looked at him doubtfully. He had never known that his friend had any literary aspirations, but he did remember him as one who, if he did not choose to tell, would invent airy fairy fancies to deceive.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“You are quite right,” Denby admitted. “You’ve got the key to the mystery. I’ll confess that I have been engaged to guard Mona Lisa. Suspicious looking tourists such as you engage my special attention. Don’t get offended, Monty,” he added, “I’m just wandering through the city on my way to England and that’s the truth, simple as it may seem. I was desolate and your pleasing countenance as you bought a franc’s worth of north wind was good to see. I wondered if you’d remember me.”
“Remember you!” Monty snorted. “Am I the kind to forget a man who saved my life?”
“Who did that?” Denby inquired.
“Why, you did,” he returned, “You pulled me out of the Nashua river at school!”
The other man laughed. “Why, it wasn’t five feet deep there.”
“I can drown anywhere,” Monty returned firmly. “You saved my life and I’ve never had the opportunity to do anything in return.”
“The time will come,” Denby said lightly. “You’ll get a mysterious message sometime and it will be up to you to rescue me from dreadful danger.”
“I’d like to,” the other retorted, “but I’m not sure I’m cut out for that rescue business.”
“Have you ever been – ” Denby hesitated. “Have you ever been in any sort of danger?”
“Yes,” Monty replied promptly, “but you pulled me out.”
“Please don’t go about repeating it,” Denby entreated, “I have enemies enough without being blamed for pulling you out of the Nashua river.”
Monty looked at him in astonishment. Here was the most popular boy in Groton School complaining of enemies. Monty felt a thrill that had something of enjoyment in it. His own upbringing had been so free from any danger and his parents had safeguarded him from so much trouble that he had found life insipid at times. Yet here was a man talking of enemies. It was fascinating.
“Do you mean it?” he demanded.
“Why not?” said Denby, rolling himself a cigarette.
“You hadn’t any at school,” Monty insisted.
“That was a dozen years ago nearly,” Denby insisted. “Since then – ” He paused. “My career wouldn’t interest you, my financial expert, but I am safe in saying I have accumulated a number of persons who do not wish me well.”
“You must certainly meet Alice,” Monty asserted. “She’s like you. She often says I’m the only really uninteresting person she’s fond of.”
Denby assured himself that Alice would not interest him in the slightest degree and made haste to change the subject, but Monty held on to his chosen course.
“We’ll all dine together to-morrow night,” he cried.
“I’m afraid I’m too busy.”
“Too busy to dine with Alice Harrington when you’ve the opportunity?” Monty exclaimed. “Are you a woman-hater?”
A more observant man might have noted the sudden change in expression that the name Harrington produced in Steven Denby. He had previously been bored at the idea of meeting a woman who he concluded would be eager to impart her guide-book knowledge. Alice evidently had meant nothing to him, but Alice Harrington roused a sudden interest.
“Not by any chance Mrs. Michael Harrington?” he queried.
Monty nodded. “The same. She and Michael are two of the best friends I have. He’s a great old sport and she’s hurrying back because he has to stay on and can’t get over this year.” Monty flushed becomingly. “I’m going back with her because Nora is going to stay down in Long Island with them.”
“Introduce me to Nora,” Denby insisted. “She is a new motif in your jocund song. Who is Nora, what is she, that Monty doth commend her?”
“She’s the girl,” Monty explained. He sighed. “If you only knew how pretty she was, you wouldn’t talk about a trap being baited. I don’t think women are the good judges they pretend to be!”
“Why not?” Denby demanded.
“Because Alice says she’d accept me and I don’t believe I stand a ghost of a chance.”
“Women are the only judges,” Denby assured him seriously. “If I were you I’d bank on your friend Alice every time.”
“Then you’ll dine with me to-morrow?” Monty asked.
“Of course. You don’t suppose I am going to lose sight of you, do you?”
And Monty, grateful that this admired old school friend was so ready to join him, forgot the previous excuse about inability to spare the time.
“That’s fine,” he exclaimed. “But what are we going to do to-night?”
“You are going to dine with me,” Denby told him. “I haven’t seen you, let me see,” he reflected, “I haven’t seen you for about ten years and I want to talk over the old days. What do you say to trying some of Marguery’s sole à la Normandie?”
During the course of the dinner Monty talked frankly and freely about his past, present and future. Denby learned that in view of the great wealth which would devolve upon him, his father had determined that he should become grounded in finance. When he had finished, he reflected that while he had opened his soul to his old friend, his old friend had offered no explanation of what in truth brought him to Europe, or why he had for almost a decade dropped out of his old set.
“But what have you been doing?” Monty gathered courage to ask. “I’ve told you all about me and mine, Steve.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Denby responded slowly. “I left Groton because my father died. I’m afraid he wasn’t a shrewd man like your father, Monty. He was one of the last relics of New York’s brown-stone age and he tried to keep the pace when the marble age came in. He couldn’t do it.”
“You were going into the diplomatic service,” Monty reminded him. “You used to specialize in modern languages, I remember. I suppose you had to give that up.”
“I had to try to earn my own living,” Denby explained, “and diplomacy doesn’t pay much at first even if you have the luck to get an appointment.”
Monty looked at him shrewdly. He saw a tall, well set up man who had every appearance of affluence.
“You’ve done pretty well for yourself.”
Denby smiled, “The age demands that a man put up a good appearance. A financier like you ought not to be deceived.”
Monty leaned over the table. “Steve, old man,” he said, a trifle nervously, “I don’t want to butt in on your private affairs, but if you ever want any money you’ll offend me if you don’t let me
