CHAPTER I

THE WISH

"Mail in?"

"Yes, sir; just arrived. What name?"

"Charles K. Spencer."

The letter clerk seized a batch of correspondence and sorted it with

nimble fingers. The form of the question told him that Spencer was

interested in letters stamped for the greater part with bland

presentments of bygone Presidents of the United States. In any event,

he would have known, by long experience of the type, that the well

dressed, straight limbed, strong faced young man on the other side of

the counter was an American. He withdrew four missives from the

bundle. His quick eyes saw that three bore the Denver postmark, and

the fourth hailed from Leadville.

"That is all at present, sir," he said. "Would you like your mail sent

to your room in future, or shall I keep it here?"

"Right here, please, in No. 20 slot. I could receive a reply by cable

while I was going and coming along my corridor."

The clerk smiled deferentially. He appreciated not only the length of

the corridor, but the price paid by the tenant of a second floor suite

overlooking the river.

"Very well, sir," he said, glancing again at Spencer, "I will

attend to it;" and he took a mental portrait of the man who could

afford to hire apartments that ranked among the most expensive in

the hotel. Obviously, the American was a recent arrival. His suite

had been vacated by a Frankfort banker only three days earlier,

and this was the first time he had asked for letters. Even the

disillusioned official was amused by the difference between the two

latest occupants of No. 20,--Herr Bamberger, a tub of a man, bald

headed and bespectacled, and this alert, sinewy youngster, with the

cleancut features of a Greek statue, and the brilliant, deep set,

earnest eyes of one to whom thought and action were alike familiar.

Spencer, fully aware that he was posing for a necessary picture,

examined the dates on his letters, nipped the end off a green cigar,

helped himself to a match from a box tendered by a watchful boy,

crossed the entrance hall, and descended a few steps leading to the

inner foyer and restaurant. At the foot of the stairs he looked about

for a quiet corner. The luncheon hour was almost ended. Groups of

smokers and coffee drinkers were scattered throughout the larger room,

which widened out below a second short flight of carpeted steps. The

smaller anteroom in which he stood was empty, save for a few people

passing that way from the restaurant, and he decided that a nook near

a palm shaded balcony offered the retreat he sought.

He little dreamed that he was choosing the starting point of the most

thrilling adventure in a life already adventurous; that the soft

carpet of the Embankment Hotel might waft him to scenes not within the

common scope. That is ever the way of true romance. Your knight errant

may wander in the forest for a day or a year,--he never knows the

moment when the enchanted glade shall open before his eyes; nay, he

scarce has seen the weeping maiden bound to a tree ere he is called in

to couch his lance and ride a-tilt at the fire breathing dragon. It

was so when men and maids dwelt in a young world; it is so now; and it

will be so till the crack of doom. Manners may change, and costume;

but hearts filled with the wine of life are not to be altered. They

are fashioned that way, and the world does not vary, else Eve might

regain Paradise, and all the fret and fume have an end.

Charles K. Spencer, then, would certainly have been the most

astonished, though perhaps the most self possessed, man in London had

some guardian sprite whispered low in his ear what strange hazard lay

in his choice of a chair. If such whisper were vouchsafed to him he

paid no heed. Perhaps his occupancy of that particular corner was

preordained. It was inviting, secluded, an upholstered backwash in the

stream of fashion; so he sat there, nearly stunned a waiter by asking

for a glass of water, and composed himself to read his letters.

The waiter hesitated. He was a Frenchman, and feared he had not heard

aright.

"What sort of water, sir," he asked,--"Vichy, St. Galmier,

Apollinaris?"

Spencer looked up. He thought the man had gone. "No, none of those,"

he said. "Just plain, unemotional water,--_eau naturelle_,--straight

from the pipe,--the microbe laden fluid that runs off London tiles

most days. I haven't been outside the hotel during the last hour; but

if you happen to pass the door I guess you'll see the kind of essence

I mean dripping off umbrellas. If you don't keep it in the house, try

to borrow a policeman's cape and shoot a quart into a decanter."

