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Page 62
"Hang the Rembrandt!" he said at parting. "I don't care how it turns
out. Run down for a few days at the end of the month, Victor--I can give
you some good shooting."
Glancing over a paper that evening, Mr. Lamb read of Jack Vernon's
return. But to find him proved to be a different matter, and at the end
of a week he was still unsuccessful. Then, meeting Victor Nevill on
Regent street, he induced him to join in the search for the missing
artist. The commission by no means pleased Nevill, but he did not see
his way to refuse.
* * * * *
For thirteen days Sir Lucius Chesney had been back at Priory Court,
happy among his horses and dogs, his short-horns and orchids; his
pictures rested temporarily under a cloud, and he was rarely to be found
in the spacious gallery. In London, Victor Nevill enjoyed life with as
much zest as his conscience would permit; Madge Foster dragged through
weary days and duller evenings at Strand-on-the-Green; and the editor of
the _Illustrated Universe_ wondered what had become of his bright young
war-artist since the one brief visit to the office.
At two o'clock on a drizzling, foggy morning a policeman, walking up
the Charing Cross Road, paused for a moment to listen to some remote
strains of music that came indistinctly from a distance; then he
shrugged his shoulders and went on--it was no business of his. The
sounds that attracted the policeman's attention had their source in a
cross street to the left--in one of those evil institutions known as a
"night club," which it seems impossible to eradicate from the fast life
of West End London.
It was a typical scene; there were many like it that night. The house
had two street doors, and behind the inner one, which was fitted with a
small grating and kept locked, squatted a vigilant keeper, equally ready
to open to a member or deny admittance to any one who had no business
there. On the first floor, up the dingy stairs, were two apartments. The
outer and smaller room had a bar at one side, presided over by a bright,
golden-haired young lady in _very_ conspicuous evening dress, whose
powers of _repartee_ afforded much amusement to her customers. These
were, many of them, in more or less advanced stages of intoxication, and
they comprised sporting men, persons from various unfashionable walks of
life, clerks who wanted to soar like eagles, and a few swell young men
who had dropped in to be amused. A sprinkling of women must be added.
Both apartments were hung with engravings and French prints and
decorated with tawdry curtains, and in the larger of the two dancing was
going on. Here the crowd was denser and of the same heterogeneous kind.
It was a festival of high jinks--a sway of riotous, unbridled merriment.
A performer at the piano, with a bottle of beer within easy reach,
rapped out the inspiriting chords of a popular melody. Couples glided
over the polished floor, some lightly, some galloping, and all reckless
of colliding with the onlookers. There was a touch of the _risque_ in
the dancing, suggesting the Moulin Rouge of a Casino de Paris carnival.
Occasionally, during a lull, songs were sung by music-hall _artistes_ of
past celebrity, who were now glad of the chance to earn a few shillings
before an uncritical audience. The atmosphere was charged with the scent
of rouge and powder, brandy and stale sherry. Coarse jest and laughter,
ringing on the night, mocked at go-to-bed London.
Two young men leaned against the wall of the dancing-room, close to
the door, both smoking cigars. They wore evening dress, considerably
rumpled, and their attitudes were careless. The elder of the two was
Tony Mostyn, a clever but dissipated artist of the decadent school, who
steered his life by the rule of indulgence and worked as little as
possible.
"It's rather dull," he said; "eh, old chap?"
"It gives one a bad taste," his companion replied. "I don't see why you
brought me here."
The second speaker was Jack Vernon. He looked bored and weary, but his
cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled; the women who glanced pertly
at him as they swung by inspired him merely with disgust. He had come to
the club with Mostyn, after a dozen turns at the Alhambra, followed by a
prolonged theater supper. He had drunk more than was good for him during
the course of the evening, but the effects had about worn off.
The story of the past two weeks--since Jack's return from India--was a
sad one. He tried his best to drown the bitter memories of Madge, of
what he had lost. He cut loose from Jimmie and other old friends, took
lodgings in an out-of-the-way quarter, and turned night into day. He had
plenty of money, and he had not been near the office of the _Universe_.
He found boon companions among the wildest acquaintances of his Paris
days, including Tony Mostyn and his set. But a fortnight had dispelled
the glamour, and life looked blacker to him than it had ever looked
before. Courage and manhood were at a low ebb. He laughed recklessly
as he wondered what the end would be.
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