CHAPTER XVIII
THE LONELY CHORUS GIRL
They stood together upon the platform watching the receding train.The girl's eyes were filled with tears, but Laverick was consciousof a sense of immense relief. Morrison had been at the stationsome time before the train was due to leave, and, although aphysical wreck, he seemed only too anxious to depart. He had allthe appearance of a broken-spirited man. He looked about him onthe platform, and even from the carriage, in the furtive way of acriminal expecting apprehension at any moment. The whistle of thetrain had been a relief as great to him as to Laverick.
"We'll write you to New York, care of Barclays," Laverick called out."Good luck, Morrison! Pull yourself together and make a freshstart."
Morrison's only reply was a somewhat feeble nod. Laverick had notattempted to shake hands. He felt himself at the last moment,stirred almost to anger by the perfunctory farewell which was allthis man had offered to the girl he had treated so inconsiderately.His thoughts were engrossed upon himself and his own danger. Hewould not even have kissed her if she had not drawn his face downto hers and whispered a reassuring little message. Laverick turnedaway. For some reason or other he felt himself shuddering.Conversation during those last few moments had been increasinglydifficult. The train was off at last, however, and they were alone.
The girl drew a long breath, which might very well have been one ofrelief. They turned silently toward the exit.
"Are you going back home?" Laverick asked.
"Yes," she answered listlessly. "There is nothing else to do."
"Isn't it rather sad for you there by yourself?"
She nodded.
"It is the first time," she said. "Another girl and her motherhave lived with me always. They started off last week, touring.They are paying a little toward the house or I should have to gointo rooms. As it is, I think that it would be more comfortable."
Laverick looked at her wonderingly.
"You seem such a child," he said, "to be left all alone in theworld like this."
"But I am not a child actually, you see," she answered, with aneffort at lightness. "Somehow, though, I do miss Arthur's going.His father was always very good to me, and made him promise thathe would do what he could. I didn't see much of him, but one feltalways that there was somebody. It's different now. It makesone feel very lonely."
"I, too," Laverick said, with commendable mendacity, "am rather alonely person. You must let me see something of you now and then."
She looked up at him quickly. Her gaze was altogether disingenuous,but her eyes--those wonderful eyes--spoke volumes.
"If you really mean it," she said, "I should be so glad."
"Supposing we start to-day," he suggested, smiling. "I cannot askyou to lunch, as I have a busy day before me, but we might havedinner together quite early. Then I would take you to the theatreand meet you afterwards, if you liked."
"If I liked!" she whispered. "Oh, how good you are."
"I am not at all sure about that. Now I'll put you in this taxiand send you home."
She laughed.
"You mustn't do anything so extravagant. I can get a 'bus justoutside. I never have taxicabs."
"Just this morning," he insisted, "and I think he won't trouble youfor his fare. You must let me, please. Remember that there's alarge account open still between your half-brother and me, so youneedn't mind these trifles. Till this evening, then. Shall Ifetch you or will you come to me?"
"Let me fetch you, if I may," she said. "It isn't nice for you tocome down to where I live. It's such a horrid part."
"Just as you like," he answered. "I'd be very glad to fetch youif you prefer it, but it would give me more time if you came. Shallwe say seven o'clock? I've written the address down on this cardso that you can make no mistake."
She laughed gayly.
"You know, all the time," she said, "I feel that you are treatingme as though I were a baby. I'll be there punctually, and I don'tthink I need tie the card around my neck."
The cab glided off. Laverick caught a glimpse of a wan little facewith a faint smile quivering at the corner of her lips as sheleaned out for a moment to say good-bye. Then he went back to hisrooms, breakfasted, and made his way to his office.
The morning papers had nothing new to report concerning the murderin Crooked Friars' Alley. Evidently what information the policehad obtained they were keeping for the inquest. Laverick, from themoment when he entered the office, had little or no time to thinkof the tragedy under whose shadow he had come. The long-predictedboom had arrived at last. Without lunch, he and all his clerksworked until after six o'clock. Even then Laverick found it hardto leave. During the day, a dozen people or so had been in to askfor Morrison. To all of them he had given the same reply,--Morrisonhad gone abroad on private business for the firm. Very few weredeceived by Laverick's dry statement. He was quite aware that hewas looked upon either as one of the luckiest men on earth, or asa financier of consummate skill. The failure of Laverick & Morrisonhad been looked upon as a certainty. How they had tided over thattwenty-four hours had been known to no one--to no one but Laverickhimself and the manager of his bank.
