★ 9 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure

A New Friend and an Old One

On the night of the day on which Sir Thomas Blunt his to Wragge’s, Jimmy Pitt was at the Savoy.

If you have the money and the clothes, and do not object to being out into the night just as you are to yourself, there are than supper at the Savoy Hotel, London. But as Jimmy sat there, the through the of his cigarette, he felt, despite all the and glitter, that this was a world and that he was very much alone in it.

A little over a year had passed since the at Police-Captain McEachern’s. During that time he had a good of new ground. His had itself. Somebody had mentioned Morocco in his hearing, and a later he was in Fez.

Of the in that night’s he had nothing more. It was only when walking home on air, over the which had to his and having speech with the lady of the Mauretania—he had Fifty-Ninth Street—that he that he had also her. It came home to him that not only did he not know her address, but was also of her name. Spike had called the man with the “boss” throughout—only that and nothing more. Except that he was a police captain, Jimmy as little about him as he had done their meeting. And Spike, who the key to the mystery, had vanished. His of that night had passed out of his life like in a dream. As as the big man with the pistol was concerned, this did not him. He had only that person for about a of an hour, but to his that was ample. Spike he would have liked to have met again, but he the with fortitude. There the girl of the ship, and she had him with every one of the three hundred and eighty-four days which had passed since their meeting.

It was the of her that had New York cramped. For he had the more likely streets, the Park, and Riverside Drive in the of meeting her. He had gone to the theatres and restaurants, but with no success. Sometimes he had through the Bowery on the of meeting Spike. He had red in profusion, but none that to his in the art of burglary. In the end he had of the search, and, to the of Arthur Mifflin and his other friends of the Strollers’, had gone out again on his wanderings. He was missed, by that large of his circle which was in a of wanting a little to see it through till Saturday. For years Jimmy had been to these a bank on which they at will. It them that one of those natures which are always good for two at any hour of the day should be allowed to waste itself on places like Morocco and Spain—especially Morocco, where, by all accounts, there were with almost a New York of touch.

They with Jimmy. They spoke of Raisuli and Kaid Maclean. But Jimmy was not to be stopped. The was him, and he had to move.

For a year he had wandered, every day the truth of Horace’s for those who travel—that a man cannot his with his climate, until he had himself, as every does, at Charing Cross.

At this point he had to rally. This away, he told himself, was futile. He would still and the in him.

He had been it now for a of two weeks, and already he was retreat. A man at had been talking about Japan——

Watching the crowd, Jimmy had his attention by a party of three a tables away. The party of a girl, pretty; a lady of middle-age and demeanour, her mother; and a light-haired, man in the twenties. It had been the almost of this and the high-pitched, laugh which from him at which had Jimmy’s notice upon them. And it was the of and laugh which now him look again in their direction.

The man Jimmy; and Jimmy, looking at him, see that all was not well. He was pale. He talked at random.

Jimmy his eye. There was a look in it.

Given the time and the place, there were only two which have that look. Either the light-haired man had a ghost, or he had that he had not money to pay the bill.

Jimmy’s out to the sufferer. He took a card from his case, the words, “Can I help?” on it, and gave it to a waiter to take to the man, who was now in a on collapse.

The next moment the light-haired one was at his table, talking in a whisper.

“I say,” he said, “it’s good of you, old chap; it’s awkward. I’ve come out with too little money. I like to——. You’ve me before——”

“Don’t in my misfortunes,” Jimmy. “It wasn’t my fault.”

He a £5 note on the table.

“Say when,” he said, producing another.

“I say, thanks fearfully,” the man said. “I don’t know what I’d have done.” He at the note. “I’ll let you have it to-morrow. Here’s my card. Is your address on your card? I can’t remember. Oh, by Jove, I’ve got it in my hand all the time.” The laugh came into action again, and by its rest. “Savoy Mansions, eh? I’ll come to-morrow. Thanks again, old chap. I don’t know what I should have done.”

“It’s been a treat,” said Jimmy deprecatingly.

The man to his table, the spoil. Jimmy looked at the card he had left. “Lord Dreever,” it read, and in the the name of a well-known club. The name Dreever was familiar to Jimmy. Every one of Dreever Castle, it was one of the houses in England, but for centuries it had been by a particularly ghost-story. Every one had of the of Dreever, which was only to the Earl and the family lawyer, and to the at midnight on his twenty-first birthday. Jimmy had come across the in of the papers all over the States, from New York to Onehorseville, Iowa. He looked with at the light-haired man—the latest of the secret. It was that the heir, after it, again: but it did 56not to have the present Lord Dreever to any great extent. His laugh was the orchestra. Probably, Jimmy thought, when the family lawyer had told the light-haired man the secret, the latter’s had been, “No, really? By Jove, I say, you know!”

Jimmy paid his bill and got up to go.

It was a perfect night—too perfect for bed. Jimmy on to the Embankment, and over the balustrade, looking across the river at the vague, of on the Surrey side.

He must have been there for some time, his away, when a voice spoke at his elbow.

“I say. Excuse me, have you—Halloa!”

It was his light-haired of Dreever.

“I say, by Jove! Why, we’re always meeting!”

A on the bench close by in his sleep as the the air.

“Been looking at the water?” Lord Dreever. “I have. I often do. Don’t you think it of makes a feel—oh, you know. Sort of—I don’t know how to put it.”

