CHAPTER VIII

CONSPIRING CIRCUMSTANCES

I would have liked very much to know the meaning of it myself, for, of all things, this was naturally the last I had expected. How could the grave give up its dead? How could this fellow be Joyce, when I knew Joyce to have been ground to pieces by a locomotive three weeks ago? And assuredly he wasn't the man who had eloped with my car.

There remained, then, the obvious answer that he, too, was an impostor. Either such an organization as the Black Company really existed, and, for all my fancied cleverness, they had discovered the deception and sent another member to take my place, or this fellow had discovered it somehow on his own hook, and meant to profit by it himself.

I would have liked very much also if Brenda Gelette had been somewhere else at the moment, for the uncompromising stare of her eyes, which I felt rather than saw, was singularly disconcerting. Certainly her inning had come, and, in her present mood, I knew she would make the most of it. For one who had presumed to moralize, I was in rather an unenviable position.

"If this man says I assaulted and robbed him," I replied to Varney, "he's saying what isn't so. I never saw him in my life before."

I could see that Varney was more than willing to believe me--and the knowledge hurt. "What have you to say to that?" he demanded triumphantly of the other. "Come, repeat your story, word for word. And mind, if I catch you lying, my man, it will be a very serious business for you. I'll have you jailed for fraud and false pretenses as sure as I sit here! So think twice before you speak."

"I've nothing to fear, sir," said the other respectfully, but with the manner of one strong in the truth. "I repeat, sir, that I'm Henry Joyce, Mr. Fremstad's old chauffeur, and I can prove everything I say. On the night of June sixteenth, a couple of days before I was to report here, I was sandbagged and robbed in Philadelphia. I was out of my head for over a week in the hospital. My papers and clothes were gone, and, when I got out yesterday, I had to get a new outfit. Then I came on here, never thinking to find some one working under my name. If you call up Mr. Fremstad, sir, on the long distance, he'll tell you I've been in the hospital for the last three weeks, for I saw him yesterday. He'll tell you this fellow ain't me. Just ask him, sir, what Henry Joyce looks like----"

"Pardon me, but there's really no need," I put in. "I admit that my name isn't Joyce, and that I'm an impostor."

A little gasp came from the window where Brenda was standing, while Varney looked as if about to choke. At that moment I realized in what affection I held the old fellow, in spite of his temper and humors.

Our nightly battles over the chessboard had drawn us closer together than I had ever suspected. For all his bitter tongue and manner, I saw he had formed a regard for me far beyond my deserts; I caught a look of pain and distress in his sunken eyes, the sort that can only be caused by an esteemed one found unworthy.

In a moment it was gone, and he rasped out: "So you're an impostor, hey? You're not Joyce? Then who the devil are you?"

"Why, a nobody, sir," I replied, seeing nothing to be gained by giving my real name, considering his poor opinion of my family. I decided, too, it would be wisest if Joyce knew as little about me as possible. I realized now the advantages of wealth, for I meant to spare no expense in investigating the Black Company. Better let Joyce and Corby think me a poor adventurer rather than one who could hire an army of detectives, if need be, and use all the influence that great wealth commands.

"You mean to say, then, that you're a criminal?" pursued Varney. "That you robbed and assaulted this man----"

"No, sir. I was in New York on June sixteenth, and I can prove it. I repeat I never saw this man before, and I dare him to swear to my identity in a police court."

"No, I wouldn't take my oath on it," said Joyce, who, perhaps, had no wish to bring the police into the matter. "It was dark, and I didn't have a good look at the fellow who slugged me. But the point is, you've got my papers, you took my name and job; so it looks a bit as if you was the fellow, don't it?"

"I should say it does!" exclaimed Varney, eying me grimly. "Come, you had better be more explicit. What is your name, and how did you get into this mess, if you claim to be innocent?"

I told him I preferred not to mention my real name. "Call me Peter Smith, sir," I said, "for I don't want my folks to hear of this trouble. I was simply down on my luck and anxious to find a job. I came from New York on June seventeenth, and I was assaulted and robbed just as Mr. Joyce says he was. My clothes were taken, too, and in the ones left me I found that letter from Mr. Fremstad."

