ladies rose and left the room—and half an hour later, Stranway subserviently closed the tonneau door of a big touring car, and with exaggerated gravity touched an old slouch outing hat that he had picked up on the way out of the house.

  "Beg pardon, sir; which way, sir?" he inquired.

  Marjorie Blaine's laugh rippled out at him.

  "You're just too absurd, Mr. Stranway, with those goggles, and a dress suit, and that hat—I wish you could see yourself!"

  "Yes'm," said Stranway humbly.

  "Let's take that road we were riding on the day before yesterday," suggested the Count.

  "The old turnpike?" said Marjorie Blaine. "All right—let's! Only we mustn't go far. We're three very naughty children to play truant this way, and we must be back before the people begin to arrive. Straight ahead, Mr. Stranway, and take the first turn to the right about a quarter of a mile down the road—we'll tell you when you get to it."

  "Yes'm," said Stranway, and, touching his hat again, took his seat at the wheel.

  He drove for some distance along the main road, and then, as they called out to him, he took a turning to the right which led in through what appeared to be a heavily-wooded bit of country. And now he slowed a little, for the turnpike, as Marjorie Blaine called it, and which he was now presumably following, required more cautious driving. It was intensely dark, a lonely stretch of road in none too good repair, and it turned and twisted constantly; but it was, apparently, eminently satisfactory to Marjorie Blaine and the Count, for he could hear them laughing and talking behind him.

  But Stranway's attention was soon wholly devoted to the road, for it became worse and worse, until, after they had covered perhaps a mile, he suddenly applied the brakes as, on rounding a turn, a red light showed a few yards ahead.

  "What is it, Mr. Stranway?" called Marjorie Blaine quickly.

  Stranway turned in his seat as the car stopped. "They're repairing the road, I'd say at a guess," he laughed. "Anyway, it most certainly needs——"

  "Get down out of that!" snarled a voice. "And youse two behind, climb out—and do it quick!"

  The red light had vanished. Two dark forms were standing by the side of the car—and Stranway found himself blinking into the ugly little circle of a revolver muzzle.

  "Come on, now! Get a move on!" prodded the voice. "Get down!"

  Stranway obeyed—there was nothing else to do. Marjorie Blaine, after one startled cry, became quiet; and the Count, gesticulating fiercely, and snapping furiously in an excited and utterly unintelligible mixture of French and English at their captors, helped her from the car.

  "Stand in a line, and youse two coves put yer hands up!" was the next order. "Now, Bill, go through 'em!"

  Both men, Stranway saw, wore masks; and now, while one of them stood guard with a levelled revolver, the other deftly went through the Count's pockets. The result apparently was far from being remunerative. The man cursed as he came to Stranway.

  "I never carry anything in my evening clothes, either," explained Stranway politely. "There's really no use in——"

  "Youse keep yer hands up, and yer mouth buttoned!" growled the man.

  He turned Stranway's pockets inside out. There was a match box, a cigarette case, a silver pencil, a handkerchief—nothing else.

  "Hell!" swore the fellow in profound disgust. "For high-toned guys youse're thin picking, youse are! Here's hoping, lady, youse ain't left all yer jewels at home, 'cause there's an ante needed blamed bad in the pot."

  With a cry, Marjorie Blaine started back and drew her cloak close around her. The man pulled it roughly away. The necklace gleamed at her throat.

  "Ha! Sparklers, eh?" croaked the fellow. "Give 'em to me!"

  The Count made a sudden movement toward the girl—but came t
o a halt with equal abruptness as the man with the revolver spoke.

  "Try that, and I'll drop youse!" the man flung out savagely. "And I've a mind to give youse a tap on the head that'll put youse to sleep anyway—see!"

  "My God, Stranway," groaned the Count, "this is——"

  "Close yer face, youse!" commanded the one called Bill. "Now then, Miss, will youse take it off that pretty neck yerself, or d'youse want me—ah, I thought that'd bring youse to time." He pocketed the necklace. "Anything else?" He opened her cloak. "Rings?" He made her hold out her hands for inspection. "Nix, eh? Well, I guess we ain't done so bad. Now then, youse"—coming to Stranway—"youse put yer hands together behind yer back." He took out a piece of cord from his pocket, quickly fastened Stranway's wrists, then tied them to the front wheel of the car. This done, he performed a like office for the Count at the rear wheel. "We ain't taking no chances, gents," he announced. "By the time the lady gets youse untied youse can follow if youse like—all we asks is a fair start. Good-night to youse, gents, and likewise the lady—ta ta!"