In the Quarter

A sudden thought leaped into her face. ``Why not please – me – instead?'' she whispered.

Their eyes met. Her face was hard and bold – his, cowardly and ghastly. She clenched her hands and leaned forward; her voice was scarcely audible. Mr Pick dropped his oily black head and listened.

``He turned me out of his box at the Opera; he struck you – do you hear? he kicked you!''

The Jew's face grew chalky.

``Today he stands between you and your uncle, you and wealth, you and me! Do you understand? Cowards are stupid. You claim Spanish blood. But Spanish blood does not forget insults. Is yours only the blood of a Spanish Jew? Bah! Must I talk? You saw him? He is here. Alive. And he kicked you. And he stands between you and riches, you and me, you and – life!''

They sat silent, she holding him fascinated with her little black eyes. His jaw fallen, the expression of his loose mouth was horrible. Suddenly she thrust her face close to his. Her eyes burned and the blood surged through the distended veins under the cracking rouge. Her lips formed the word, ``Tonight!''

Without a word he crept from his seat and followed her out of the room by a side door.

Gethryn, lounging in the smoking-room meanwhile, was listening with delight to the bellowing of Sir Griffin Damby, who stood at the clerk's desk in the hall.

``Don't contradict me!'' he roared – the weak-eyed clerk had not dreamed of doing so – ``Don't you contradict me! I tell you it's the same man!''

``But Excellence,'' entreated the clerk, ``we do not know – ''

``What! Don't know! Don't I tell you?''

``We will telegraph to Paris – ''

``Telegraph to hell! Where's my man? Here! Dawson! Do you remember that infernal Jew at Monaco? He's here. He's in there!'' jerking an angry thumb at the café door. ``Keep him in sight till the police come for him. If he says anything, kick him into the lake.''

Dawson bowed.

The clerk tried to say that he would telegraph instantly, but Sir Griffin barked in his face and snorted his way down the hall, followed by the valet.

Rex, laughing, threw down his cigarette and sauntered over to the clerk.

``Whom does the Englishman want kicked out?''

The clerk made a polite gesture, asking Rex to wait until he had finished telegraphing. At that moment the postillion's horn heralded the coming of the mail coach, and that meant the speedy arrival of the last western train. Rex forgot Sir Griffin and strolled over to the post office to watch the distribution of the letters and to get his own.

A great deal of flopping and pounding seemed to be required as a preliminary to postal distribution. First the mail bags seemed to be dragged all over the floor, then came a long series of thumps while the letters were stamped, finally the slide was raised and a face the color of underdone pie crust, with little angry eyes, appeared. The owner had a new and ingenious insult for each person who presented himself. The Tweelers were utterly routed and went away not knowing whether there were any letters for them or not. Several valets and ladies' maids exchanged lively but ineffectual compliments with the face in the post office window. Then came Sir Griffin. Rex looked on with interest. What the ill-natured brute behind the grating said, Rex couldn't hear, but Sir Griffin burst out with a roar, ``Damnation!'' that made everybody jump. Then he stuck his head as far as he could get it in at the little window and shouted – in fluent German, awfully pronounced – ``Here! You! It's enough that you're so stupid you don't know what you're about. Don't you try to be impudent too! Hand me those letters!'' The official bully handed them over without a word.

Rex took advantage of the lull and stepped to the window. ``Any letters for Mr Gethryn?''

``How you spell him?'' Rex spelled him.

``Yet once again!'' demanded the intelligent person. Rex wrote it in English and in German script.

``From Trauerbach – yes?''

``Yes.''

The man went away, looked through two ledgers, sent for another, made out several sets of blanks, and finally came back to the window, but said nothing.

``Well?'' said Rex, pleasantly.

``Well,'' said the man.

``Anything for me?''

``Nothing for you.''

``Kindly look again,'' said Rex. ``I know there are letters for me.''

In about ten minutes the man appeared again.

``Well?'' said Gethryn.

``Well,'' said the man.

``Nothing for me?''

``Something.'' And with ostentatious delay he produced three letters and a newspaper, which Rex took, restraining an impulse to knock him down. After all, the temptation was not very great, presenting itself more as an act of justice than as a personal satisfaction. The truth was, all day long a great gentleness tinged with melancholy had rested on Gethryn's spirit. Nothing seemed to matter very much. And whatever engaged his attention for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then his thoughts returned where they had been all day.

Yvonne, Yvonne! She had not been out of his thoughts since he rose that morning. In a few steps he reached his room and read his letters by the waning daylight.

The first began:

My Darling – in three more days I shall stand before a Paris audience. I am not one bit nervous. I am perfectly happy. Yesterday at rehearsal the orchestra applauded and Madame Bordier kissed me. Some very droll things happened. Achilles was intoxicated and chased Ajax the Less with a stick. Ajax fled into my dressing room, and although I was not there I told Achilles afterward that I would never forgive him. Then he wept.

The letter ran on for a page more of lively gossip and then, with a sudden change, ended:

But why do I write these foolish things to you? Ah! you know it is because I am too happy! too happy! and I cannot say what is in my heart. I dare not. It is too soon. I dare not!

If it is that I am happy, who but you knows the reason? And now listen to my little secret. I pray for you, yes, every morning and every evening. And for myself too – now.

God forgives. It is in my faith. Oh! my husband, we will be good!

    Thy Yvonne

Gethryn's eyes blurred on the page and he sat a long time, very still, not offering to open his remaining letters. Presently he raised his head and looked into the street. It was dusk, and the lamps along the lake side were lighted. He had to light his candles to read by.

The next was from Braith – a short note.

Everything is ready, Rex, your old studio cleaned and dusted until you would not know it.

I have kept the key always by me, and no one but myself has ever entered it since you left.

I will meet you at the station – and when you are really here I shall begin to live again.

    Au revoir,
    Braith