Back Aa

Snarled Identities

Close

[235] <h2>CHAPTER XLVI. GORDON’S LETTERS REACH THEIR MARK.</h2> Ex-Senator William Deane Phelps smiled complacently as he stood before a glass in his dressing room. He was a tall man, and the sixty years that had passed over his head had left him his rather slim and upright figure. His hair was white, but abundant, and on the whole, he had good reason to consider himself a handsome and well-preserved man. “Is there anything else, sir?” his valet asked respectfully. “No,” the ex-senator answered. “It’s probable that I shall be very late, so you need not wait up.” “Thank you, sir. Shall I ring for your car?” “No, no! A taxi will do.” Possibly the ghost of a smile curved the lips of the valet, but if so, it was quickly gone. If his employer chose to keep his movements secret, that was his employer’s business. Ex-Senator Phelps took the light coat and silk hat that were handed to him, and strolled toward the door. He was a single man, but his position in the world had made it necessary for him to keep up a rather pretentious establishment. He stood in the doorway holding a cigar as the taxi[236] drove up, but at that moment his valet, who had followed him as if to close the door, spoke up in a surprised tone. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but this was lying on the floor. You stepped over it just now without knowing it. It’s addressed to you, and marked ‘Urgent.’ It’s stamped, but not postmarked—looks as if it had been slipped under the door instead.” Ex-Senator Phelps took the envelope with a careless air, and no premonition chilled him as he stepped back into the light of the hall and tore it open. As he glanced at the single sheet of paper, however, his face turned ghastly, and he reeled against a small statue that stood on a pedestal, throwing it to the floor and breaking it. “After all these years!” he muttered hoarsely to himself. Then his eyes fell upon the amazed face of his valet, and, as he crushed the letter in his hand, he made a great effort to pull himself together. “I—I shall not be going out, after all,” he said, in a curiously dead voice. “I’m not—feeling well.” Every year of the sixty seemed to weigh heavily upon the ex-senator as he pushed open the door of the room on the left. His feet dragged across the thick carpet so that he stumbled, and when he dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands. *  *  *  *  * The Forty-second Street Theater had been famous for years as the home of light comedy of the more brilliant sort. [237] That night was to witness a new production, for which great things were expected—for had the play not been written by one of America’s cleverest and most experienced playwrights, and staged by a production wizard? And was not the star Harold Lumsden? Already the cheaper parts of the house were packed, and the orchestra was filling up. Here and there a pair of white shoulders gleamed in one of the boxes which would soon be filled—for it was a foregone conclusion that the S.R.O. sign would have to be displayed in the lobby that night. Harold Lumsden himself was peering through a peephole in the curtain at that moment, idly surveying the nucleus of what he knew would prove to be an unusually brilliant first-night audience. For years he had enjoyed great prestige, and this was to be his first appearance following a successful invasion of London, which had added greatly to his laurels. “This is going to be some night, Harold!” his manager remarked impressively, coming up from behind and putting his hand on the star’s shoulder. “Dressed early, didn’t you?” “Yes, I felt restless,” was the reply. “Hanged if I know why. This sort of thing ought to be an old story to me by this time, if it’s ever going to be.” As he turned about to face the portly manager, he noticed an envelope in the latter’s hand. Knowing the manager’s absent-mindedness, he inquired: “That letter isn’t for me, is it?” [238] “Why, yes, it is,” was the reply. “I had forgotten it for a moment. It’s marked ‘Urgent,’ but I suppose it’s only from some friend of yours—or, more likely, some friend of a friend—who aspires to the deadhead class.” “Probably,” Harold Lumsden agreed, as he glanced at the handwriting for a moment, and then ripped the envelope open. “We haven’t needed to ‘paper’ our houses for the last few seasons, have we, old man? What’s this! Great heavens!” The distinguished actor clutched at one of the wings for support, and the letter fluttered to the ground. The manager stooped to pick it up, but with an oath the star forestalled him, seizing the letter hastily and thrusting it into his pocket. “Bad news?” the manager asked anxiously. “A rather disagreeable surprise,” Lumsden managed to say, making a strenuous attempt to control himself. “It’s nothing you know anything about, you know, and I’ll be all right, never fear.” Harold Lumsden played the part that night, for there was nothing else to do, and the traditions of his profession demand that an actor or actress should always appear, unless ill in bed, no matter what news may have been received, or what tragedy may have been left at home. But some idea of the sort of performance the famous star gave on that memorable occasion might have been gathered from the newspaper comments the following morning, for all the critics seemed to agree[239] that Lumsden was far from himself, and that his conception of the part was strangely heavy and lifeless. Such was the effect of Green-eye Gordon’s second demand. There were other letters—several of them, in fact—but we need not trace their influence here. There was no doubt that the blackmailer had struck some stunning blows, expecting that gold would flow from the wounds thus inflicted. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2