He answered the ring himself, as Mrs. Humphrey was out for the afternoon, and opened the door upon a shabby, wrinkled man with a beery, cunning smile. His manner suggested that he had been there before.
"Is Mr. Morton at home?" the man asked.
"No," David answered shortly, not caring to vouchsafe the information that Morton was in his grave these two days. "But I represent him."
"Then I guess I'll wait."
"He'll not be back."
The man hesitated, then a dirty hand drew an envelope from a torn pocket. "I was to give it only to him, but I guess it'll be all right to leave it with you."
David closed the door, ripped open the envelope, glanced at the note, turned abruptly and re-entered Morton's study, and read the lines again:
"You paid no attention to the warning I sent you last Friday. This is the last time I write. I must get the money to-day, or – you know!
He was clutched with a vague fear. Who was L. D.? And how could money be thus demanded of Morton? His mind was racing away into wild guesses, when he observed there was no street and number on the note. In the same instant it flashed upon him that the note must be investigated, and that the address of its writer was walking away in the person of the old messenger.
He caught his hat, rushed down the stairs, and came upon the old man just outside the club-house entrance.
"I want to see the writer of that note," he said. "Give me the address."
"Do better'n that. I'll go with you. I'm the janitor there."
David was too agitated to refuse the offer. They walked in silence for several paces, then the old man jerked his head toward the club-house and knowingly winked a watery eye.
"Lucky they don't know where you're goin'," he said. "But I'm safe. Safe as a clam!" He reassured David with his beery smile.
The vague dread increased. "What do you mean?"
"Innocent front! Oh, you're a wise one, I see. But you can trust me. I'm safe."
David was silent for several paces. "Who is this man L. D.?"
"This man?" He cackled. "This man! Oh, you'll do!"
David looked away in disgust; the old satyr made him think of the garbage of dissipation. All during their fifteen-minute car ride his indefinite fear changed from one dreadful shape to another. After a short walk the old man led the way into a small apartment house, and up the stairs.
He paused before a door. "Here's your 'man,'" he said, nudging David and giving his dry, throaty little laugh.
"Thanks," said David.
But the guide did not leave. "Ain't you got a dime that's makin' trouble for the rent o' your coin?"
David handed him ten cents. "Safe as a clam," he whispered, and went down the stairs with a cackle about "the man."
David hesitated awhile, with high-beating heart, then knocked at the door. It was opened by a coloured maid.
"Who lives here?" he asked.
"Miss Lillian Drew."
David stepped inside. "Please tell her I'd like to see her. I'm from Mr. Morton."
The maid directed him toward the parlour and went to summon her mistress. At the parlour door David was met with the heavy perfume of violets. The room was showily furnished with gilt, upholstery, vivid hangings, painted bric-a-brac – all with a stiff shop-newness that suggested recently acquired funds. An ash-tray on the gilded centre-table held several cigarette stubs. On the lid of the upright piano was the last song that had pleased Broadway, and on the piano's top stood a large photograph of a man with a shrewd, well-fed face, his derby hat pushed back, his hands in his trousers pockets, a jewelled saddle in his necktie. Across this picture of portly jauntiness was scrawled, "To lovely Lil, from Jack."
David had no more than seated himself upon a surface of blue chrysanthemums and taken in these impressions, when the portieres parted and between them appeared a tall, slender woman in a trained house-gown of pink silk, with pearls in her ears and a handful of rings on her fingers. She looked thirty-five, and had a bold, striking beauty, though it was perhaps a trifle over-accentuated by the pots and pencils of her dressing-table. Possibly her nature had its kindly strain – doubtless she could smile alluringly; but just now her dark eyes gazed at David in hard, challenging suspicion.
David rose. "Is this Miss Drew?"
"You are from Phil Morton?" she asked.
He shivered at the implied familiarity with Morton. "I am."
She crossed to a chair and, as she seated herself, spread her train fan-wise to its full display. Her near presence seemed to uncork new bottles of violet perfume.
"Why didn't he come himself?" she demanded, her quick, brilliant eyes directly upon David.
It was as her note had indicated – she didn't read the papers. Obeying an unformed policy, David refrained from acquainting her with the truth.
"He's not at home. I've come because his affairs are left with me."
Her eyes gleamed. "So he's run away from home!" She sneered, but the sneer could not wholly hide her disappointment. "That won't save him!" She paused an instant. "Well – what're you here for?"
"I told you I represent him."
"You're his lawyer?"
"I'm his friend."
"Well, I'm listening. Go on."
The fear had taken on an almost definite shape. David shrunk from what he was beginning to see. But it was his duty to settle the affair, and settle it he could not without knowing its details. "To begin with, I shall have to ask some information from you," he said with an effort. "Mr. Morton left this matter entirely in my hands, but he told me nothing concerning its nature."
She half closed her eyes, and regarded David intently. "You brought the money?" she asked abruptly.
"No."
"Then he's – " She made a grim cipher with her forefinger, and stood up. "If there's no money, good afternoon!"
David did not rise. He guessed her dismissal to be a bit of play-acting. "Whatever comes to you must come through me," he said, "and you of course realise that nothing can come from me till I understand the situation."
"He understands it. That's enough."
"Oh, very well then. I see you want nothing." David determined to try play-acting himself. He rose. "Let it be good-afternoon."
She stopped him at the portieres, as he had expected. "It's mighty queer, when Morton's been trying hard to keep this thing between himself and me, for him to send a third person here."
"I can't help that," he returned with a show of indifference.
"But how do I know you really represent him?"
"You must take my word for it. Or you can telephone St. Christopher's and ask if David Aldrich is not in charge of his affairs."
She
