so round, so firm — and her throat—”
Van Ingen disengaged himself roughly. “We will not discuss Miss Grayson,” he said a little hoarsely. “We will, if you please, keep strictly to business.”
The count regarded him with an air of aggrieved reproach.
“You use words like bricks, my friend,” he said gently. “You assault the intelligence. Ver’ good. I retort in kind.” His accent became slightly more pronounced. “You say: keep strictly to business. I say: mademoiselle is the subject of my business. She have told me that she and you are childhood mates — that you live in — how you say — the same bloc with her in New York — and that she have for you great regard, great affection — like a sister, perhaps. And it was this great regard which leads me to speak to you — to confide my hopes. It is my great wish to make Miss Grayson my wife,” he concluded simply.
“You — you are engaged to her?” The universe seemed suddenly wheeling about Van Ingen’s head, and his heart was beating thickly. It appeared, oddly enough, to be beating up in his head, smiting the drums of his ears like iron hammers, and pounding madly at his temples. He fought for composure, the hated ease of his companion. The count’s words came to him dimly, as from a distance.
“Not yet,” he was saying. “In the future — perhaps. But with you, her almost-brother, one may anticipate—”
Van Ingen interrupted him. “I fear I must correct a slight misapprehension upon your part. I am not Miss Grayson’s ‘almost-brother,’ nor,” he laughed grimly, “have I any desire for that particular relationship. You have given me your confidence. I will be equally frank with you. I, too, admire Miss Grayson.”
“Ah!” He looked at Van Ingen with interest. “So you also are making the running! But, my dear boy, are you not — forgive me! — are you not — ah — young?”
Van Ingen flushed to the roots of his hair with sheer rage. It was the very taunt which Doris had flung in his teeth earlier in the evening. “I am twentyfive,” he replied stiffly.
“So old!” exclaimed the count. “Permit me to say that you do not look it! I,” he continued thoughtfully, “am thirty-five. And Miss Doris is older than both of us.”
“She is exactly twenty-two.”
The count shook his head. “Never believe it, my friend. She is as old as Eve. And as eternally young as Spring!” ‘ He turned to the other with a slight laugh. “You are my rival, then? You will do your best to baffle me, to thwart this great desire?”
“That is understood!” Van Ingen retorted. In spite of himself he was coming to admire the man’s coolness and apparent simplicity of nature.
“Excellent! Well, then, it would appear that we are enemies. I have been counted an indifferently good enemy,” he remarked. He held out his hand. “Goodnight! Let us part friends, though we meet as sworn foes in the morning.”
Van Ingen appeared not to perceive the outstretched hand. “Goodnight,” he said coldly.
He lifted his hat and turned away.
The count looked after him thoughtfully.
“Odd!” he muttered. “But I fancy that youngster. He is like her.” With a few swift steps he overtook his late companion.
“Mr. Van Ingen, forgive my insistence. Believe me, it surprises you no more than it does me.
Let me venture to give you a word of advice.”
Van Ingen interrupted him fiercely. “Let me give you a word first,” he exclaimed. “The plain advice of a very plain American. Briefly, mind your own business and permit me to attend to mine.”
The count looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. “So be it, my friend,” he murmured, turning away.
“It was but a momentary weakness.” He drew out his notebook, which afterwards became so famous, and wrote: “To spare is to become a coward.”
4. Which Relates to a Newspaper Suicide
The next morning, at the stroke of ten, Van Ingen, faultlessly clad, sprang from his hansom in front of the American Embassy and tossed the astonished jarvey a sovereign.
“Because it’s a fine morning,” explained Van Ingen gaily, “and also because something nice is going to happen to-day.”
He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh April air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. He caught the scent of lilacs from an adjoining florist shop. Overhead, the sky was faintly blue. He was feeling fit, very fit indeed — he made passes with his cane at an imaginary foe — and he was to lunch with Doris and her father at the Savoy. That was the “something nice” — with perhaps a stroll later along the Embankment with Doris alone.
He turned and took the stairs three at a time, whistling softly to himself.
“Chief in yet?” he enquired of Jamieson, the secretary, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.
“No, he’s not down yet. You’ve broken your record.”
Cord grinned. “I’ve got to get away early.” Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his mail. Half-an-hour later, he leaned back languidly and unfolded his Times, which in his haste he had thrust unread into his pocket.
“Beastly bore, this keeping up with the times,” he grumbled in an aggrieved tone. “Why does the chief make us wade through all this stuff? Make us diplomats, forsooth!”
He yawned and glanced down at the flaring headlines on the front page. With a little horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was suddenly pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
Jamieson swung about in his swivel chair.
“What’s up?” he enquired alertly.
“Grayson!” he muttered huskily. “Gerald Grayson has committed suicide!”
“Yes, so I read,” remarked Jamieson cheerfully.
“Supposed to be a fabulously rich old johnny, wasn’t he, and turned out to be a bankrupt. Friend of yours?” he asked curiously.
Van Ingen lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. “I — I was with him at the opera last night,” he said. Jamieson whistled softly.
“He was slightly indisposed and left early,” continued Van Ingen, “and I thought no more about it.”
He rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. “I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris—” He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.
Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. “Why don’t you
