The Gay Adventure: A Romance
"Alicia!" interposed the miserable Robert, "I do wish you'd be
reasonable. For heaven's sake----"
"Kindly do not swear, Robert," said his wife, turning ferociously on
him. "If I have made a mistake, I am sure it was but natural. If this is
not a breakfast-party, pray what is it? A man of your age would not
indulge in _suppers_"--she gave the word an emphasis that insinuated
Cremorne--"so what can I think? I hear an unusual noise--I come
down-stairs and find my husband hobnobbing with a strange gentleman and
his ... friend ... whom I _have_ met, but----"
Lionel rose, but Beatrice was wiser and forestalled him.
"Your surprise and indignation are only natural, Mrs. Hedderwick," she
said coolly, "but they will be abated when you learn that our untimely
visit is in connection with a police affair."
Her instinct was right. Curiosity conquered the churchwarden's wife,
where an appeal to pity or kindred emotions would have failed. She
relaxed her frigid attitude and said, "Indeed?"
"Yes," pursued Beatrice. "I can not tell you all at present, but be
assured that if it ever comes into court your evidence will be of
value." Mrs. Hedderwick smoothed her dressing-gown and determined to
appear in the witness-box in mauve. "Will you just tell us this: did any
stranger call here this evening?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Hedderwick, divided between resentment and a thirst
for knowledge. "A lady, or at least a female, called and inquired for my
husband."
"A lady!" ejaculated Mr. Hedderwick. "This promises well----"
His wife's eye compelled him again to his seat. "I think, Robert, if you
evinced less interest in such a subject it would be more seemly. The
female in question asked if she might wait, as she wished to beg a
subscription for an anti-suffragist league. I am in sympathy with such
an object and allowed her to remain. In the course of our conversation
she referred to an article on dress in one of the women's papers. I
happened to have the journal and offered to fetch it; she agreed,
thinking that the plate of a new blouse might suit my style."
"So you left her alone!" broke in Lionel.
"For a bare two minutes. When I returned she was still there. We
discussed the blouse for a while, and presently she said that she must
go, but would return later."
"Plagiarist!" said Beatrice with a smile. "Did you happen to notice how
she was dressed?"
"I never notice such things," said Mrs. Hedderwick with dignity. "Dress
is not one of my foibles. But after she had gone I picked up a
handkerchief which I suppose she had dropped. It was marked----"
"Wait!" said Mr. Hedderwick suddenly. "What is her name?" he asked,
turning to Beatrice.
"Whose, Robert?" queried his wife.
"Oh, bother!" he said, irritation lending him courage. "Your maid's."
"Mizzi Schmidt."
"And the initials, Alicia?"
"M. S."
Mr. Hedderwick, his head full of romantic notions of chivalry,
forgetting the urgent need of circumspection, rose. He advanced toward
Beatrice, raised her hand, and, to the horror of his wife, kissed it
solemnly. "I beg your pardon," he said; "there is no anticlimax. Now
that you know Mizzi is the thief you will want to be off. Good-by and
good luck."
They took him at his word and rose.
"Good-by," said Beatrice in the most ordinary voice. "Thank you so much
for your help--and yours, too, Mrs. Hedderwick. So sorry we had to break
into your house. Good-by. Now, Mr. Mortimer!"
"Good-by," said Lionel; "thanks most awfully. I felt you were a
sportsman as soon as I saw you."
They were in the hall by this time, and the magnanimous churchwarden was
already opening the door.
"Not at all," he said. "I've had a most interesting night. I wish you'd
let me know the end of the tale some day."
"If it is a happy ending, you shall," said Beatrice. She halted a
moment, motioned to Lionel to pass out before her, and then turned. "If
you see us again, be careful never to recognize or speak to us; it might
mean danger--not only to you, but us."
He smiled but said nothing. Beatrice and Lionel moved away in the light
of the early dawn. Mr. Hedderwick closed the door gently and stood deep
in thought for a moment. "What an adventure ... what a splendid
woman ... what a jolly chap!" his thoughts ran. "How different their life
from mine! Here am I, tied to the same holiday year after year ... afraid
to call my soul my own ... why, why should I not have a holiday on my own
account--a holiday ... by myself for once. Something new ... something
out of the common...."
"Robert!" said a threatening voice from the drawing-room, and he leaped.
"Come in! I have something to say to you!"
The tone told him what the "something" would be. His thoughts raced
furiously during the next twenty seconds, but he had wit enough to
answer, "Yes, Alicia! Wait till I have locked the door!" Then with a
swift but silent movement he slipped on a greatcoat and hat and
stealthily opened the door again. He peered out.... Yes, there was hope
and an object, for he could see, some hundred and fifty yards away, the
figures of Beatrice and her escort. With a gasp Mr. Hedderwick
muttered, "_I will_!" He pulled the door to behind him and set out
furtively, but with a resolute swiftness, in pursuit.
