CHAPTER VIII

MAGGIE HUTCHINSON INTERVENES

“When you two have finished your parlor-tricks,” said Hooper, endeavoring to copy a judicial eye-glare he had seen used by the Lord Chief Justice, “this committee will proceed to the business of the sitting.”

It was, indeed, necessary for our budding lawyer to recall our wandering thoughts to the affairs of the girl whom we believed to be then half-way across the Atlantic on a journey to the British Isles. We might accept Karl’s mediumistic statements to the fullest extent, not only reading into them the literal significance of the conversations and scenes he reported, but also paying heed to the logical outcome of these episodes; yet there were serious difficulties in the way of applying the information thus acquired.

Put baldly, what would Karl say to Miss Margaret Hutchinson, who was presumably accompanied by her mother, if he went to meet the _Merlin_ at Liverpool?

Let us, in imagination, reconstruct the incident, after the manner beloved of the French _juge d’instruction_. The great liner draws up to her berth at the landing-stage. Gangways are lowered, and there is a frantic rush of passengers to enter the Customs shed, though the last philosopher who walks placidly ashore knows that his luggage will be decorated with little printed crowns in ample time to permit him to travel to London by the same train that conveys the first triumphant struggler.

Hovering between a portion of a wall marked “H” and the ticket barrier of the railway station will be found Maggie and her mama, both looking exceedingly well after the voyage, and in a state of repressed excitement arising from the conviction innate in every woman’s soul that she will never see her boxes again, once they have been so carelessly mixed up with other people’s belongings.

Karl, exercising a degree of tact blended with silver, obtains admission to the enclosure, and recognizes Maggie at once, having seen her ten days ago at Manhattan Beach.

But it is fully ten years since Maggie last saw him, so there occurs a social embarrassment in the nature of what our sporting friends call a “bull finch.” Nevertheless, Karl, having ingratiating manners, and being really an old friend and the son of Mrs. Hutchinson’s special crony, surmounts the obstacle, and is received with enthusiasm tempered by a certain shyness on Maggie’s part (her memory of youthful caresses becoming clearer each instant) and by speculation on the part of mama as to the reason which induced this very good-looking and well-dressed young man to come all the way to Liverpool to meet them.

Clearly, Karl must talk platitudes about the weather, the fine sea-going qualities of the _Merlin_, the ridiculousness of all Customs examinations, or any other inane topic at the outset; it would never do to plunge straight off into the occult cause of his presence. Moreover, the train leaves for London in five minutes, and hosts of acquaintances, some of long standing, others of the ship-board or moth variety, exchange cheery greetings as they pass.

“I suppose you are staying in Liverpool, Mr. Grier?” says Mrs. Hutchinson at last, and Karl is impelled to say that he intends to accompany them to London, when, at this critical state of affairs, there enters the villain of the play in the shape of Steindal’s agent with a contract in his hand and a stylographic pen in his waistcoat pocket.

After all is said and done, pretty Miss Margaret is making music her profession, the Darjeeling tea-garden not having proved a great success; and what chance does Karl, with his visions, stand against Steindal, the concert director of international fame? For the great “Wilhelm” has risen from the dramatic agency in which Hooper had heard of him to the higher level of controlling the _maestri_, _prime donne_, and other prodigies of that strange world which finds all its inspiration in the first seven letters of the alphabet. His influence is so far-reaching, his verdict accepted so unhesitatingly by managers and publishers, that not many stars in the musical firmament can move in orbits apart from Steindal. For a novice to attain notoriety without his assistance would be almost impossible. Both mother and daughter have already been taught by bitter experience that one must move circumspectly where such a man is concerned, and, above all things, not dare to interfere with plans he has made for professional advancement. So, when Karl would urge Maggie to refuse the highly advantageous offer made by Steindal’s London agent--who had actually come from London to press it on his client’s acceptance--both the girl and her mother must regard him as somewhat akin to a lunatic.

The more mysteriously accurate the statements he made concerning recent events on the other side of the Atlantic, the less the ladies would regard their value from the common-sense point of view. Mrs. Hutchinson, of course, remembered the escape from death she and her husband, and probably her child, owed to Karl’s intervention years ago in India. But that was a “strange dream,” a “queer coincidence,” and any one who permitted her life to be governed by such supernatural revelations must either be distinguished by Providence outside the plane of ordinary mortals or be qualifying speedily for the “dangerous” ward in an asylum.

All this, and more, did I set forth temperately before my young friends. They agreed with me, Hooper completely, and Grier with reservations.

“My advice is that you ask your mother to communicate with Mrs. Hutchinson and her daughter,” I said. “It will surely follow that you all meet in London or elsewhere, and you will have no difficulty in leading up to a disclosure of your knowledge in what may be described as a reasonable and convincing manner. They will be surprised, of course, but they will be forewarned if evil is contemplated. It is not that Steindal’s help will be injurious to Miss Hutchinson. He has brought out a great many eminent artistes, and the public regard his introduction of a newcomer as a sort of hallmark on precious metal. Moreover, long before any nefarious plot can mature, you may have information of a far more convincing sort.”

“Exactly,” broke in Hooper. “I told Karl last night that he was in for a series of first-rate biograph adventures now. He can’t avoid ’em. It is perfectly evident that Constantine will ring him up at any hour of the day or night. Great Scott! What a world it will be when we all possess a telelog number!”

We ignored the new word, and neither Karl nor I had as yet hit on “telegnomy.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Karl, submissively. “When a journalist and a lawyer come to dissect a modern miracle they leave precious little of its mysticism. But there is one thing you ought to do. You, Frank, as an eye-witness, to a certain extent, should set down in writing all that has taken place and all that I have told you, while our friend here can affix his signature as further testimony of its truth.”