The quelled waiter hurried away and brought a carafe. Spencer

professed to be so pleased with his rare intelligence that he gave him

a shilling. Then he opened the envelop with the Leadville postmark. It

contained a draft for 205 pounds, 15 shillings, 11 pence, and the

accompanying letter from a firm of solicitors showed that the

remittance of a thousand dollars was the moiety of the proceeds of a

clean-up on certain tailings taken over by the purchasers of the

Battle Mountain tunnel. The sum was not a large one; but it seemed to

give its recipient such satisfaction that the movement of chairs on

the floor of the big room just beneath failed to draw his attention

from the lawyer's statement.

A woman's languid, well bred voice broke in on this apparently

pleasant reverie.

"Shall we sit here, Helen?"

"Anywhere you like, dear. It is all the same to me. Thanks to you, I

am passing an afternoon in wonderland. I find my surroundings so novel

and entertaining that I should still be excited if you were to put me

in the refrigerator."

The eager vivacity of the second speaker--the note of undiluted and

almost childlike glee with which she acknowledged that a visit to a

luxurious hotel was a red letter day in her life--caused the man to

glance at the two young women who had unconsciously disturbed him.

Evidently, they had just risen from luncheon in the restaurant, and

meant to dispose themselves for a chat. It was equally clear that each

word they uttered in an ordinary conversational tone must be audible

to him. They were appropriating chairs which would place the plumes of

their hats within a few inches of his feet. When seated, their faces

would be hidden from him, save for a possible glimpse of a profile as

one or other turned toward her companion. But for a few seconds he had

a good view of both, and he was young enough to find the scrutiny to

his liking.

At the first glance, the girl who was acting as hostess might be

deemed the more attractive of the pair. She was tall, slender,

charmingly dressed, and carried herself with an assured elegance that

hinted of the stage. Spencer caught a glint of corn flower blue eyes

beneath long lashes, and a woman would have deduced from their color

the correct explanation of a blue sunshade, a blue straw hat, and a

light cape of Myosotis blue silk that fell from shapely shoulders over

a white lace gown.

The other girl,--she who answered to the name of Helen,--though nearly

as tall and quite as graceful, was robed so simply in muslin that she

might have provided an intentional contrast. In the man's esteem she

lost nothing thereby. He appraised her by the fine contour of her oval

face, the wealth of glossy brown hair that clustered under her hat,

and the gleam of white teeth between lips of healthy redness. Again,

had he looked through a woman's eyes, he would have seen how the

difference between Bond-st. and Kilburn as shopping centers might be

sharply accentuated. But that distinction did not trouble him. Beneath

a cold exterior he had an artist's soul, and "Helen" met an ideal.

"Pretty as a peach!" he said to himself, and he continued to gaze at

her. Indeed, for an instant he forgot himself, and it was not until

she spoke again that he realized how utterly oblivious were both girls

of his nearness.

"I suppose everybody who comes here is very rich," was her rather

awe-stricken comment.

Her companion laughed. "How nice of you to put it that way! It makes

me feel quite important. I lunch or dine or sup here often, and the

direct inference is that I am rolling in wealth."

"Well, dear, you earn a great deal of money----"

"I get twenty pounds a week, and this frock I am wearing cost

twenty-five. Really, Helen, you are the sweetest little goose I ever

met. You live in London, but are not of it. You haven't grasped the

first principle of social existence. If I dressed within my means, and

never spent a sovereign until it was in my purse, I should not even

earn the sovereign. I simply must mix with this crowd whether I can

afford it or not."

"But surely you are paid for your art, not as a mannikin. You

are almost in the front rank of musical comedy. I have seen you

occasionally at the theater, and I thought you were the best dancer

in the company."

"What about my singing?"

"You have a very agreeable and well trained voice."

"I'm afraid you are incorrigible. You ought to have said that I sang

better than I danced, and the fib would have pleased me immensely;

we women like to hear ourselves praised for accomplishments we don't

possess. No, my dear, rule art out of the cast and substitute

advertisement. Did you notice a dowdy creature who was lunching

with two men on your right? She wore a brown Tussore silk and a

turban--well, she writes the 'Pars About People' in 'The Daily

Journal.' I'll bet you a pair of gloves that you will see something

like this in to-morrow's paper: 'Lord Archie Beaumanoir entertained a

party of friends at the Embankment Hotel yesterday. At the next table

Miss Millicent Jaques, of the Wellington Theater, was lunching with a

pretty girl whom I did not know. Miss Jaques wore an exquisite,'

etc., etc. Fill in full details of my personal appearance, and you

have the complete paragraph. The public, the stupid, addle-headed

public, fatten on that sort of thing, and it keeps me going far more

effectively than my feeble attempts to warble a couple of songs which

you could sing far better if only you made up your mind to come on the

stage. But there! After such unwonted candor I must have a smoke. You

won't try a cigarette? Well, don't look so shocked. This isn't a

church, you know."