Old Varney listened to my story with open skepticism, at no pains to hide his disbelief, while Joyce smiled behind a large hand. I could hardly blame any one for not crediting it, but I received help from the most unexpected quarter, Brenda Gelette saying quietly: "Peter told me about his assault and robbery the day he came here."

Noble soul! How forgiving, how generous is woman! It was evident that she had not told Mr. Varney of my recent unpardonable conduct. Perhaps there had been no opportunity; or perhaps, knowing how necessary I was to him, she had decided to sacrifice her own feelings and say nothing. At all events, here she was coming to my rescue, heaping coals of fire on my most unworthy head.

"He said, uncle," she continued, "that he spent the night with a farmer called Taylor, near Sea Bright station, and I know this to be a fact."

So her curiosity as to my past had not been confined merely to questioning me. It was fortunate I had told the truth about Taylor, one of those happy accidents that happen to me infrequently.

"It was Taylor's finding that letter from Mr. Fremstad and calling me Joyce that put the idea into my head," I hastened to explain. "I knew a lot about automobiles, and when I happened on Miss Gelette, stuck with that blow-out----"

"Yes, that is quite true," she interrupted again. "It was I, uncle, who said he was Joyce; he never claimed to be. You see that letter----" And she explained how it had fallen out of my pocket.

"Thank you, kindly, ma'am," I said as she finished. "There was no excuse for my deceiving you and Mr. Varney, ma'am, but--but I wanted the job very much----"

"Were you out of work?" asked Mr. Varney.

"Yes, sir; for six months," I answered quite truthfully.

"How did you lose your last place?" he demanded.

"Through no fault of my own, sir," I replied, pleased at being still able to speak the truth. "I've been out of a job for all of six months and when I saw this chance--well, things sort of played into my hands, sir. I didn't deliberately plan it. I'm unfortunate, but I'm not a crook, and if Mr. Joyce still thinks I had a hand in his robbery, he has only to make a charge to the police, and I'll prove I was in New York that night."

"No, I wouldn't swear to nothing I wasn't dead sure of," said Joyce virtuously, his little, counter-sunk eyes still very busy with me. "An oath on the Book is a very serious thing. Besides, I know what hunting a job means, being hard up and desp'rate, and so, as far as I'm concerned, this won't be a police case. I've got my health back, and my job, and that's all I'm looking for."

"That's very decent of you, my man," said Varney, "and I promise you won't lose by it. Peter Smith, or whatever your name is," fixing his eyes grimly on me, "I suppose I would be doing my duty to society by jailing you for obtaining money under false pretenses. However, I have to bear in mind that you earned the money, that you served me honestly and efficiently, even though you secured the position by fraud. It seems a rather remarkable coincidence that both Joyce and you should have been assaulted and robbed by the same person, yet I believe your story. It shows you aren't used to the ways of deception, else you would have known very well that Joyce was bound to turn up and expose you. I choose to believe that misfortune and your necessity made you reckless of consequences. You've had your lesson, and I know you will profit by it. I will see what can be done in the way of getting you a situation, perhaps more suitable to your abilities--I may say I've had the matter under consideration for some time--and meanwhile you may remain here. I warrant you will find plenty to do."

I was in the middle of a speech of gratitude when there came a knock at the door, and the butler announced: "Mr. Frean, sir." And Frean followed the words in person.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "Didn't know you'd company----" And then his eyes fell on me.

It was the first time he had seen me at close quarters without my smoked glasses, and now I was standing in the full glare of the windows. "Good Lord!" he breathed, starting back as if he had seen a spook. "It can't be--it _is_ Pete Lawton!"

"Eh, what's that?" cried Varney, bouncing in his chair, while a stifled exclamation came from Brenda Gelette. "What's wrong with you, man!"

"It's--it's he!" cried Frean, pointing a trembling finger at me. "It's Pete Lawton without his mustache--the fellow who was supposed to have been killed by a train three weeks ago!"

