TALKING-TALBOT-Chapter-02

The trainload of horses had been delivered and paid for, and Chester Talbot was preparing to return to his ranch, anxious to be on his way. He had remained in Hoboken all the time; hadn’t crossed the river to the big city.

If there was any bitterness in his feeling for his old home, it didn’t show in his conduct. He had stood on the end of the wharf, while the horses were being loaded on the steamer, studying the wonderful sky line across the river with interest and admiration.

He had not wavered for a moment, however, in his determination not to go to New York. He knew he would certainly be recognized and called on for explanations. And why should he explain? No, his life was in the West. He would go back without seeing anybody.

A letter was pushed under his door, after the primitive fashion of the second-rate hotel where he was stopping. It made a very faint noise, but his hearing was very keen; he turned and saw it.

“A mistake,” he thought; there was no one to write to him, no one in the wide world. He went over and picked it up and looked at the address. It was for him, and in a woman’s handwriting.

He frowned slightly, his lean, brown face seeming to harden. Who could know he was there? Above all, what woman? And why should any woman write to him?

It seemed as if he was minded to toss the letter into the wastebasket. He held it by one corner for a moment, then changed his mind and opened it with cold deliberation.

“Dear Chester,” it began. He looked for the signature: “Nathalie Brookfield.” “Oh!” he murmured, his face softening wonderfully as he began to read.

“Dear Chester: I learned, by the merest chance, that you were here. I have waited, hoping you would come to see me. Since you do not, I must ask you to come—beg you to come, if that is necessary. You can do something for me; at least I think you can. If you are what you used to be, I am sure you can. Please come! I need you. “Affectionately,

“Nathalie Brookfield.”

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket, his face troubled. In another moment he was on his way. He took the tunnel cars and went under the river and as far uptown as they would carry him. A taxi took him to Fifty-sixth Street, just west of Fifth Avenue. He knew the house well.

He was shown to the reception room. It was just as he remembered it, and it brought a gentle smile to his face as he looked around. He heard a rustle of silk and faced the door. A beautiful woman of forty-five came toward him with hands outstretched, a glad smile on her careworn face.

“You came at once, Chester,” she said gratefully, as he took her hands in his.

“Did you doubt that I would, dear lady?” he answered, studying her face earnestly. “I would have responded to such a call, no matter where I was. My one good friend when all the others had failed me.”

“No, I didn’t doubt you, Chester.” She looked him over while he kept his eyes on her face. “All the change in you is for the better, and that is saying very much. You have prospered?”

“Thanks to you.”

“Oh, no; thanks to yourself, Chester. And there has never been another woman?”

“No other, and never will be. If you had a daughter, perhaps.” And he smiled with wonderful tenderness. “Yes,” he went on, in a certain curt, decisive way peculiar to him. “I have

prospered. Not rich, but I have plenty

for my needs, and in the way of making more.”

“I am so glad, Chester. I never doubted that you would.”

“Shall we sit down?” He arranged the chairs so that they would be close together and face to face. “If I speak of myself,” he went on, before she could say anything, “it is because I want you to know what little there is to know before you tell me why you want me. You are in some trouble and think I can help you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried, her lips quivering. “When I heard you were so near, I remembered your courage and resourcefulness, and turned to you. You seemed the very one. Now I don’t know.”

“I know,” he snapped, his firm jaws setting. “I can help you, dear friend. Let me tell you about myself briefly. I have a ranch worth all of one hundred thousand dollars. I have over one hundred thousand in cash; I have fifty thousand safely invested. I have perfect health, some experience, and absolute confidence in myself. Everything, to the last drop of blood, to the last cent, I lay at your feet.”

“Oh, Chester! So much for so little!”

“It is so little for so much, dear lady. Do you remember the broken-hearted, only half-sober boy you found one morning in his rooms? That boy you risked your reputation to save. You left a ballroom to come to me because you had heard I was on the verge of suicide. If you had been discovered there, or known to be there, your reputation would have been gone.”

“I had loved your father.”

“You sobered me, you made me look life squarely in the face, you put your arms about me and kissed me. You saved me. If you could only guess how grateful I am for the chance to do something for you, while sorry for the need. Now tell me.”

The tears were rolling down her face now; hope had released them. “It is my boy. Donald,” she said.

“Little Donald?”

“You forget the years, Chester. He’s as big as you.”

“He hasn’t—hasn’t started on the way I took?”

“Oh, no! But he was in Paris when the war broke out—studying art. He”—she bit her lip to control herself—”he went to the front.”

“Yes?”

“He—he’s been missing for six weeks.”

“A prisoner in Germany, of course.”

“That’s what I hope; that’s what I hope. But, oh, Chester! I can get no word of him. Not a word; and I’ve used money and influence. I’m afraid

he’s—he’s—” She broke down and

sobbed, her hands over her face.