Spencer, who had listened with interest to Miss Jaques's outspoken

views, suddenly awoke to the fact that he was playing the part of an

eavesdropper. He had all an American's chivalrous instincts where

women were concerned, and his first impulse was to betake himself

and his letters to his own room. Yet, when all was said and done, he

was in a hotel; the girls were strangers, and likely to remain so;

and it was their own affair if they chose to indulge in unguarded

confidences. So he compromised with his scruples by pouring out a

glass of water, replacing the decanter on its tray with some degree of

noise. Then he struck an unnecessary match and applied it to his cigar

before opening the first of the Denver letters.

As his glance was momentarily diverted, he did not grasp the essential

fact that neither of the pair was disturbed by his well meant efforts.

Millicent Jaques was lighting a cigarette, and this, to a woman, is an

all absorbing achievement, while her friend was so new to her palatial

surroundings that she had not the least notion of the existence of

another open floor just above the level of her eyes.

"I don't know how in the world you manage to exist," went on the

actress, tilting herself back in her chair to watch the smoke curling

lazily upward. "What was it you said the other day when we met? You

are some sort of secretary and amanuensis to a scientist? Does that

mean typewriting? And what is the science?"

"Professor von Eulenberg is a well known man," was the quiet reply. "I

type his essays and reports, it is true; but I also assist in his

classification work, and it is very interesting."

"What does he classify?"

"Mostly beetles."

"Oh, how horrid! Do you ever see any?"

"Thousands."

"I should find one enough. If it is a fair question, what does your

professor pay you?"

"Thirty shillings a week. In his own way he is as poor as I am."

"And do you mean to tell me that you can live in those nice rooms you

took me to, and dress decently on that sum?"

"I do, as a matter of fact; but I have a small pension, and I earn a

little by writing titbits of scientific gossip for 'The Firefly.' Herr

von Eulenberg helps. He translates interesting paragraphs from the

foreign technical papers, and I jot them down, and by that means I

pick up sufficient to buy an extra hat or wrap, and go to a theater or

a concert. But I have to be careful, as my employer is absent each

summer for two months. He goes abroad to hunt new specimens, and of

course I am not paid then."

"Is he away now?"

"Yes."

"And how do you pass your time?"

"I write a good deal. Some day I hope to get a story accepted by one

of the magazines; but it is so hard for a beginner to find an

opening."

"Yet when I offered to give you a start in the chorus of the best

theater in London,--a thing, mind you, that thousands of girls are

aching for,--you refused."

"I'm sorry, Millie dear; but I am not cut out for the stage. It does

not appeal to me."

"Heigho! Tastes differ. Stick to your beetles, then, and marry your

professor."

Helen laughed, with a fresh joyousness that was good to hear. "Herr

von Eulenberg is blessed with an exceedingly stout wife and five very

healthy children already," she cried.

"Then that settles it. You're mad, quite mad! Let us talk of something

else. Do you ever have a holiday? Where are you going this year? I'm

off to Champery when the theater closes."

"Champery,--in Switzerland, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Ah, that is the dream of my life,--to see the everlasting snows; to

climb those grand, solemn mountains; to cross the great passes that

one reads of in the travel books. Now at last you have made me

envious. Are you going alone? But of course that is a foolish

question. You intend to join others from the theater, no doubt?"

"Well--er--something of the sort. I fear my enthusiasm will not carry

me far on the lines that would appeal to you. I suppose you consider a

short skirt, strong boots, a Tyrolese hat, and an alpenstock to be a

sufficient rig-out, whereas my mountaineering costumes will fill five

large trunks and three hat boxes. I'm afraid, Helen, we don't run on

the same rails, as our American cousins say."