They were all leaning forward, staring at me, and I noted a peculiar gleam of interest in the deep-set eyes of Joyce. My plan of keeping him ignorant of my identity was thus ruined just when it promised the greatest success, for I saw that further dodging was useless. Frean knew me, and if I attempted to deny my identity, he would set about proving it. He bore me no love, and would do it for spite, if nothing else.

I had expected that the mention of my true identity would produce some unfavorable emotion in Varney, but I had no idea of its depth and extent. His face had slowly assumed an awful reddish-black hue, and the veins on his forehead stood out like seams of blood until I thought he was going to have a stroke. Then he paled to the sickly color of old gold, and he sat trembling as if with the ague, his congested eyes positively glaring at me.

"So you're Peter Lawton, hey?" he croaked at length. "You weren't killed, after all?"

"I'm afraid I must admit the truth of that," I replied. "The story I told you was substantially true. The man who assaulted me stole my car, and was killed in my place."

Miss Gelette spoke for the third time, but now there was scarcely concealed anger, contempt, and animosity in her voice. "Uncle, Mr. Lawton was the person we nearly ran over that night, and whom you advised to enter the alcoholic ward of the nearest hospital."

Now I ask you, in all seriousness, is there any comprehending women? You remember the old darky preacher and how he kept insisting in his sermon that there was precious little difference between man and woman, until an aged Don Juan in the congregation was goaded into arising and declaiming "Well, brudder, let us thank de Lawd for dat little diff'rence!" But I must say I agreed with the preacher; I mean it has always seemed to me that a great deal of bunk has been written about the mystery of woman, her mental processes and psychology, and that in reality they are little, if at all, different from those of a man. Understand man and you understand woman. And yet I could conceive no man acting as did Miss Gelette, executing such an outrageous right-about-face. One moment she was my friend, the next my bitter enemy; one moment helping me nobly, the next seeking to complete my downfall. She had condoned, if not forgiven, my conduct toward her, and now simply because it transpired that I wasn't a professional chauffeur----No, I couldn't understand it; it was most mysterious, astounding, and sad. She looked at me as though I were some pariah.

"Eh?" said old Varney, in answer to her last pleasant remark. "You mean he was that besotted fool, and you've known it all along?"

"Yes," she said, "I have. I agreed to say nothing to you because I never imagined it to be his _usual_ condition. He gave me to understand it was in the nature of an accident. I wanted to give him another chance; I thought him worthy of it, and, of course, I had no idea he wasn't Joyce, no idea of his real identity. I didn't know he was telling untruths; I didn't think _anybody_ could lie so plausibly. I see now how foolish I was, how utterly mistaken I was in--in his real character."

Varney turned to me, his yellow face working. He spoke with the utmost difficulty, a sort of venomous croak. "A fine little joke, eh, Mr. Lawton?" rubbing his claws. "As I believe you possess an odd million dollars or so, I suppose I owe your inestimable services to a drunken debauch and your refined sense of humor? As a spy in my household, you've been having a little fun with me, hey? Quite in the exquisite and refined spirit of your famous family! You come to spy out and gloat over my infirmities, insinuate yourself into my confidence----"

"Nothing of the kind, sir!" I broke in, finding speech at last. "I never knew you were even acquainted with my family. I never heard your name mentioned, never knew you existed. I knew nothing about you----"

"Liar!" he shouted. "You're incapable of speaking the truth! Like father, like son. You've done nothing but tell lies since you came here. Get out of my house and never let me set eyes on you again! Go!"

"Mr. Varney," I said, "you must listen to me. If you will only have patience and hear me out----"

"If I only had strength I'd throw you out!" he cried, brandishing his cane. "Arnold, show this fellow out!"

Frean came forward obediently, but with no great heart, for he evidently remembered the fracas in my rooms following the dummy-bridge incident. "You'd better go, Lawton," he said, making no effort to hide his smug satisfaction. "You don't want the police in, do you?"