Talbot started up and walked the floor several times; then went to her side, and, kneeling, put his arm about her.

“He isn’t dead. Don’t be afraid of that, dear lady. If he had been, you would have known it before this. He’s a prisoner, and I’ll find him. Don’t worry any more.”

She turned and looked into his strong face, wiping her tears away. “It was an inspiration to send for you. You bring back my courage. But”—and her voice faltered—”I don’t know what you can do. I have had inquiries made through the German embassy; I have had Ambassador Gerard urged by our government and by personal friends to look for him. I have done everything that any one could suggest. You know I can command so much influence. What—what are you thinking of?”

“I’m going to search the prisons of Germany and Austria, dear lady.”

“You!” He had spoken so quietly

that it seemed as if she could not have understood. “You will do what?”

He patted her reassuringly on the arm and rose to his feet. “I will see every prisoner in Germany and Austria; I will! But there! I’m going

to find him.”

“But you can’t leave!” she began

protestingly.

“I can do anything in this world that I want to do, and I want to find Don more than I want to do anything else.”

“But—”

“The discussion is ended, dear friend,” he said, with an air of finality. “Now to ways and means.”

“You will need money. Luckily I have plenty of that. But—”

“There are no buts. You will point out all the avenues of your influence to me, and put me in the way of using them. Come! You have memoranda, letters, information. I want everything. Shall we sit down now? Have you time?”

“How energetic you are! How hope-inspiring! And you are sure you—”

“Dear lady, do I look uncertain? If I could only make you understand my joy in being able to serve you! There! Don’t waste time over that. Let me see everything that will help me. Show me what you’ve done.”

They spent until midnight looking over letters, cablegrams, notes; in discussing the details of what had been done; in writing letters of introduction for Talbot’s use.

“There!” he said finally, standing up and buttoning his coat. “Now to start things!”

“You seem to know just what you will do,” she said, with a sigh of relief and a look of admiration. “Nobody else has.”

“Nobody else cared as much. Good night. There’s a man I must see tonight, if possible. He will give me my first start.” He took her hand and kissed it with profound courtesy. “When shall I see you again?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I go now to make sure of my passage over under the best conditions; then on to Washington to interview these people and get my passport. I’ll see you again before I start.”

He went quickly. He was going to see Colonel St. John, if possible. It was late, but he knew the club the colonel put up at, and knew he was likely to keep late hours.

The colonel, in fact, had just come in, and on receipt of Talbot’s card had him brought in at once. “Anything wrong?” he demanded, voicing his first thought.

“Nothing, Colonel. When you asked me to take the shipload of horses over to the other side—”

“It was a mistake, Mr. Talbot,” interrupted the colonel, flushing.

“Is the offer still open?” asked Talbot.

“Why—why,” stammered the colonel, “yes, I suppose so.”

“I would like to consider it. Let me explain why.” He told in a few words of the disappearance of Donald Brookfield, and of his determination to hunt for him. “It occurred to me,” he went on, “that if I took your horses over, you might be willing to help me get to the front to talk with some of the fellows who were in the company with Donald. You see, I shall need all possible influence.”

“It will be quite easy. The head of the commissariat department is a personal friend—a good sort. I’ll give you a letter to him. He’ll help you if he can.”

“When is the boat to start?”

“There’s a small lot of horses to come yet, but we’re hoping to get her off on Saturday—four days from now.”

“It’s understood, then,” said Talbot. “I’ll see you Friday night. I’m off for Washington now. Thank you. Good night.”

The next morning, as soon as it was possible to do anything, Talbot was going about Washington in a limousine which he had engaged for the day. Thanks to the letters he carried from a person of so much social importance as Mrs. Brookfield, he transacted his business with unusual swiftness.

With all his expedition, however, there was an inevitable quantity of red tape to be unrolled and tied and untied. He was compelled to go to one legation and another several times; to the state department many times.

He never lost his quiet imperturbability, however; never relaxed his pertinacious grasp on the object in view. He acted always as if he had no suspicion of failing to obtain what he asked for, and he frankly told the full story of his quest.

He was a difficult man to put off; and on the second day he went about reaping the harvest he had sown the first day, so that he was able that night to take the express back to New York.

Toward the end of the second day, however, he began to have an uneasy, unpleasant sense of being followed. It occurred to him at once that he might be the object of the attentions of an international spy, though he could not understand why he should be in face of the fact that he had so carefully told his whole story.

He laid simple traps for his shadow, if he should have one, and was soon rewarded by discovering a very innocent-looking Westerner always near. Then, being satisfied, and having nothing to conceal, he went his way without further concern.

The morning he reached New York, he was amused to find his shadow still after him. He went to his hotel in Hoboken for breakfast, the food there being satisfactory, as it often is at second-rate hotels.