Just before four o'clock, the telephone rang at his elbow.
"Mr. Fenwick from the bank, sir, is wishing to speak to you for amoment," his head-clerk announced.
Laverick took up the telephone.
"Yes," he said, "I am Laverick. Good afternoon, Mr. Fenwick!Absolutely impossible to spare any time to-day. What is it? Theaccount is all right, isn't it?"
"Quite right, Mr. Laverick," was the answer. "At the same time,if you could spare me a moment I should be glad to see youconcerning the deposit you made yesterday."
"I will come in to-morrow," Laverick promised. "This afternoon itis quite out of the question. I have a crowd of people waiting tosee me, and several important engagements for which I am latealready."
The banker seemed scarcely satisfied.
"I may rely upon seeing you to-morrow?" he pressed.
"To-morrow," Laverick repeated, ringing off.
For a time this last message troubled him. As soon as the day'swork was over, however, and he stepped into his cab, he dismissedit entirely from his thoughts. It was curious how, notwithstandingthis new seriousness which had come into his life, notwithstandingthat sensation of walking all the time on the brink of a precipice,he set his face homeward and looked forward to his evening, with apleasure which he had not felt for many months. The whirl of theday faded easily from his mind. He lived no more in an atmosphereof wild excitement, of changing prices, of feverish anxiety. Howempty his life must have unconsciously grown that he could find somuch pleasure in being kind to a pretty child! It was hard to thinkof her otherwise--impossible. A strange heritage, this, to havebeen left him by such a person as Arthur Morrison. How in the world,he wondered, did he happen to have such a connection.
She was a little shy when she arrived. Laverick had left specialorders downstairs, and she was brought up into his sitting-roomimmediately. She was very quietly dressed except for her hat,which was large and wavy. He found it becoming, but he knew enoughto understand that her clothes were very simple and very inexpensive,and he was conscious of being curiously glad of the fact.
"I am afraid," she said timidly, with a glance at his evening attire,"that we must go somewhere very quiet. You see, I have only oneevening gown and I couldn't wear that. There wouldn't be time tochange afterwards. Besides, one's clothes do get so knocked aboutin the dressing-rooms."
"There are heaps of places we can go to," he assured her pleasantly."Of course you can't, dress for the evening when you have to go onto work, but you must remember that there are a good many othersmart young ladies in the same position. I had to change because Ihave taken a stall to see your performance. Tell me, how are youfeeling now?"
"Rather lonely," she admitted, making a pathetic little grimace."That is to say I have been feeling lonely," she a
dded softly. "Idon't now, of course.
"You are a queer little person," he said kindly, as they went downin the lift. "Haven't you any friends?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"What sort of friends could I have?" she asked. "The girls in thechorus with me are very nice, some of them, but they know so manypeople whom I don't, and they are always out to supper, or somethingof the sort."
"And you?"
She shook her head.
"I went to one supper-party with the girl who is near me," she said."I liked it very much, but they didn't ask me again."
"I wonder why?" he remarked.
"Oh, I don't know!" she went on drearily. "You see, I think themen who take out girls who are in the chorus, generally expect tobe allowed to make love to them. At any rate, they behaved likethat. Such a horrid man tried to say nice things to me and I didn'tlike it a bit. So they left me alone afterwards. The girl I livedwith and her mother are quite nice, and they have a few friends wego to see sometimes on Sunday or holidays. It's dull, though, verydull, especially now they're away."
"What on earth made you think of going on the stage at all?" heasked.
