Love in a Cloud: A Comedy in Filigree

"I know that a deuced sight better than you do," Neligage returned. "I've had more experience in wanting money. I'm in a hole, and I ask you to help me out of it. Of course I'm taking a deal of advantage of your good nature yesterday; and you may do as you like about letting me have the money. All the security I can give is to turn over to you the income of the few stocks I have. They 're all in the hands of trustees. My father left'em so."

"Gad, he knew his son," was the characteristic comment.

"You are right. He did. Can you let me have the money?"

The other considered a moment, and then said with his usual bluntness: —

"I suppose it's none of my business what you want of it?"

Jack flushed.

"It may be your business, Wilson, but I can't tell you."

The other laughed.

"Oh, well," he said, "if you've been so big a fool that you can't bear to tell of it, I'm not going to insist. I can't do anything better than to send you a check to-morrow. I haven't that amount in the bank."

Jack held out his hand.

"You're a trump, Wilson," he said. "I'd tell you the whole thing if it was my secret, but it isn't. Of course if you lose anything by moving the money, I'll be responsible for it. Besides that I want you to buy Starbright, if you care for him. Of course if you don't I can sell him easily enough. He's the best of the ponies."

"Then you're going to sell?"

"Clean out the whole thing; pay my debts, and leave the club."

"Oh, you mustn't do that."

"I'm going into a bank, and of course I shan't have any time to play."

Wilson regarded him with an amused and curious smile, playing with his fork meanwhile. Wilson was not by birth of Jack's world, having come into social position in Boston by his marriage with Elsie Dimmont, the richest young woman of the town. He and Jack had never been especially intimate, but Jack had always maintained that despite traces of coarseness in manner Wilson was sound at heart and essentially a good fellow. Perhaps the fact that in times past Neligage had not used his opportunities to patronize Wilson had something to do with the absence of anything patronizing in the Doctor's manner now.

"Well," Wilson said at length, "don't do anything rash. Your dues for the whole year are paid, – or will be when you square up, and you might as well get the worth of them. We need you on the team, so you mustn't go back on us if you can help it."

Matters being satisfactorily arranged both in relation to the loan and to the sale of the pony, Jack left Wilson, and departed in search of Count Shimbowski. Him he ultimately found at another club, and at once asked to speak with him alone on business.

"Count," he began when they were in one of the card-rooms, "I want to add a word to what I said to you yesterday."

"Each one word of Mr. Neleegaze eet ees treasured," the Count responded with a polite flourish of his cigarette.

"Since you wouldn't give me that letter," pursued Jack, acknowledging the compliment with a grin and a bow, "perhaps you'll be willing to exchange it."

"Exchange eet?" repeated the Hungarian. "For what weell eet be exchange'?"

Jack produced Barnstable's letter.

"I thought that you'd perhaps be willing to exchange it for this letter that's otherwise to be read and passed about. I fancy that the person who got it had Miss Wentstile particularly in mind as likely to be interested in it."

The touch showed Jack to be not without some of the astuteness of his mother.

"What weell eet be?" inquired the Count.

"I haven't read it," answered Jack, slowly drawing it from the envelope. "It is said to contain a full account of the life of Count Shimbowski."

"Sacré!"

"Exactly," acquiesced Jack. "It's a devilish shame that things can't be forgotten when they're done. I've found that out myself."

"But what weell be weetheen dat lettaire?"

Jack ran his eye down a page.

"This seems to be an account of a duel at Monaco," he returned. "On the next page – "

The Count stretched out his hand in protest.

"Eet ees not needed dat you eet to read," he said. "Eet ees leeklie lees."

"Oh, very likely it is lies. No story about a fellow is ever told right; but the worst things always get believed; and Miss Wentstile is very particular. She's deucedly down on me for a lot of things that never happened."

"Oh, but she ees extr'ordeenaire particle!" exclaimed the Count, with a shrug and a profane expletive. "She does not allow dat money be play for de card, she have say eet to me. She ees most extr'ordeenaire particle!"

"Then I am probably right, Count, in thinking you wouldn't care to have her read this letter?"

The Count twisted his silky mustache, looking both angry and rather foolish.

"Eet ees not dat eet ees mooch dat I have done," he explained. "You know what eet ees de leefe. A man leeves one way. But she, she ees so particle damned!"

Jack burst into a laugh that for the moment threatened to destroy the gravity with which he was conducting the interview; but he controlled his face, and went on.

"Since she is so damned particular," said he, "don't you think you'd better let me have the other letter for this? Of course I hate to drive you to a bargain, but I must have that other letter. I don't mind telling you that I'm sent after it by the one who wrote it."

"Den you weell know who have wrote eet?"

"Yes, of course I know, but I'm not going to tell."

The Count considered for a moment, and then slowly drew out the letter addressed to Christopher Calumus. He looked at it wistfully, with the air of a man who is reluctantly abandoning the clue to an adventure which might have proved enchanting.

"But eet weell look what I was one great villaine dat fear," he said.

"Nonsense," returned Neligage, holding out the letter of Barnstable for exchange. "We know both sides of the business. All there is to it is that we both understand what a crochety old maid Miss Wentstile is."

Count Shimbowski smiled, and the exchange was effected. Jack turned May's letter over in his hand, and found it unopened.

"You're a gentleman, Count," he said, offering his hand.

"Of de course," the other replied, with an air of some surprise. "I am one Shimbowski."

"Well, I'm obliged to you," observed Jack, putting the letter in his pocket. "I'll try to keep gossip still."