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Page 11
"John Vernon, you are a fool," he said to himself. "The best thing for
you is to pack up your traps and be off to-morrow morning for a couple
of months' sketching in Devonshire. You've been bitten once--look out!"
He took a shilling from his pocket, and muttered, as he flipped it in
the air: "Tail, Richmond--head, town."
The coin fell tail upward, and Jack went off to dine at the Roebuck on
the hill, beloved of artists, where he met some boon companions and
argued about Whistler until a late hour.
CHAPTER IV.
NUMBER 320 WARDOUR STREET.
The rear-guard of London's great army of clerks had already vanished in
the city, and the hour was drawing near to eleven, when Victor Nevill
shook off his lassitude sufficiently to get out of bed. A cold tub
freshened him, and as he dressed with scrupulous care, choosing his
clothes from a well-filled wardrobe, he occasionally walked to the
window of his sitting-room and looked down on the narrow but lively
thoroughfare of Jermyn street. It was a fine morning, with the scent of
spring in the air, and the many colors of the rumbling 'busses glistened
like fresh paint in the sunlight.
His toilet completed, Victor Nevill pressed an electric bell, in answer
to which there presently appeared, from some mysterious source
downstairs, a boy in buttons carrying a tray on which reposed a small
pot of coffee, one of cream, a pat of butter, and a couple of crisp
rolls. Nevill ate his breakfast with the mechanical air of one who is
doing a tiresome but necessary thing, meanwhile consulting a tiny
memorandum-book, and counting over a handful of loose gold and silver.
Then he put on his hat and gloves, looked at the fit of his gray
frock-coat in the glass, and went into the street. At Piccadilly Circus
he bought a _boutonniere_, and as he was feeling slightly rocky after a
late night at card-playing, he dropped into the St. James. He emerged
shortly, fortified by a brandy-and-soda, and sauntered westward along
the Piccadilly pavement.
A typical young-man-about-town, an indolent pleasure-lover, always
dressed to perfection and flush with money--such was Victor Nevill in
the opinion of the world. For aught men knew to the contrary, he thrived
like the proverbial lily of the field, without the need of toiling or
spinning. He lived in expensive rooms, dined at the best restaurants,
and belonged to a couple of good clubs. To his friends this was no
matter of surprise or conjecture. They were aware that he was
well-connected, and that years before he had come into a fortune; they
naturally supposed that enough of it remained to yield him a comfortable
income, in spite of the follies and extravagances that rumor attributed
to him in the past, while he was abroad.
But Nevill himself, and one other individual, knew better. The bulk of
his fortune exhausted by reckless living on the Continent, he had
returned to London with a thousand pounds in cash, and a secured annuity
of two hundred pounds, which he was too prudent to try to negotiate. The
thousand pounds did not last long, but by the time they were spent he
had drifted into degraded and evil ways. None had ever dared to
whisper--none had ever suspected--that Victor Nevill was a rook for
money-lenders and a dangerous friend for young men. He knew what a
perilous game he was playing, but he studied every move and guarded
shrewdly against discovery. There were many reasons, and one in
particular, for keeping his reputation clean and untarnished. It was
a matter of the utmost satisfaction to him that his uncle, Sir Lucius
Chesney, of Priory Court in Sussex, cared but little for London, and
seldom came up to town. For Sir Lucius was childless, elderly, and
possessed of fifteen thousand pounds a year.
Victor Nevill's progress along Piccadilly was frequently interrupted by
friends, fashionably dressed young men like himself, whose invitations
to come and have a drink he declined on the plea of an engagement. Just
beyond Devonshire House he was accosted eagerly by a fresh-faced,
blond-haired boy--he was no more than twenty-two--who was coming from
the opposite direction.
"Hullo, Bertie," Nevill said carelessly, as he shook hands. "I was on my
way to the club."
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