"What could one do?" she answered. "My mother's money died withher--she had only an annuity--and my stepfather, who had promisedto look after me, lost all his money and died quite suddenly. Arthurwas in a stockbroker's office and he couldn't save anything. My onlyfriend was my old music-master, and he had given up teaching and wasdirector of the orchestra at the Universal. All he could do for mewas to get me a place in the chorus. I have been there ever since.They keep on promising me a little part but I never get it. It'salways like that in theatres. You have to be a favorite of themanager's, for some reason or other, or you never get your chanceunless you are unusually lucky."
"I don't know much about theatres," he admitted. "I am afraid I amrather a stupid person. When I can get away from work I go intothe country and play cricket or golf, or anything that's going.When I am up in town, I am generally content with looking up a fewfriends, or playing bridge at the club. I never have been atheatre-goer.
"I wonder," she asked, as they seated themselves at a small roundtable in the restaurant which he had chosen,--"I wonder why everynow and then you look so serious."
"I didn't know that I did," he answered. "We've had thunderinghard times lately in business, though. I suppose that makes a manlook thoughtful."
"Poor Mr. Laverick," she murmured softly. "Are things any betternow?"
"Much better."
"Then you have nothing really to bother you?" she persisted.
"I suppose we all have something," he replied, suddenly grave."Why do you ask that?"
She leaned across the table. In the shaded light, her oval facewith its little halo of deep brown hair seemed to him as thoughit might have belonged to some old miniature. She was delightful,like Watteau-work upon a piece of priceless porcelain--delightfulwhen the lights played in her eyes and the smile quivered at thecorner of her lips. Just now, however, she became very much inearnest.
"I will tell you why I ask that question," she said. "I cannothelp worrying still about Arthur. You know you admitted lastnight that he had done something. You saw how terribly frightenedhe was this morning, and how he kept on looking around as thoughhe were afraid that he would see somebody whom he wished to avoid.Oh! I don't want to worry you," she went on, "but I feel soterrified sometimes. I feel that he must have done something--bad.It was not an ordinary business trouble which took the life out ofhim so completely."
"It was not," Laverick admitted at once. "He has done something, Ibelieve, quite foolish; but the matter is in my hands to arrange,and I think you can assure yourself that nothing will come of it."
"Did you tell him so this morning?" she asked eagerly.
"I did not," he answered. "I told him nothing. For many reasonsit was better to keep him ignorant. He and I might not have seenthings the same way, and I am sure that what I am doing is for thebest. If I were you, Miss Leneveu, I think I wouldn't worry anymore. Soon you will hear from your brother that he is safe inNew York, and I think I can promise you that the trouble willnever come to anything serious."
"Why have you been so kind to him?" she asked timidly. "From whathe said, I do not think that he was very useful to you, and, indeed,you and he are so different."
Laverick was silent for a moment.
"To be honest," he said, "I think that I should not have taken somuch trouble for his sake alone. You see," he continued, smiling,"you are rather a delightful young person, and you were veryanxious, weren't you?"
Her hand came across the table--an impulsive little gesture,which he nevertheless found perfectly natural and delightful. Hetook it into his, and would have raised the fingers to his lipsbut for the waiters who were hovering around.
"You are so kind," she said, "and I am so fortunate. I think thatI wanted a friend."
"You poor child," he answered, "I should think you did. You arenot drinking your wine."
She shook her head.
"Do you mind?" she asked. "A very little gets into my headbecause I take it so seldom, and the manager is cross if one makesthe least bit of a mistake. Besides, I do not think that I liketo drink wine. If one does not take it at all, there is an excusefor never having anything when the girls ask you."
He nodded sympathetically.
"I believe you are quite right," he said; "in a general way, at anyrate. Well, I will drink by myself to your brother's safe arrivalin New York. Are you ready?"
She glanced at the clock.
"I must be there in a quarter of an hour," she told him.
"I will drive you to the theatre," he said, "and then go round andfetch my ticket."
As he waited for her in the reception hall of the restaurant, hetook an evening paper from the stall. A brief paragraph at onceattracted his attention.
Murder in the City.--We understand that very important information has come into the hands of the police. An ARREST is expected to-night or to-morrow at the latest.
He crushed the paper in his hand and threw it on one side. It wasthe usual sort of thing. There was nothing they could have foundout--nothing, he told himself.