In Friendship's Guise Part 4

"I got tired of waiting. You are half an hour over the time, Vic. I thought of going to your rooms."

"I slept later than I intended," Nevill replied. "I had a night of it."

"So had I--a night of sleeplessness."

The Honorable Bertie Raven, second son of the Earl of Runnymede, might have stepped out of one of Poole's fas.h.i.+on-plates, so far as dress was concerned. But there was a strained look on his handsome, patrician face, and in his blue eyes, that told of a gnawing mental anxiety. He linked arms with his companion, and drew him to the edge of the pavement.

"Is it all right?" he asked, pleadingly and hurriedly. "Were you able to fix the thing up for me?"

"You are sure there is no other way, Bertie?"

"None, Vic. I have until this evening, and then--"

"Don't worry. I saw Benjamin and Company yesterday."

"And they will accommodate me?"

"Yes, at my request."

"You mean for your indors.e.m.e.nt on the bill?" the lad exclaimed, blus.h.i.+ng. "Vic, you're a trump. You're the best fellow that ever lived, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. G.o.d only knows what a weight you've lifted from my mind. I'm going to run steady after this, and with economy I can save enough out of my allowance--"

"My dear boy, you are wasting your grat.i.tude over a trifle. Could I refuse so simple a favor to a friend?"

"I don't know any one else who would have done as much, Vic. I was in an awful hole. Will--will they give me plenty of time?"

"As much as you like. And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite _entre nous_. There are plenty of chaps--good fellows, too--who would like to use my name occasionally. But one must draw the line--"

"I understand, Vic. I'll be mum as an oyster."

"Well, suppose we go and have the thing over," said Nevill, "and then we'll lunch together."

They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later they entered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James. Through a dingy and unpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they pa.s.sed into the premises of Benjamin and Company. In a dark, cramped office, scantily furnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.

Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight and influence of Victor Nevill's name, the little matter of business, as the Jew smilingly called it, was transacted. A three-months' bill for five hundred pounds was drawn up for Bertie's signature and Nevill's indors.e.m.e.nt. The lad hesitated briefly, then wrote his name in a bold hand. He resisted the allurements of some jewelry, offered him in part payment, and received the amount of the bill, less a prodigious discount for interest. The Jew servilely bowed his customers out.

The Honorable Bertie's face was grave and serious as he walked toward Piccadilly with his friend; he vaguely realized that he had taken the first step on a road that too frequently ends in disgrace and ruin. But this mood changed as he felt the rustling bank notes in his pocket. The world had not looked so bright for many a day.

"I never knew the thing was so easy," he said. "What a good fellow you are, Vic! You've made a new man of me. I can pay off those cursed gambling losses, and a couple of the most pressing debts, and have nearly a hundred pounds over. But I wish I had taken that ruby bracelet for Flora--it would have pleased her."

"Cut Flora--that's my advice," replied Nevill.

"And jolly good advice, too, Vic. I'll think about it seriously. But where will you lunch with me?"

"You are going to lunch with _me_," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."

In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found out to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier rooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or design failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its neighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate ma.s.s, articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount at which they were priced.

Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides with cabinets of great age and curious workmans.h.i.+p, oaken furniture belonging to various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded, cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, bra.s.s work from Moorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets and weapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and other things too numerous to mention, all of a genuine value that put them beyond the reach of a slim purse.

In the rear of the shop--which was looked after by a salesman--was a small office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered the floor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, the huge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of priceless tapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lamp was burning brightly, for very little light entered from the dreary court on which a single window opened.

Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over a sheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall and correspondingly built--a man with a fine head and handsome features, a man to attract more than ordinary attention. His hands were white, slim and long. His eyes were deep brown, and his mustache and beard--the latter cut to a point--were of a tawny yellowish-brown color, mixed with gray to a slight degree. It would be difficult to a.n.a.lyze his character, for in many ways he was a contradiction. He was not miserly, but his besetting evil was the love of acc.u.mulating money--the lever that had made him thoroughly unscrupulous. He was rich, or reputed so, but in ama.s.sing gold, by fair means or foul, lay the keynote to his life. And it was a dual life. He had chosen the old mansion at Strand-on-the-Green to be out of the roar and turmoil of London life, and yet within touch of it. Here, where his evenings were mostly spent, he was a different man. He derived his chief pleasures from his daughter's society, from a table filled with current literature, from a box of choice Havanas. In town he was a sordid man of business, clever at buying and selling to the best advantage. He had loved his wife, the daughter of a city alderman and a friend of his father's, and her death twelve years before had been a great blow to him. Madge resembled her, and he gave the girl a father's sincere devotion.

