The Bandbox

She delayed an instant longer. “But all the same,” she said hastily, at length, “I want that play.”

“My play?” he enquired with significant emphasis.

“Yes, of course,” she said sharply.

“Well, since I’m under contract with Max, I don’t well see how I can take it away from you. And besides, you’re the only woman living who can play it properly.”

“So good of you.” Her hand lay slim and cool in his for the fraction of an instant. “Good night,” she iterated, withdrawing it.

“Good night.”

As he let her out, Staff, glancing down at the waiting taxicab, was faintly surprised by the discovery that she had not come alone. A man stood in waiting by the door – a man in evening clothes: not Max but a taller man, more slender, with a better carriage. Turning to help Alison into the cab, the street lights threw his face in sharp relief against the blackness of the window; and Staff knew him.

“Arkroyd!” he said beneath his breath.

He closed the door and set the latch, suffering from a species of mild astonishment. His psychological processes seemed to him rather unique; he felt that he was hardly playing the game according to Hoyle. A man who has just broken with the woman with whom he has believed himself desperately in love naturally counts on feeling a bit down in the mouth. And seeing her drive off with one whom he has every right to consider in the light of a hated rival, he ought in common decency to suffer poignant pangs of jealousy. But Staff didn’t; he couldn’t honestly make himself believe that he was suffering in any way whatever. Indeed, the most violent emotion to which he was sensible was one of chagrin over his own infatuate myopia.

“Ass!” he called himself, slowly reascending the stairs. “You might ’ve seen this coming long ago, if you hadn’t wilfully chosen to be blind as a bat!”

Re-entering his study, he pulled up with a start and a cry of sincere amazement.

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Then why not lead a better life?” enquired Mr. Iff.

He was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, looking much like an exceptionally cruel caricature of himself. As he spoke, he slouched wearily over to the wing-chair Alison had recently occupied, and dropped into it like a dead weight.

He wore no hat. His clothing was in a shocking condition, damp, shapeless and shrunken to such an extent as to disclose exhibits of bony wrists and ankles almost immodestly generous. On his bird-like cranium the pale, smooth scalp shone pink through scanty, matted, damp blond locks. His face was drawn, pinched and pale. As if new to the light his baby-blue eyes blinked furiously. Round his thin lips hovered his habitual smile, semi-sardonic, semi-sheepish.

“Do you mind telling me how in thunder you got in here?” asked Staff courteously.

Iff waved a hand toward the bedroom.

“Fire-escape,” he admitted wearily. “Happened to see your light and thought I’d call. Hope I don’t intrude… Got anything to drink? I’m about all in.”

IX

A LIKELY STORY

“If I’m any judge, that’s no exaggeration.” Thus Mr. Staff after a moment’s pause which he utilised to look Mr. Iff over with a critical eye.

Mr. Iff wagged his head. “Believe me,” said he simply.

Staff fetched a decanter of Scotch and a glass, placing them on the table by Iff’s elbow, then turned away to get a siphon of charged water from the icebox. But by the time he was back a staggering amount of whiskey had disappeared from the decanter, a moist but empty glass stood beside it, and Mr. Iff was stroking smiling lips with his delicate, claw-like fingers. He discontinued this occupation long enough to wave the siphon away.

“Not for me,” he said tersely. “I’ve swallowed enough water this night to last me for the rest of my life – half of the North River, more or less; rather more, if you ask me.”

“What were you doing in the North River?”

“Swimming.”

This answer was evidently so adequate in Mr. Iff’s understanding that he made no effort to elaborate upon it; so that presently, growing impatient, Staff felt called upon to ask:

“Well? What were you swimming for?”

“Dear life,” said Iff – “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness: the incontestable birthright of every freeborn American citizen – if you must know.”

He relapsed into a reverie which seemed hugely diverting from the reminiscent twinkle in the little man’s eyes. From this he emerged long enough to remark: “That’s prime whiskey, you know… Thanks very much, I will.” And again fell silent, stroking his lips.

“I don’t want to seem to pry,” said Staff at length, with elaborate irony; “but in view of the fact that you’ve felt warranted in calling on me via the fire-escape at one A.M., it doesn’t seem unreasonable of me to expect some sort of an explanation.”

“Oh, very well,” returned Iff, with resignation. “What would you like to know?”

“Why did you disappear this morning – ?”

“Yesterday morning,” Iff corrected dispassionately.

“ – yesterday morning, and how?”

“Because the time seemed ripe for me to do my marvellous vanishing stunt. You see, I had a hunch that the dear captain would turn things over in his mind and finally determine not to accept my credentials at their face value. So I kind of stuck round the wireless room with my ears intelligently pricked forward. Sure enough, presently I heard the message go out, asking what about me and how so.”

“You mean you read the operator’s sending by ear?”

“Sure; I’ve got a telegrapher’s ear as long as a mule’s… Whereupon, knowing just about what sort of an answer ’d come through, I made up my mind to duck. And did.”

“But how – ?”

“That’d be telling, and telling would get somebody aboard the Autocratic into terrible bad trouble if it ever leaked out. I crawled in out of the weather – let it go at that. I wish,” said Mr. Iff soulfully, “those damn’ Pinkerton men had let it go at that. Once or twice I really thought they had me, or would have me the next minute. And they wouldn’t give up. That’s why I had to take to the water, after dark. My friend, who shall be nameless, lent me the loan of a rope and I shinned down and had a nice little swim before I found a place to crawl ashore. I assure you that the North River tastes like hell… O thank you; don’t mind if I do.”

“Then,” said Staff, watching the little man help himself on his own invitation – “Then you are Ismay!”

“Wrong again,” said Iff drearily. “Honest, it’s a real shame, the way you can’t seem to win any bets at all.”

“If you’re not Ismay, what made you hide?”

“Ah!” cried Iff admiringly – “shrewd and pertinent question! Now I’ll tell you, and you won’t believe me. Because – now pay strict attention – because we’re near-twins.”

“Who are twins?” demanded Staff staring.

“Him and me – Ismay and I-double-F. First cousins we are: his mother was my aunt. Worse and more of it: our fathers were brothers. They married the same day; Ismay and I were born in the same month. We look just enough alike to be mistaken for one another when we’re not together. That’s been a great help to him; he’s made me more trouble than I’ve time to tell you. The last time, I was pinched in his place and escaped a penitentiary sentence by the narrowest kind of a shave. That got my mad up, and I served notice on him to quit his foolishness or I’d get after him. He replied by cooking up a fine little scheme that almost laid me by the heels again. So I declared war and ’ve been camping on his trail ever since.”

He paused and twiddled his thumbs, staring reflectively at the ceiling. “I’m sure I don’t know why I bore myself telling you all this. What’s the use?”

“Never mind,” said Staff in an encouraging manner; he was genuinely diverted. “At worst it’s a worthy and uplifting – ah – fiction. Go on… Then you’re not a Secret Service man after all?”

“Nothing like that; I’m doing this thing on my own.”

“How about that forged paper you showed the captain?”