He had not been at his table many minutes when his man sauntered in; no longer a Westerner, but now a respectable business man. Talbot’s blue eyes twinkled.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as the man passed him; “I think we’ve met before.”

The man started the least bit. “I—I don’t remember,” he said.

“My name’s Talbot.”

“I think you’re mistaken, sir.”

“Not at all.” Talbot was openly smiling now. “You were a Western man yesterday. Don’t you remember how you followed me about from legation to legation, all over Washington?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Sit down and eat with me. Do! Yes, please do! I want to save you time and trouble. I’ll tell you who I am and what I was going about for. Or do you know?”

The man was flushed and uncertain. There was something in Talbot’s eyes that made discourtesy impossible and denial difficult. He tried to move away. “You are mistaken,” was the best he could think to say.

“Not in the least. Don’t you remember how often we met yesterday? Do sit down! You are wasting a lot of good time over me. I have no secrets. What government do you represent?”

The man turned, chagrin and anger depicted on his face, and left the room without looking again at Talbot. The latter laughed softly, shook his head slowly, and went on with his breakfast.

“I suppose,” he murmured, “that the poor fellow must do something to justify himself. Good God! What a business!”

With this he dismissed the matter from his mind and went about the work he had yet to do. He must telegraph and write to his manager, get himself clothes suitable to the conventions of European life, see Mrs. Brookfield, and do innumerable other things, some trifling, some important.

One of his first acts was to go to the steamer, announce his connection with the shipment of horses, and secure his stateroom. Then, as early in the day as he thought admissible, he went to see Mrs. Brookfield; and had the satisfaction, on leaving her, of knowing that she was as happy as hope could make her under the circumstances.

The last thing he did was to see Colonel St. John and get from him his credentials and the promised letter. He slept on board that night, and was up early in the morning to look over the horses and talk with the men who had been engaged to take care of them.

As it came near to sailing time, he went on deck and looked about. The friends of the few passengers had gone ashore, and the usual talk was going on between deck and dock. He glanced idly over the wharf, and suddenly smiled. The man who had shadowed him in Washington, and whom he had accosted in the dining room, was furtively watching the vessel from the shelter of a shadowed corner.

“Poor fool!” he murmured, and was turning away when his eye was attracted by a man hurrying down the wharf, carrying a large box on his shoulder. There was just time for him to give his burden to some one on board before the gangplank was withdrawn.

“Somebody always comes at the last moment,” said a sweet, musical voice.

He turned quickly, because it seemed that the remark was addressed to him. He looked down into one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. It was that of a woman who might have been anywhere between twenty and twenty-five.

She was evidently one of the passengers, and had been leaning on the rail watching the activity on the wharf. She smiled in a frank, friendly way as their eyes met.

“Yes,” he responded coldly. “I beg your pardon, sir!” said a voice behind him.

He turned quickly, pleased with an excuse for cutting short any conversation with the smiling beauty. The speaker was one of the men engaged to look after the horses. He was an alert, trim-looking young fellow, and had already attracted Talbot’s notice.

“A letter for you, sir,” the man said, holding it out. “A man just came with it. He brought a box for you. Where shall I put it?”

Talbot moved a few paces away and opened the envelope. The letter was written on the paper of the club where Colonel St. John stopped; and when Talbot glanced at the end of the letter he saw the colonel’s name signed there.

My Dear Talbot (Talbot frowned slightly at the familiarity): When I was talking to you last night I quite forgot to speak of a box of samples I wished to have delivered at the commissary department. I am sending it by bearer, and I shall be greatly obliged to you if you will see that it is delivered to the address. You will not need to take any care of it, as it contains only samples of a few things I can get over here, in case they should be wanted by the army in France.

“What have you done with the box?” Talbot demanded, as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket for reference.

“It’s on the main deck.”

“Is there any place down among the horses where it will be safe? It is for delivery on the other side.”

“Plenty of room in one of the feed bunkers.”

“Put it where it won’t be lost.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man went below; and Talbot, mainly to avoid the young woman who had spoken to him, went forward.

He was annoyed with the colonel for the familiarity of his address, and he was annoyed with himself for being annoyed. And yet it was certainly unlike Colonel St. John, who had treated him

throughout with an almost ceremonious courtesy.

By this time, the vessel was gliding slowly out into the river, hugging the wharf closely. As she went out, the groups on the wharf began to break up and straggle away. Once more Talbot saw the man who had shadowed him, but this time he was with another man, to whom he was talking earnestly.

Talbot looked after them, smiling, and yet puzzled. There was something familiar about the second man, and yet he could not place him in his memory. He tried for a moment to do so; then dismissed the matter. It seemed too ridiculous to think about.

Ridiculous as it was, however, his mind continued to revert to the man in the effort to place him. Also it reverted to the colonel’s familiar address.

When he went below for lunch, he had a third trifling annoyance: the beautiful young woman sat at his right hand. He sat at the foot of the table.