“Mushy?” said Jimmy.

“I was going to say poetical. Suppose there’s a girl——”

He paused and looked at the water. Jimmy was with him there. There was a girl.

“I saw my party off in a taxi,” Lord Dreever, “and came here for a smoke. Only I hadn’t a match. Have you?”

Jimmy over his match-box. Lord Dreever a cigar, and his once more on the river.

“Ripping it looks,” he said.

Jimmy nodded.

“Funny thing,” said Lord Dreever. “In the the water here looks all and beastly. Damn depressing, I call it. But at night——” He paused. “I say,” he on, after a moment, “did you see the girl I was with at the Savoy?”

“Yes,” said Jimmy.

“She’s a ripper,” said Lord Dreever devoutly.

On the Thames Embankment, in the small hours of a morning, there is no such thing as a stranger. The man you talk with is a friend, and if he will listen—as, by the of the place, he must—you may out your to him without restraint. It is of you.

“I’m in love with her,” said his lordship.

“She looked a girl,” said Jimmy.

They the water in silence. From out in the night came the of oars, where the police-boat moved on its patrol.

“Does she make you want to go to Japan?” asked Jimmy suddenly.

“Eh?” said Lord Dreever, startled. “Japan?”

Jimmy the position of and that of confider.

“I met a girl a year ago. Only met her once, and then—oh, well. Anyway, it’s me so that I haven’t been able to in one place for more than a month on end. I Morocco, and had to quit. I Spain, and that wasn’t any good either. The other day I a say that Japan was a of country. I was I wouldn’t give it a trial.”

Lord Dreever this man with interest.

“It me,” he said wonderingly. “What do you want to leg it about the world like that for? What’s the trouble? Why don’t you where the girl is?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Don’t know?”

“She disappeared.”

“Where did you see her last?” asked his lordship, as if Molly were a penknife.

“New York.”

“But how do you mean, disappeared? Don’t you know her address?”

“I don’t know her name.”

“But it all, I say, I mean! Have you spoken to her?”

“Only once. It’s a story. At any rate, she’s gone.”

Lord Dreever said that it was a business. Jimmy the point.

“Seems to me,” said his lordship, “we’re in the cart.”

“What’s your trouble?”

“Oh, well, it’s only that I want to one girl, and my uncle’s set on my marrying another.”

“Are you of your uncle’s feelings?”

“It’s not so much his feelings. It’s—oh, well, it’s too 58long to tell now. I think I’ll be home. I’m at our place in Eaton Square.”

“How are you going? If you’ll walk I’ll come some of the way with you.”

“Right you are. Let’s be pushing along, shall we?”

They up into the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a in the small hours. Some men were the road with water from a long hose. The of the on the was musical.

Just the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, a cabman’s shelter. Conversation and had Lord Dreever thirsty. He coffee as a to the night’s revels.

“I often go in here when I’m up in town,” he said. “The don’t mind. They’re sportsmen.”

The was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very warm inside. A so much fresh air in the of his professional that he is to avoid it in private life. The air was with scents. Fried to be having the best of the for the moment, though tobacco gallantly. A nose might also have the presence of and coffee.

A to be in progress as they entered.

“You don’t wish you was in Russher,” said a voice.

“Yus, I do wish I was in Russher,” a of a who was at a of coffee.

“Why do you wish you was in Russher?” asked the interlocutor, a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the dialogue.

“Because you can over in bla-a-ad there,” said the mummy.

“In wot?”

“In bla-a-ad—ruddy bla-a-ad. That’s why I wish I in Russher.”

“Cheery that,” said Lord Dreever. “I say, can you give us some coffee?”

“I might try Russia after Japan,” said Jimmy meditatively.

The liquid was brought. Conversation again. Other gave their views on the of Russia. Jimmy would have it more if he had been less sleepy. His 59back was against the of the shelter, and the of the room into his brain. The voices of the and fainter.

He had almost off when a new voice cut through the and him. It was a voice he knew, and the was a familiar accent.

“Gents, me.”

He looked up. The of sleep away. A with a of red was in the doorway, the of the with a grin, whimsical, defiant.

Jimmy him. It was Spike Mullins.

“Excuse me,” said Spike Mullins, “is any in of professional wants to give a from a painful something to drink? Gents is not to speak all in a crowd.”

“Shet that door,” said the sourly.

“And ’op it,” added his late opponent. “We don’t want none of your ’ere.”

“Den you ain’t my long-lost brudders, after all,” said the regretfully. “I t’ought didn’t look for dat. Good night to youse, gents.”

“Shet that door, can’t yer, when I’m tellin’ yer!” said the mummy, with asperity.

Spike was when Jimmy rose.

“One moment,” he said.

Never in his life had Jimmy failed to by a friend in need. Spike was not, perhaps, a friend, but an on Jimmy when in the world. And Spike was in that condition.

A look of came into the Bowery boy’s face, by one of woodenness. He took the which Jimmy out to him with a word of thanks, and out of the room.

“Can’t see what you wanted to give him anything for,” said Lord Dreever. “Chap’ll only it tight.”

“Oh, he me of a man I used to know.”

“Did he? Barnum’s what-is-it, I should think,” said his lordship. “Shall we be moving?”