I wasn't caring either for him or the police, but I saw it was utterly impossible for me to say anything further to Varney. He had worked himself into such a frenzy that I feared he would do himself harm. The longer I stayed the worse it got, the mere sight of me being apparently enough, and so, without another word, I left the room and house.

When I was in the garage, exchanging Jules' borrowed plumage for the cheap serge suit left me by my unknown assailant, Joyce sauntered in with an air of one taking possession.

"Well, sir," he said respectfully enough, "you've had your joke, but blamed if I can see where it comes in. Catch me working for three weeks as a chauffeur if I had all your dough! May I ask why you done it, sir? You couldn't have been drunk all the time--meaning no offense, I'm sure."

"I could have been drunk all the time, only I wasn't," I said. "The whole matter is very simple. It was the result of a silly wager, and, if you know anything about me at all, you'll know that silly wagers are my strong point. I bet a fellow I could earn my keep, and that letter of yours from Mr. Hampsted showed me the way to get a job."

He did not correct my conscious and deliberate mistake about the name Fremstad. "Well, sir, a bet's a bet, and I've known funnier ones than that. It's queer how you and me come to be robbed by the same fellow, me in Philly one night, and you in Sea Bright the night after, for the same fellow must have pulled it off. Else, how would you have found that letter? And, of course, I see now you couldn't have done it, for millionaires don't go round robbing poor chauffeurs. Well, you've won your bet, sir, and I'm sure you're glad it's over. You must have found it pretty slow here, with the season only half started."

"Yes, slow enough. But, by the way, I had one funny experience. There's a fellow here by the name of Corby--he's Mr. Frean's chauffeur--and as you may meet him, Joyce, I may as well warn you that he's a bit cracked. Yes, a harmless sort of bug. There's a game called chess--ever play it? No, I don't suppose you do. Well, this fellow Corby must have gone kind of nutty over it, for he calls himself the King's Bishop's pawn. It's a fact. And once he called me the King's pawn. I met him a couple of times, and he drinks buttermilk to the health of the Black Company."

The man joined very heartily in my laugh. "Buttermilk! That's hardly in your line, sir, is it? And what's the Black Company?"

"Search me. Some crazy idea of his own. Maybe he means the black chessmen. I humored him, pretending to know all about it, just to see what else he'd say. Funny bug, but then they say we're all a bit cracked on some subject. Well, I've warned you, so don't be surprised if he starts calling _you_ the King's pawn and talks a lot of piffle. I guess you won't find it so slow with him here to josh."

"Maybe not, sir; though joshing lunatics ain't quite in my line. I'd rather have something healthier. If this fellow what's-his-name was to find out you'd been pulling his leg--well, he might take it to heart, and there's no telling how such bugs'll act. He hadn't ought to be let tool a car if he's as crazy as all that."

"Very likely he isn't crazy," I said. "Perhaps he was only joshing me, pulling _my_ leg. Anyway, I've given you the tip for what it may be worth. Crazy or not, he's a funny character."

"I should say so, sir. It's a bum idea, sir, however you take it--calling himself a chessman belonging to the Black Company. Maybe it's a thriller he'd seen at the movies. Anyway, sir, I'm sure you're glad to be quit of it all and to get back home. There's no place like home, sir, and you'll be having a warm welcome."

There was a look in his eyes I couldn't quite fathom and which he made no attempt to hide.

"That was some joy ride you had down here, sir," he added. "It must have been. And to think of you taking my name and job all on account of a bet! Well, well, we do make fool wagers, don't we? It'll be a great surprise to everybody, sir, when they hear it was the other fellow who was killed instead of you. And what a welcome home you'll get! I envy you, sir; I do indeed."

I said farewell to Joyce and left the garage with the feeling that he was the owner of some unpleasant joke which he believed I shared. It had nothing to do with the Black Company, his suspicions of me--if he had any--or mine of him. No, it was something altogether apart from that. What was it? I hadn't the least idea, but that it existed I felt certain. Could it be that, in spite of Frean's identification and my acknowledgment, Joyce did not believe I was Peter Lawton? That seemed hardly reasonable, yet I had no other explanation to offer. It was a puzzle.