There was a little pause. Millicent's words, apparently tossed

lightly into the air after a smoke spiral, had in them a touch of

bitterness, it might be of self analysis. Her guest seemed to take

thought before she answered:

"Perhaps the divergence is mainly in environment. And I have always

inclined to the more serious side of life. Even when we were together

in Brussels----"

"You? Serious? At Madam Berard's? I like that. Who was it that kicked

the plaster off the dormitory wall higher than her head? Who put

pepper in Signor Antonio's snuff box?"

Spencer saw the outer waves of a flush on Helen's cheeks. "This is

exceedingly interesting," he thought; "but I cannot even persuade

myself that I ought to listen any longer. Yet, if I rise now and walk

away they will know I heard every word."

Nevertheless, he meant to go, at the risk of their embarrassment;

but he waited for Helen's reply. She laughed, and the ripple of her

mirth was as musical as her voice, whereas many women dowered with

pleasantly modulated notes for ordinary conversation should be careful

never to indulge in laughter, which is less controllable and therefore

natural.

"That is the worst of having a past," she said. "Let me put it, then,

that entomology as a pursuit sternly represses frivolousness."

"Does entomology mean beetles?"

"My dear, if you asked Herr von Eulenberg that question he would sate

your curiosity with page extracts from one of his books. He has

written a whole volume to prove that the only true entoma, or

insects, are Condylopoda and Hexapoda, which means----"

"Cockroaches! Good gracious! To think of Helen Wynton, who once hit a

Belgian boy very hard on the nose for being rude, wasting her life on

such rubbish! And you actually seem to thrive on it. I do believe you

are far happier than I."

"At present I am envying you that trip to Champery. Why cannot some

fairy godmother call in at No. 5, Warburton Gardens, to-night and wave

over my awed head a wand that shall scatter sleeping car tickets and

banknotes galore, or at any rate sufficient thereof to take me to the

Engadine and back?"

"Ah, the Engadine. I am not going there this year, I think."

"Haven't you planned your tour yet?"

"No--that is, not exactly."

"Do you know, that is one of my greatest pleasures. With a last year's

Continental Bradshaw and a few tattered Baedekers I journey far

afield. I know the times, the fares, and the stopping places of all

the main routes from Calais and Boulogne. I could pass a creditable

examination in most of the boat and train services by way of Ostend,

Flushing, and the Hook of Holland. I assure you, Millie, when my ship

does come home, or the glittering lady whom I have invoked deigns to

visit my lodgings, I shall call a cab for Charing Cross or Victoria

with the assurance of a seasoned traveler."

For some reason, Miss Jaques refused to share her friend's enthusiasm.

"You are easily pleased," she said listlessly. "For my part, after one

shuddering glance at the Channel, I try to deaden all sensation till I

find myself dressing for dinner at the Ritz. I positively refuse to go

beyond Paris the first day. Ah, bother! Here comes a man whom I wish

to avoid. Let us be on the move before he sees us, which he cannot

fail to do. Don't forget that I have a rehearsal at three. I haven't,

really; but we must escape somehow."

Spencer, who had salved his conscience by endeavoring to read a

technical letter on mining affairs, would be less than human if he did

not lift his eyes then. It is odd how the sense of hearing, when left

to its unfettered play by the absence of the disturbing influence of

facial expression, can discriminate in its analysis of the subtler

emotions. He was quite sure that Miss Jaques was startled, even

annoyed, by the appearance of some person whom she did not expect to

meet, and he surveyed the new arrival critically, perhaps with latent

hostility.

He saw a corpulent, well dressed man standing at the foot of the

stairs and looking around the spacious room. Obviously, he had not

come from the restaurant. He carried his hat, gloves, and stick in his

left hand. With his right hand he caressed his chin, and his glance

wandered slowly over the little knots of people in the foyer. Beyond

the fact that a large diamond sparkled on one of his plump fingers,

and that his olive tinted face was curiously opposed to the whiteness

of the uplifted hand, he differed in no essential from the hundreds of

spick and span idlers who might be encountered at that hour in the

west end of London. He had the physique and bearing of a man athletic

in his youth but now over-indulgent. An astute tailor had managed to

conceal the too rounded curves of the fourth decade by fashioning his

garments skillfully. His coat fitted like a skin across his shoulders

but hung loosely in front. The braid of a colored waistcoat was

a marvel of suggestion in indicating a waist, and the same adept

craftsmanship carried the eye in faultless lines to his verni boots.