CHAPTER IX
ENTER TONY WILD
Tony Wild, whose address was The Albany, and who enjoyed an unearned
income of two thousand a year, stood on the steps of the Tivoli
Music-Hall at half past ten, smoking. His face, which was passably
attractive, had temporarily lost its usual good-humor, and he puffed his
cigarette slowly as if it was more of a task than a pleasure. This,
indeed, it was; for he had consumed seventeen since getting out of bed
at ten o'clock that morning, and he smoked more from habit than anything
else. He was a young man of twenty-six who pursued happiness, or rather
distraction, on the accepted lines: dinners, dances and the stage formed
his daily round, but with the zest of youth or cynicism he constantly
searched for new thrills. Experience was his god, and it must be
confessed that he had had more than a fair share of sensations. He had
been jilted, married (luckily it proved a bigamous union; as his "wife,"
a Covent Garden chorister, had nothing but her prettiness to recommend
her; and Tony had been immensely relieved when her husband reappeared
after serving seven years at Portland), made a descent in a submarine,
gone up in a balloon, and driven a car in the Gordon-Bennett race. He
had flown in an aeroplane once for the sake of a new thrill, but
subsequently determined that it would be a pity further to risk two
thousand a year. These were but a few of his distractions. The only
experience he had never tried was work.
On the whole, he had enjoyed himself. There were times, of course, when
he felt that life was a little empty, a little dull; but on such
unfortunate occasions he made haste to bring himself up to the scratch
by searching for a fresh adventure. His most desperate expedient up to
date had been to enlist, but the discipline and routine of the barracks
made even ennui seem desirable, and he bought himself out after
twenty-four hours of agony. This evening he was feeling distinctly dull,
for the day had been singularly profitless. A solitary breakfast at
eleven had been followed by a perfunctory glance over _The Daily Mail_.
Even that stimulating sheet had failed to rouse him, and an afternoon
swim at the Bath Club had been terminated by sheer boredom. Dinner at
his club had failed to produce any congenial spirits, and in desperation
he went to the Tivoli.
A few of the turns he enjoyed in a mild and deprecating fashion, but at
ten-thirty he found himself on the steps, bitterly reflecting on the
defects of modern civilization.
"London!" he thought moodily, "a city of six million people, and not a
thing for me to do. Shall I go to bed?"
It seemed a confession of weakness; besides he was not in the least
sleepy. So he discarded the unworthy thought, and set out on an aimless
ramble through the streets. There is always something to look at in
London, something to interest, even though it be but the policeman
directing the traffic; and Tony soon found his languor past and
good-humor returning. He liked being among a crowd of people, watching,
speculating, enjoying. The Strand was one of his favorite haunts,
especially at night when the lamps were lit and the theaters discharging
their motley audiences. In Piccadilly Circus at eleven o'clock,
Shaftesbury Avenue, Aldwych, or the Strand, a man need never feel bored,
though he may feel rebellious.
Tony walked slowly on, stopping occasionally to observe the people. He
looked at his watch presently and found that it was past eleven. "Early
yet," he reflected; "what's the use of going home? Shall I try the club
or a longer walk? The Embankment ... a nocturne of lamps and water ...
and ... yes! that would be a new game! Forward!"
He turned down to the right and soon found himself by the Thames. Here
he proceeded to practise the new game which had just occurred to his
active brain. It was simple, if ghoulish, for he merely did his best to
imitate a would-be suicide. Turning up his collar and setting his hat a
little on the back of his head, he plunged his hands deep into his
pockets and assumed an expression of despair. Then he walked slowly
along, at times glancing at the river and ostentatiously avoiding the
eyes of chance policemen. Presently he stopped, leaned both his elbows
on the parapet, and stared gloomily at the Thames. His maneuvers were
crowned with success, for a constable soon approached and told him in a
kindly tone to move on. Tony replied in a sepulchral voice, and in a few
moments was deep in conversation with his preserver. A fictitious tale
of cards and drink exercised the powers of his imagination pleasantly
enough for ten minutes or so, and when they separated it was with a
mutual glow of satisfaction. The policeman thought he had saved a
brother, Tony had enjoyed himself for a brief space. It did not occur to
him that critics might consider his game morbid or in bad taste. Had he
been questioned he would have said, "No doubt you're right, but I was
frightfully bored."
After this episode he walked across Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the view,
and then returned leisurely to Piccadilly. He was not in the least
sleepy, so he determined to extend his walk indefinitely. "The great
charm," he reflected, "of being a bachelor with plenty of money is that
one can do exactly what one likes without being questioned. If I return
at six o'clock in the morning, Pettigrew will admit me without a murmur
and ask if I want breakfast. Now, if I had a wife, it is possible that
she would take no interest in my midnight ramble.--No! she would take
too much interest and fear the worst.... Well, where shall I go? I feel
in excellent trim.... Shall I walk to Bolders Green--Whitechapel--the
Elephant and Castle? Strange names beckon me.... I remember reading of
Hackney Marshes as a little boy ... shall I go and see if there are any
marshes? Or shall I make for St. John's Wood and see what Lord's looks
like in moonlight, where
A ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless clapping host,
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro?
Yes; let's try Lord's!"
We need not follow Tony in his walk. It is enough to say that at four
o'clock he found himself, still wakeful, in Covent Garden, watching the
market-men at work. After enjoying the sight he wandered idly up to
Oxford Street, and presently the Euston Road. He walked down this till
he reached Euston railway station, and here he paused to enjoy the
freshness of the morning and the quiet of the streets. "Gad!" he