CHAPTER XXIV
THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS
If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone with him to theRue Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. Colville arrived in a hiredcarriage, of which the blinds were partially lowered.
The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard of thehouse of which Turner's office occupied the first floor. Carriagesfrequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashedall day and all night into a circular basin.
Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, who wasleft sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the Hotel Gemosac,when they had been on the verge of a quarrel, a certain restraint hadcharacterised their intercourse. Colville was shy of approaching thesubject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had not laughed awaythe grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a manner that complicitywas practically forced upon an innocent man.
Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during whichtime Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up.There was a sort of recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzledand alarmed his mentor. At times he was gay, as he always had been, andin the midst of his gaiety he would turn away with a gloomy face and goto his own room.
To press the question would be to precipitate a catastrophe. DormerColville decided to go on as if nothing had happened. It is a compromisewith the inconveniences of untruth to which we must all resort at somecrisis or another in life.
"I will not be long," he assured Barebone, with a gay laugh. The prospectof handling one hundred thousand francs in notes was perhapsexhilarating; though the actual possession of great wealth would seem tobe of the contrary tendency. There is a profound melancholy peculiar tothe face of the millionaire. "I shall not be long; for he is a man of hisword, and the money will be ready."
John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertlyinto Colville's warm grasp.
"I always wish I saw more of you," said the new-comer.
"Is there not enough of me already?" inquired the banker, pointing to thevacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double window. Asmaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And itwas at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with apause indicative of reluctance.
Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, inthe slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, that LooBarebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville wasanxious to return to him as soon as possible.
"It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure," pursued Turner, rousinghimself to be pleasant and conversational. "But, although the loss ismine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. You always know whereto find me when you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereasone never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself."
"A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing," answered Colville,with his wan and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in the chair in anattitude antipathetic to digression from the subject in hand.
"I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and therein France. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man inParis at the present moment of the--" he paused and suppressed a yawn,"the--er--vintage. Anything in it--eh?"
"So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be glad totell you all about it another time. This morning--"
"Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But Imust make out some sort of receipt, you know."
Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a letter, from whichhe tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from time to timeat the window, watched him impatiently.
"Seems to me," said Turner, opening his inkstand, "that the vintage of1850 will not be drunk by a Republic."
"Ah! indeed."
"What do you think?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the quality ofthe vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a receipt onbehalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it," answered Colville,fingering the blotting-paper.
"Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum of onehundred thousand francs," muttered the banker, as he wrote.
"She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville," he went on,holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, "or I would not part withthe money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. PierreLawrence realises this sum."
"If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow--" began Colville,carelessly.
"Yes, I know--reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?"
Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward thewindow sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was nota double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle,continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard.
Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to passbehind Turner's chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed hischair back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the windowbeing completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurriedround the writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and,without appearing to notice that his companion was literally at hisheels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. Thedoor of it folded back over the little window, completely hiding it.
Turning on his heel, with an agility which was quite startling in one sostout, he found Colville's colourless face two feet from his own. Infact, Colville almost stumbled against him. For a moment they looked eachother in the eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner held thecupboard-door over the window.
"I have the money here," he said, "in this cupboard." And as he spoke, ahollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, marked the exit of a carriageunder the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had been only onecarriage in attendance in the court-yard--that in which Colville had leftBarebone.
"Here, in this cupboard," repeated Turner to unheeding ears. For DormerColville was already hurrying across the room toward the other windowthat looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, with ahigh entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was notpossible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes.
Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watchColville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash.
"Anything the matter?" inquired the banker, placidly. "Lost a dog?"
But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning out.The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It wasmanifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late.After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of theroom and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table.
He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, toface his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic,ablaze for once with rage.
"Damn you!" he cried. "Damn you!"
And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office.
Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in themiddle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerableemphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows raised high on his roundforehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card.
* * * * *
Colville had left Leo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frame ofmind far from satisfactory. A seafaring life, more than any other,teaches a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailor needsto execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that whichknowledge tells him to be the imminent necessity of the moment. At sea,life is so far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: theright and the wrong. In the devious paths of a pavement-ridden man thereare a hundred byways: there is the long, long lane of many turni
ngscalled Compromise.
Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac, inthe Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. Captain Clubbehad taught him the two ways of seamanship effectively enough. But theeducation fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover,Barebone had in his veins blood of a race which had fallen to low estatethrough Compromise and Delay.
Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the right way gapingbefore their feet with a hundred pitfalls and barriers, apparentlyinsurmountable, and have resolutely taken that road. For the devious pathof Compromise has this merit--that the obstacles are round the corner.
Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of hiscarriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, where thehum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguile along wait. After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed to theseat--but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and hat, buta different face looked out from the sheep-skin collar turned up to theears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling change.Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never glanced atthe cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering at thecorner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his companion hademerged from the high doorway of the Hotel Gemosac.
Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in thecarriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was acold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle of thedoor was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier,promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his hand that openedthe door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open.
Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly into thecarriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly andnoiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other opposite tohim, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed theactions over and over again, so that there was no hitch or noise orbungling. The whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriagemoved away the instant the doors were closed.
In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone,each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage.
"Quietly, _mon bon monsieur_; quietly, and you will come to no harm."
Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed.
"You have come too soon," he said, without attempting to free his arms,which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. "You havecome too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so muchas a sou."
"It is not for money that we have come," replied the man who had firstspoken--and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously thesilence of a subordinate.
"Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one mightmake a mistake, and allow of escape--who knows?"
The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had solately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of thatfacile people.
"Oh! I offer nothing," replied Barebone. "For a good reason. I havenothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?"
The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over thecobble-stones, and the inmates, though their faces were close together,had to shout in order to be heard.
"Of the police," was the reply. "Of the high police. I fancy thatmonsieur's affair is political?"
"Why should you fancy that?"
"Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The criminalreceives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of that.And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly.There!--one may well release the arms--since we understand each other."
"I shall not try to escape--if that is what you mean," replied Barebone,with a laugh.
"Nothing else--nothing else," his affable captor assured him.
And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy streets the threemen sat upright in the dim and musty cab in silence.