When Larry awoke the next morning, he blinked for several bewildered moments about his bedroom, so unlike his cell at Sing Sing and so unlike Hunt's helter-skelter studio down at the Duchess's which he had shared, before he realized that this big, airy chamber and this miracle of a bed on which he lay were realities and not a mere continuation of a dream of fantastic and body-flattering wealth.
Then his mind turned back a page in the book of his life and he lay considering the events of the previous evening: the scene with Barney and Old Jimmie and Maggie, their all denouncing him as a police stool-pigeon and a squealer, and Maggie's defiant departure to begin her long-dreamed-of career as a leading-woman and perhaps star in what she saw as great and thrilling adventures; his own enforced and frenzied flight; his strange method of reaching this splendid apartment; his meeting with the handsome, drink-befuddled young man in evening clothes; his meeting with the exquisitely gowned patrician Miss Sherwood, who had received him with the poise and frank friendliness of a democratic queen, and had immediately ordered him off to bed.
Strange, all of these things! But they were all realities. And in this new set of circumstances which had come into being in a night, what was he to do?
He recalled that Miss Sherwood had said that she and he would have their talk that morning. He pulled his watch from under his pillow. It was past nine o'clock. He looked about him for clothes, but saw only a bathrobe. Then he remembered Judkins carrying off his rain-soaked garments, with "Ring for me when you wake up, sir."
Larry found an electric bell button dangling over the top of his bed by a silken cord. He pushed the button and waited. Within two minutes the door opened, and Judkins entered, laden with fresh garments.
"Good-morning, sir," said Judkins. "Your own clothes, and some shirts and other things I've borrowed from Mr. ****. How will you have your bath, sir--hot or cold?"
"Cold," said the bewildered Larry.
Judkins disappeared into the great white-tiled bathroom, there was the rush of splashing water for a few moments, then silence, and Judkins reappeared.
"Your bath is ready, sir. I've laid out some of Mr. ****'s razors. How soon shall I bring you in your breakfast?"
"In about twenty minutes," said Larry.
Exactly twenty minutes later Judkins carried in a tray, and set it on a table beside a window looking down into Park Avenue. "Miss Sherwood asked me to tell you she would see you in the library at ten o'clock, sir--where she saw you last night," said Judkins, and noiselessly was gone.
Freshly shaven, tingling from his bath, with a sense of being garbed flawlessly, though in garments partly alien, Larry addressed himself to the breakfast of grapefruit, omelette, toast and coffee, served on Sevres china with covers of old silver. In his more prosperous eras Larry had enjoyed the best private service that the best hotels in New York had to sell; but their best had been coarse and slovenly compared to this. He would eat for a minute or two--then get up and look at his carefully dressed self in the full-length mirror--then gaze from his high, exclusive window down into Park Avenue with its stream of cars comfortably carrying their occupants toward ten o'clock jobs in Wall or Broad Streets--and then he would return to his breakfast. This was amazing--bewildering!
He was toward the end of his omelette when a knock sounded at his door. Thinking Judkins had returned, he called, "Come in"; but instead of Judkins the opening door admitted the belligerent young man in rumpled evening clothes of the previous night. Now he wore a silk dressing-gown of a flamboyant peacock blue, his feet showed bare in toe slippers, his wavy, yellowish hair had the tousled effect of a very recent separation from a pillow. A cigarette depended from the corner of his mouth.
Larry started to rise. But the young man arrested the motion with a gesture of mock imperativeness.
"Keep your seat, fair sir; I would fain have speech with thee." He crossed and sat on a corner of Larry's table, one slippered foot dangling, and looked Larry over with an appraising eye. "Permit me to remark, sir," he continued in his grand manner, "that you look as though you might be some one."
"Is that what you wanted to tell me, Mr. Sherwood?" queried Larry.
The other's grand manner vanished and he grinned. "Forget the 'Mr. Sherwood,' or you'll make me feel not at home in my own house," he begged with humorous mournfulness. "Call me ****. Everybody else does.
That's settled. Now to the reason for this visitation at such an ungodly hour. Sis has just been in picking on me. Says I was rude to you last night. I suppose I was. I'd had several from my private stock early in the evening; and several more around in jovial Manhattan joints where prohibition hasn't checked the flow of happiness if you know the countersign. The cumulative effect you saw, and were the victim of. I apologize, sir."
"That's all right, Mr.--"
"**** is what I said," interrupted the other.
"****, then. It's all right. I understand."
"Thanks. I'll call you Old Captain Nemo for short. Sis didn't tell me your name or anything about you, and she said I wasn't to ask you questions. But whatever Isabel does is usually one hundred percent right. She said I'd probably be seeing a lot of you, so I'll introduce myself. You'd learn all about me from some one else, anyhow, so you might as well learn about me from me and get an impartial and unbiased statement. Clever of me, ain't it, to beat 'em to it?"
Larry found himself smiling back into the ingratiating, irresponsible, boyish face. "I suppose so."
"I'll shoot you the whole works at once. Name, Richard Livingston Sherwood. Years, twenty-four, but alleged not yet to have reached the age of discretion. One of our young flying heroes who helped save France and make the world safe for something or other by flapping his wings over the endless alkali of Texas. Occupation, gentleman farmer."
