A Fatal Dose. Fred M. White
of buildings known as Courtville Square. Here he paused and looked about him curiously. The grounds were all fresh to him; the huge series of flats had not existed when he went away. He could see the blinds pulled up somewhere on the second floor, revealing a glimpse of a luxuriously-furnished room within, brilliantly lighted with soft shaded electrics. Jasper Cleave had seen nothing like this at close quarters for the last three years, and the sight fascinated him. It was just possible that some old-time friend lived there, some man whose hospitality he had shared before his fall. He was still gazing at the fairy scene when he turned to see a neatly-dressed man-servant standing by his side. With a bitter smile he noticed that the man actually lifted a subservient hat to him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the servitor said, “but am I not speaking to Mr. Jasper Cleave?”
Cleave laughed aloud. The irony of the situation appealed to his cynical humour; he had almost forgotten what it was like to be addressed in this fashion; he felt himself in every way inferior to the man who addressed him. He was disposed for the moment to deny his own identity. There might be some subtle scheme behind all this. On the other hand, it was just possible that the man had recognised him. Also, whatever scheme was afoot, Jasper Cleave could not possibly be worse off than he was at that moment.
“Well,” he said guardedly, “we will suppose that my name is Cleave. What have you to say to that? What business can it be of yours?”
The man-servant lost not a whit of his subservient manner; he might have been speaking to his own master.
“I have been tracking you all day, sir,” he said. “My employer would like to see you. There is only one stipulation—that you ask no questions and do exactly as you are told. Believe me, sir, it will be to your advantage to fall in with my suggestion.”
Cleave grinned evilly as he noted his own sorry rags. Any change from the present situation must be to his advantage.
“Where does your employer live?” he asked.
The servant pointed to the brilliantly lit-up room opposite.
“That is the dining-room, sir,” he said. “If you are not disposed to fall in with the suggestion—”
“Lead on,” Cleave said hoarsely. “Lead on, my good fellow; I am not in a position to decline anything that looks like giving me a respectable meal, to be followed, if the gods are good, by a cigar and a cup of coffee.”
The man-servant led the way across the flagged hall and up the steps into the most perfectly appointed suite of rooms that the adventurer had seen for many a long day. He felt a little uplifted by the sight of so much good taste and luxury. It reminded him of the time that had gone for ever. All the same, he did not fail to detect a certain note of femininity in the arrangements of the flat. It could not be possible that some lady had suddenly fallen in love with him. Cleave thought grimly, though certainly the whole thing had a distinct suggestion of the “Arabian Nights ” about it. The silent manservant might have passed for a slave of the ring, quite up-to-date. Cleave could see the man regarding his tattered wardrobe more or less critically in the strong light.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like to make some little change in your dress before supper. If you will come into the bedroom with me I shall act as valet to you—”
“Certainly,” Cleave said grimly. “I shall find my kit bag and dressing-case ready laid out for me. As I have just come off a long voyage, my somewhat dilapidated appearance may be pardoned. Now what am I to call you? Robert? Well, Robert, if you will be so good as to shave me, and put the diamond studs in my dress shirt, I think I shall be able to manage the rest.”
Robert neither bowed nor smiled; he seemed to take the whole thing for granted.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “You will find everything ready if you come this way. Perhaps you would like a bath.”
Too utterly dazed now to make any further comment, Cleave followed the soft-footed servant into a bedroom at the end of a corridor. It was obviously a man’s room somewhat plainly furnished, but lacking nothing that any man of fashion could desire. Here were silver-mounted toilet requisites on the dressing-table, brushes, combs, a case of razors, everything necessary. As Robert turned up the lights. Cleave could see a bathroom leading out of the apartment beyond. As he turned his cynical eyes around the room, he could see a black mass on the bed, which resolved itself presently into a dress suit. Here were also ties, socks, silk underclothing, nothing lacking in the way of wardrobe. To Cleave’s amazement he saw that everything here was marked with his own initials.
“I shall wake up presently,” he muttered, “and find myself on a seat in Hyde Park. This is nothing else but delirium, and yet circumstances over which I have no control have deprived me of intoxicants for the last few weeks. Robert, you are a veritable magician. I deliver myself absolutely into your hands.”
The whole thing was done at length, and Cleave stood before the long looking-glass trying to identify his own features. The scraggy beard was gone; the change from rags to purple and fine linen had made a wonderful difference to the man. He held his head higher and felt on more equal terms with the world. The touch of the soft silken underclothing gave him a certain sense of power. Robert stood at his elbow holding out a gold-mounted cigarette case; he struck a match subserviently.
“Oh, yes,” Cleave said, “I will not disguise to you, my good Robert, that I have not smoked a cigarette of this quality for the past three years. This is excellent. It brings back recollections of my gilded past. Now let us proceed with the adventure. What is the next stage of the programme?”
“Supper, sir,” Robert said practically. “Will you be good enough to follow me to the dining-room? My employer will be here presently and then my task is finished. If there is anything you require, perhaps you will be good enough to ring the bell, sir. I shall not be far off.”
Feeling as if all the world were at his feet, Cleave strolled into the dining-room. A day or two before he had been glad enough to eat the most indifferent food. Now his critical eye noted with approval the daintily-arranged supper table. Everything was cold, as if the owner of the flat had intended that the meal should be partaken of without the presence of servants. There were gold-foiled bottles on the sideboard, and a tempting array of ruby-filled decanters on the flower-decked table. Without hesitation. Cleave poured himself out a large glass of claret and drank it with gusto. The generous wine glowed in his veins.
“Chateau Lafitte,” he said. “Oh, how the taste brings back memories of the dear dead past! I wonder what it all means. I wonder who the philanthropist is who has arranged this delightful little comedy for my delectation? But possess your soul in patience, Jasper, you will know before very long.”
The words were hardly uttered before the door opened and a tall, dark woman swept into the room. There was a pleased smile of welcome on her face, and she extended both hands in the heartiest possible fashion to her visitor.
“This is an unexpected meeting, Jasper,” she said.
“Eleanor Marsh,” Cleave cried. “Eleanor Marsh, as I am alive. Sit down at once and tell me what all this means.”
VI. — THE COMPACT
THE woman crossed the room and pulled down the blinds. Then she returned to the supper table, having first satisfied herself that the door was closed. Cleave watched her in a hazy kind of way, as if he still doubted the evidence of his senses. He had been practically without food all day and was utterly worn out and exhausted. Moreover, the fumes of the generous wine were still clouding his brain. He had to pinch himself to be sure that the whole thing was not a figment of imagination. He would not have been surprised if the glorious dark vision in the amber dress had taken wings and flown. But there she sat on the other side of the little round table, her dark liquid eyes smiling into his.
“You must not talk yet,” she said. “Let me do the talking.