The Yellow Crayon. E. Phillips Oppenheim
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don’t seem much room for doubt concerning that, sir,” Mr. Skinner said; “but I never speculate. I will bring you the facts to-night between eight and eleven. Now as to the business side of it.”
Mr. Sabin was for a moment puzzled.
“What’s the job worth to you?” Mr. Skinner asked. “I am willing to pay,” Mr. Sabin answered, “according to your demands.”
“It’s a simple case,” Mr. Skinner admitted, “but our man at the Waldorf is expensive. If you get all your facts, I guess five hundred dollars will about see you through.”
“I will pay that,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“I will bring you the letters back to-night,” Mr. Skinner said. “I guess I’ll borrow that locket of yours, too.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“That,” he said firmly, “I do not part with.” Mr. Skinner scratched his ear with his penholder. “It’s the only scrap of identifying matter we’ve got,” he remarked. “Of course it’s a dead simple case, and we can probably manage without it. But I guess it’s as well to fix the thing right down.”
“If you will give me a piece of paper,” Mr. Sabin said, “I will make you a sketch of the Duchess. The larger the better. I can give you an idea of the sort of clothes she would probably be wearing.”
Mr. Skinner furnished him with a double sheet of paper, and Mr. Sabin, with set face and unflinching figures, reproduced in a few simple strokes a wonderful likeness of the woman he loved. He pushed it away from him when he had finished without remark. Mr. Skinner was loud in its praises.
“I guess you’re an artist, sir, for sure,” he remarked. “This’ll fix the thing. Shall I come to your hotel?”
“If you please,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I shall be there for the rest of the day.”
Mr. Skinner took up his hat.
“Guess I’ll take my dinner and get right to work,” he remarked. “Say, you come along, Mr. Sabin. I’ll take you where they’ll fix you such a beefsteak as you never tasted in your life.”
“I thank you very much,” Mr. Sabin said, “but I must beg to be excused. I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are successful this afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of dining with me to-night. I will wait until eight-thirty.”
The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing his yellow teeth.
“Darned old fool,” he muttered. “To marry a slap-up handsome woman like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts. Guess I’ll spoil his supper to-night.”
Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was leaning back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his hard, stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did not talk to himself.
CHAPTER IV
R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had ordered dinner for two at eight-thirty in the general dining-room. At a few minutes previous to that hour Mr. Skinner presented himself.
Mr. Skinner was not in the garb usually affected by men of the world who are invited to dine out. The long day’s exertion, too, had had its effect upon his linen. His front, indeed, through a broad gap, confessed to a foundation of blue, and one of his cuffs showed a marked inclination to escape from his wrist over his knuckles. His face was flushed, and he exhaled a strong odour of cigars and cocktails. Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin was very glad to see him, and to receive the folded sheet of paper which he at once produced.
“I have taken the liberty,” Mr. Sabin remarked, on his part, “of adding a trifle to the amount we first spoke of, which I beg you will accept from me as a mark of my gratitude for your promptness.”
“Sure!” Mr. Skinner answered tersely, receiving the little roll of bills without hesitation, and retreating into a quiet corner, where he carefully counted and examined every one. “That’s all right!” he announced at the conclusion of his task. “Come and have one with me now before you read your little billet-doux, eh?”
“I shall not read your report until after dinner,” Mr. Sabin said, “and I think if you are ready that we might as well go in. At the head-waiter’s suggestion I have ordered a cocktail with the oysters, and if we are much later he seemed to fear that it might affect the condition of the—I think it was terrapin, he said.”
Mr. Skinner stopped short. His tone betrayed emotion.
“Did you say terrapin, sir?”
Mr. Sabin nodded. Mr. Skinner at once took his arm.
“Guess we’ll go right in,” he declared. “I hate to have a good meal spoiled.”
They were an old-looking couple. Mr. Sabin quietly but faultlessly attired in the usual evening dinner garb, Mr. Skinner ill-dressed, untidy, unwashed and frowsy. But here at least Mr. Sabin’s incognito had been unavailing, for he had stayed at the hotel several times—as he remembered with an odd little pang—with Lucille, and the head-waiter, with a low bow, ushered them to their table. Mr. Skinner saw the preparations for their repast, the oysters, the cocktails in tall glasses, the magnum of champagne in ice, and chuckled. To take supper with a duke was a novelty to him, but he was not shy. He sat down and tucked his serviette into his waistcoat, raised his glass, and suddenly set it down again.
“The boss!” he exclaimed in amazement.
Mr. Sabin turned his head in the direction which his companion had indicated. Coming hastily across the room towards them, already out of breath as though with much hurrying, was a thick-set, powerful man, with the brutal face and coarse lips of a prizefighter; a beard cropped so short as to seem the growth of a few days only covered his chin, and his moustache, treated in the same way, was not thick enough to conceal a cruel mouth. He was carefully enough dressed, and a great diamond flashed from his tie. There was a red mark round his forehead where his hat had been, and the perspiration was streaming from his forehead. He strode without hesitation to the table where Mr. Sabin and his guest were sitting, and without even a glance at the former turned upon his myrmidon.
“Where’s that report?” he cried roughly. “Where is it?”
Mr. Skinner seemed to have shrunk into a smaller man. He pointed across the table.
“I’ve given it to him,” he said. “What’s wrong, boss?”
The newcomer raised his hand as though to strike Skinner. He gnashed his teeth with the effort to control himself.
“You damned blithering idiot,” he said hoarsely, gripping the side of the table. “Why wasn’t it presented to me first?”
“Guess it didn’t seem worth while,” Skinner answered. “There’s nothing in the darned thing.”
“You ignorant fool, hold your tongue,” was the fierce reply.
The newcomer sank into a chair and wiped the perspiration from his streaming forehead. Mr. Sabin signaled to a waiter.
“You seem upset, Mr. Horser,” he remarked politely. “Allow me to offer you a glass of wine.”
Mr. Horser did not immediately reply, but he accepted the glass which the waiter brought him, and after a moment’s hesitation drained its contents. Then he turned to Mr. Sabin.
“You said nothing about