“Holy gee! Do you think I have missed a word of it?” cried Hooper, triumphantly producing his note-book.

“This is only the first chapter of a romance,” I said.

“It may be the end as well as the beginning,” was Grier’s quiet comment. “Do not forget that many years have elapsed between these different excitations of a faculty I cannot control. Last night I advanced a long stage in my attainments, and it is possible my extra sense may disappear as rapidly as it has developed.”

“I cannot agree with you,” said I. “The history of your gradual extension of power seems rather to prove the opposite contention. By a slow and well-marked process, nature has perfected in you an amazing apparatus which probably heralds the advent of some mechanical contrivance far beyond the range of our present knowledge. Why should she suddenly destroy that which she has taken so long to fashion? It is unquestionable that birthmarks on human beings are produced by a curiously simple variant of the photographic lens. I have seen the dial of a clock reproduced in a girl’s eyes, the clear drawing of a rose on a child’s shoulder. Such pre-natal photographs are not common, but they have always been and will continue to be, while the human race possesses its present characteristics.”

“I would be better content if some other subject were chosen for this new demonstration,” said he.

“Oh, cheer up, Grier!” cried Hooper. “For all you know, you may be the last of the Mohicans. I was reading Pliny’s description of the ‘Agate of Pyrrhus’ the other day. Ever hear of it? No! Well, you have seen polished agates, and any one can find amusement in discovering heads, figures, animals, even landscapes in them. A good specimen is called a ‘gamaheu,’ and Pliny’s agate was a rip-snorter. It contained the Nine Muses with Apollo in the midst of them. Having attained the dignity of classic art, poor old nature grew tired, and now we have nary a gamaheu.”

“You are scoffing,” I said indignantly. “Let us adjourn the session. I came here to see Oxford, not to indulge in physiolatry.”

“The fact is that you are surfeited with wonders,” retorted Hooper. “It is a common failing of the species. Think what a supreme genius was the first pithecoid man who invented a wheel, who used fire, who fashioned a bow! How we ought to grovel at the mere mention of the great unknown who perceived that the other beasts were created to serve mankind!”

I rang for a waiter. Lager beer alone could quench this young sage’s enthusiasm.

Perhaps Grier had exhausted some accumulation of nervous force, perhaps the supply cells of the electric waves which carried sight and sound across the Atlantic were unequal just then to sustained calls on their resources, but, whatever the reason, it is certain that he was untroubled by visions, waking or asleep, during several days. I prolonged my visit to Oxford, passing all the available time in Karl’s company, and, more often than not, Hooper was with us.

The latter tried every artifice, especially during the undisturbed eventide, to induce in his companion that which he considered the fitting conditions for a telegnomic trance.

“Guess Maggie’s feelin’ fine an’ dandy by this time,” he would say, after alluding to the “sickening monotony” of the first days at sea.

Or again:

“Wonder if Steindal is going to Delmonico’s to-night? It’s a sure thing he’ll give the other place a distant nod of recognition for some time to come.”

But it was of no avail.

Once there was a chance of success. We were talking of the uselessness of certain lines of thought, and I instanced as an example of fallacious reasoning the famous problem of John of Salisbury:

“When a hog is driven to market with a rope round his neck does the man or the rope take him?”

“I read Plato a good deal,” said Hooper, “and there are times when I more than half suspect him of asking a question akin to that with his tongue in his check.”

“That is because you have a small head, Frank,” said Karl. “Plato was a broad man. Indeed, his proper name was Aristocles, and he was called Platon, the broad-shouldered one, as a nickname. Hence, I should credit him with a big head, and big-headed men lead in intellect. Observe, _I_ have a big head. My size in hats is seven and a quarter. My natural modesty prevents me from drawing further conclusions.”

“That fellow Constantine has a small head, I fancy?” murmured Hooper, with a quick sidelong glance at me.

“Yes, I think so. Oh, yes, I am sure. It is hatchet-shaped, with the animal propensities dominant and yet a certain intellectuality of forehead, aided, perhaps, by the large, dark eyes.... But Steindal! He has a head modelled like an egg, a type curiously capable of the highest and most debased attributes.”

He was silent after that. Hooper signalled to me to remain stolid as a Red Indian. But Karl soon moved restlessly.

“You fellows imagine I am on the verge of a new display,” he cried with a certain impatience. “I don’t say it is impossible, but there is something holding me back. I don’t deny that I tried just then to send forth an investigating ray. But nothing happened, not even the preliminary umbra.”

He was fretful this evening, annoyed that the power should apparently have escaped him. He dreaded, I believe, lest the tremendous strain of the incidents in the Broadway restaurant should have permanently impaired the hyper-sensitive membranes and nerve-cells which were called into play.

None of us had the slightest suspicion of what had really happened, namely, that Karl himself, by perplexing his ordinary faculties with doubts anent pretty Maggie Hutchinson, had set up a hostile influence (using the phrase solely in its magnetic meaning) which temporarily benumbed the delicate organism of his sixth sense.

It took him some time to acquire the exact poise of mental placidity most favorable to the exercise of his unique faculties. Meanwhile, a startling confirmation of his “visions” came in a very unexpected and prosaic manner.

Hooper and I were awaiting him at the door of the _Mitre_, a drive to Woodstock being the order of the afternoon, when Karl came to us in a great hurry, his lips apart, and his big blue eyes shining with excitement.

“Say,” whispered Hooper, “the _Merlin_ has arrived and things have happened.”

And Karl had actually received this most surprising telegram from his mother in Scotland:

“Mrs. Hutchinson and daughter Maggie arrive in England to-day from States. They proceed direct to Pall Mall Hotel, London, and are most anxious to see you at once. Wire them and me. With love, Mother.”