Judged by his profile, he was not ill looking. His features were

regular, the mouth and chin strong, the forehead slightly rounded, and

the nose gave the merest hint of Semitic origin. Taken altogether, he

had the style of a polished man of the world, and Spencer smiled at

the sudden fancy that seized him.

"I am attending the first act of a little play," he thought. "Helen

and Millicent rise and move to center of stage; enter the conventional

villain."

Miss Jaques was not mistaken when she said that her acquaintance would

surely see her. She and Helen Wynton had not advanced a yard from

their corner before the newcomer discovered them. He hastened to meet

them, with the aspect of one equally surprised and delighted. His

manners were courtly, and displayed great friendliness; but Spencer

was quick to notice the air of interest with which his gaze rested on

Helen. It was possible to see now that Millicent's unexpected friend

had large, prominent dark eyes which lent animation and vivacity to a

face otherwise heavy and coarse. It was impossible to hear all that

was said, as the trio stood in the middle of the room and a couple

of men passing up the stairs at the moment were talking loudly. But

Spencer gathered that Millicent was explaining volubly how she and

Miss Wynton had "dropped in here for luncheon by the merest chance,"

and was equally emphatic in the declaration that she was already

overdue at the theater.

The man said something, and glanced again at Helen. Evidently, he

asked for an introduction, which Miss Jaques gave with an affability

that was eloquent of her powers as an actress. The unwished for

cavalier was not to be shaken off. He walked with them up the stairs

and crossed the entrance hall. Spencer, stuffing his letters into a

pocket, strolled that way too, and saw this pirate in a morning coat

bear off both girls in a capacious motor car.

Not to be balked of the denouement of the little comedy in real life

for which he had provided the audience, the American grabbed the hall

porter.

"Say," he said, "do you know that gentleman?"

"Yes, sir. That is Mr. Mark Bower."

Spencer beamed on the man as though he had just discovered that Mr.

Mark Bower was his dearest friend.

"Well, now, if that isn't the queerest thing!" he said. "Is that Mark?

He's just gone round to the Wellington Theater, I guess. How far is it

from here?"

"Not a hundred yards, sir."

Off went Spencer, without his hat. He had intended to follow in a cab,

but a sprint would be more effective over such a short distance. He

crossed the Strand without heed to the traffic, turned to the right,

and, to use his own phrase, "butted into a policeman" at the first

corner.

"I'm on the hunt for the Wellington Theater," he explained.

"You needn't hunt much farther," said the constable good humoredly.

"There it is, a little way up on the left."

At that instant Spencer saw Bower raise his hat to the two women. They

hurried inside the theater, and their escort turned to reenter his

motor. The American had learned what he wanted to know. Miss Jaques

had shaken off her presumed admirer, and Miss Wynton had aided and

abetted her in the deed.

"You don't say!" he exclaimed, gazing at the building admiringly.

"It looks new. In fact the whole street has a kind of San

Francisco-after-the-fire appearance."

"That's right, sir. It's not so long since some of the worst slums in

London were pulled down to make way for it."

"It's fine; but I'm rather stuck on antiquities. I've seen plenty of

last year's palaces on the other side. Have a drink, will you, when

time's up?"

The policeman glanced surreptitiously at the half-crown which Spencer

insinuated into his palm, and looked after the donor as he went back

to the hotel.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" he said to himself. "I've often heard tell of

the way some Americans see London; but I never came across a chap who

rushed up in his bare head and took a squint at any place in that

fashion. He seemed to have his wits about him too; but there must be a

screw loose somewhere."

And indeed Charles K. Spencer, had he paused to take stock of his

behavior, must have admitted that it was, to say the least, erratic.

But his imagination was fired; his sympathies were all a-quiver with

the thought that it lay within his power to share with a kin soul some

small part of the good fortune that had fallen to his lot of late.

"Wants a fairy godmother, does she?" he asked himself, and the quiet

humor that gleamed in his face caused more than one passerby to turn

and watch him as he strode along the pavement. "Well, I guess I'll

play a character not hitherto heard of in the legitimate drama. What

price the fairy godfather? I've a picture of myself in that role. Oh,

my! See me twirl that wand! Helen, you shall climb those rocks. But I

don't like your friend. I sha'n't send you to Champery. No--Champery's

off the map for you."