Few persons knew that Stephen Foster was the proprietor of the curio-shop in Wardour street--his daughter was among the ignorant--and but one or two were aware that the business of Benjamin and Company, carried on in Duke street, belonged also to him. None, a.s.suredly, among his sprinkling of acquaintances, would have believed that he could stoop to lower things, or that he and his equally unscrupulous and useful tool, Victor Nevill, the gay young-man-about-town, had been mixed up in more than one nefarious transaction that would not bear the light of day. He had taken the place in Wardour street within the past five years, and prior to that time he had held a responsible position as purchasing agent--there was not a better judge of pictures in Europe--with the well-known firm of Lamb and Drummond, art dealers and engravers to Her Majesty, of Pall Mall.

A slight frown gathered on Stephen Foster's brow as he put aside the packet of papers, and it deepened as he recognized a familiar step coming through the shop. But he had a cheery smile of greeting ready when the office door opened to admit Victor Nevill. The young man's face was flushed with excitement, and he carried in one hand a crumpled copy of the Westminster _Budget_.

"Seen the evening editions yet?" he exclaimed.

"No; what's in them?" asked the curio-dealer.

"I was lunching at the Arlington, with the Honorable Bertie--By the way, he took the hook," Nevill replied, in a calmer tone, "and when I came out I bought this on the street. But read for yourself."

He opened the newspaper, folded it twice, and tossed it down on Stephen Foster's desk.

CHAPTER V.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCUSSION.

The paragraph in the Westminster _Budget_ to which Victor Nevill referred was headed in large type, and ran as follows:

"This morning, at his palatial residence in Amsterdam, commenced the sale of the gallery of valuable paintings collected by the late Mr.

Martin Von Whele, who died while on a visit to his coffee estate in Java. He left everything to his son, with the exception of the pictures, which, by the terms of his will, were to be disposed of in order to found a hospital in his native town. Mr. Von Whele was a keen and discriminating patron of art, a lover of both the ancient and the modern, and his vast wealth permitted him to indulge freely in his hobby. His collection was well known by repute throughout the civilized world. But the trustees of the estate seem to have committed a grave blunder--which will undoubtedly cause much complaint--in waiting until almost the last moment to announce the sale. But few bidders were present, and these had things pretty much their own way, apparently owing to the gross ignorance of the auctioneer. The gem of the gallery, the famous Rembrandt found and purchased in Paris some years ago by Mr.

Von Whele, was knocked down for the ridiculous sum of 2,400. The lucky purchaser was Mr. Charles Drummond, of the firm of Lamb and Drummond, Pall Mall."

A remark that would not look well in print escaped Stephen Foster's lips as he threw the paper on his desk.

"A blunder?" he cried. "It was criminal! A rascally conspiracy, with Drummond at the bottom of it--British cunning against Dutch stupidity! I seldom miss anything in the papers, Nevill, and yet I never heard of Von Whele's death. I didn't get a hint of the sale."

"Nor I," replied Nevill. "It's a queer business. I thought the paragraph would interest you. The sale continues--do you think of running over to Amsterdam?"

"No; I shan't go. It's too late. By to-morrow a lot of dealers will have men on the spot, and the rest of the pictures will likely fetch full value. But 2,400 for the Rembrandt! Why, it's worth five times as much if it's worth a penny! There's a profit for you, Nevill. And I always coveted that picture. I had a sort of a hope that it would drop into my hands some day. I believe I spoke to you about it."

"You did," a.s.sented Nevill, "and I remembered that at once when I read of the sale. But I had another reason--one of my own--for calling your attention to the matter."

Stephen Foster apparently did not hear the latter remark.

"I saw the Rembrandt when I was in Amsterdam, two years ago," he said bitterly. "It was a splendid canvas--the colors were almost as fresh and bright as the day they were laid on. And as a character study it was a masterpiece second to none, and in my estimation superior to his 'Gilder,' which is now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. It represented a Pole or a Russian, with a face of intense ferocity. His rank was shown by his rich cloak, the decorations on his furred hat, and by the gold-beaded mace held in his hand. Von Whele declared that the subject was John the Third, of Poland; but that was mere conjecture. And now Drummond has the picture, and it will soon be drawing crowds around the firm's window, I dare say. What a prize I have let slip through my fingers!"

"I want to ask you a question," Nevill started abruptly. "Suppose this Rembrandt, or any other painting of value and renown, should be stolen from a big dealer's shop. How could the thief dispose of it?"

"He would have little or no chance of doing so at once," was the reply, "unless he found some unscrupulous collector who was willing to buy it and hide it away. But in the course of a few years, when the affair had blown over, the picture could be sold for its full value, without any risk to the seller, if he was a smart man."