The Face and the Mask, Robert Barr [best books to read for beginners .TXT] 📗

function on hand, and one necessary part of the affair was the wheedling of money out of people's pockets, so the Nice Girl had undertaken to do part of the wheedling.

She was very good at it, and she rather prided herself upon it, but then she was a very nice girl, pretty as well, and so people found it difficult to refuse her. On the evening of the day there was to be a ball at the principal hotel of the place, also in connection with this very desirable charity. Robbins had reluctantly gone to Toulon alone, but you may depend upon it he was back in time for the ball.

"Well," he said to the Nice Girl when he met her, "what luck collecting, to-day?"

"Oh, the greatest luck," she replied enthusiastically, "and whom do you think I got the most money from?"

"I am sure I haven't the slightest idea--that old English Duke, he certainly has money enough."

"No, not from him at all; the very last person you would expect it from--your friend, the Living Skeleton."

"What!" cried Robbins, in alarm.

"Oh, I found him on the bench where he usually sits, in the avenue of the palms. I told him all about the charity and how useful it was, and how necessary, and how we all ought to give as much as we could towards it, and he smiled and smiled at me in that curious way of his. 'Yes,' he said in a whisper, 'I believe the charity should be supported by everyone; I will give you eighty francs.' Now, wasn't that very generous of him? Eighty francs, that was ten times what the Duke gave, and as he handed me the money he looked up at me and said in that awful whisper of his: 'Count this over carefully when you get home and see if you can find out what else I have given you. There is more than eighty francs there.' Then, after I got home, I----"

But here the Nice Girl paused, when she looked at the face of Robbins, to whom she was talking. That face was ghastly pale and his eyes were staring at her but not seeing her.

"Eighty francs," he was whispering to himself, and he seemed to be making a mental calculation. Then noticing the Nice Girl's amazed look at him, he said:

"Did you take the money?"

"Of course I took it," she said, "why shouldn't I?"

"Great Heavens!" gasped Robbins, and without a word he turned and fled, leaving the Nice Girl transfixed with astonishment and staring after him with a frown on her pretty brow.

"What does he mean by such conduct?" she asked herself. But Robbins disappeared from the gathering throng in the large room of the hotel, dashed down the steps, and hurried along the narrow pavements toward the "Golden Dragon." The proprietor was standing in the hallway with his hands behind him, a usual attitude with the Dragon.

"Where," gasped Robbins, "is Mr.--Mr.----" and then he remembered he didn't know the name. "Where is the Living Skeleton?"

"He has gone to his room," answered the Dragon, "he went early to- night, he wasn't feeling well, I think."

"What is the number of his room?"

"No. 40," and the proprietor rang a loud, jangling bell, whereupon one of the chambermaids appeared. "Show this gentleman to No. 40."

The girl preceded Robbins up the stairs. Once she looked over her shoulder, and said in a whisper, "Is he worse?"

"I don't know," answered Robbins, "that's what I have come to see."

At No. 40 the girl paused, and rapped lightly on the door panel. There was no response. She rapped again, this time louder. There was still no response.

"Try the door," said Robbins.

"I am afraid to," said the girl.

"Why?"

"Because he said if he were asleep the door would be locked, and if he were dead the door would be open."

"When did he say that?"

"He said it several times, sir; about a week ago the last time."

Robbins turned the handle of the door; it was not locked. A dim light was in the room, but a screen before the door hid it from sight. When he passed round the screen he saw, upon the square marble-topped arrangement at the head of the bed, a candle burning, and its light shone on the dead face of the Skeleton, which had a grim smile on its thin lips, while in its clenched hand was a letter addressed to the proprietor of the hotel.

The Living Skeleton had given more than the eighty francs to that deserving charity.



HIGH STAKES.

The snow was gently sifting down through the white glare of the electric light when Pony Rowell buttoned his overcoat around him and left the Metropolitan Hotel, which was his home. He was a young man, not more than thirty, and his face was a striking one. It was clean cut and clean shaven. It might have been the face of an actor or the face of a statesman. An actor's face has a certain mobility of expression resulting from the habit of assuming characters differing widely. Rowell's face, when you came to look at it closely, showed that it had been accustomed to repress expression rather than to show emotion of any kind. A casual look at Pony Rowell made you think his face would tell you something; a closer scrutiny showed you that it would tell you nothing. His eyes were of a piercing steely gray that seemed to read the thoughts of others, while they effectually concealed his own. Pony Rowell was known as a man who never went back on his word. He was a professional gambler.

On this particular evening he strolled up the avenue with the easy carriage of a man of infinite leisure. He hesitated for a moment at an illy-lighted passage-way in the middle of a large building on a side street, then went in and mounted a stair. He rapped lightly at a door. A slide was shoved back and a man inside peered out at him for a moment. Instantly the door was opened, for Pony's face was good for admittance at any of the gambling rooms in the city. There was still another guarded door to pass, for an honest gambling-house keeper can never tell what streak of sudden morality may strike the police, and it is well to have a few moments' time in which to conceal the paraphernalia of the business. Of course, Mellish's gambling rooms were as well known to the police as to Pony Rowell, but unless some fuss was made by the public, Mellish knew he would be free from molestation.

Mellish was a careful man, and a visitor had to be well vouched for, before he gained admission. There never was any trouble in Mellish's rooms. He was often known to advise a player to quit when he knew the young gambler could not afford to lose, and instances were cited where he had been the banker of some man in despair. Everybody liked Mellish, for his generosity was unbounded, and he told a good story well.

Inside the room that Pony Rowell had penetrated, a roulette table was at its whirling work and faro was going on in another spot. At small tables various visitors were enjoying the game of poker.

"Hello, Pony," cried Bert Ragstock, "are you going to give me my revenge to-night?"

"I'm always willing to give anyone his revenge." answered Pony imperturbably, lighting a fresh cigarette.

"All right then; come and sit down here."

"I'm not going to play just yet. I want to look on for a while."

"Nonsense. I've been waiting for you ever so long already. Sit down."

"You ought to know by this time, Bert, that when I say a thing I mean it. I won't touch a card till the clock begins to strike 12. Then I'm wid ye."

"Pshaw, Pony, you ought to be above that sort of thing. That's superstition, Rowell. You're too cool a man to mind when you touch a card. Come on."

"That's all right. At midnight, I said to myself, and at midnight it shall be or not at all."

The old gamblers in the place nodded approval of this resolution. It was all right enough for Bert Ragstock to sneer at superstition, because he was not a real gambler. He merely came to Mellish's rooms in the evening because the Stock Exchange did not keep open all night. Strange to say Ragstock was a good business man as well as a cool gambler. He bemoaned the fate that made him so rich that gambling had not the exhilarating effect on him which it would have had if he had been playing in desperation.

When the clock began to chime midnight Pony Rowell took up the pack and began to shuffle.

"Now, old man," he said, "I'm going in to win. I'm after big game to- night."

"Right you are." cried Bert, with enthusiasm. "I'll stand by you as long as the spots stay on the cards."

In the gray morning, when most of the others had left and even Mellish himself was yawning, they were still at it. The professional gambler had won a large sum of money; the largest sum he ever possessed. Yet there was no gleam of triumph in his keen eyes. Bert might have been winning for all the emotion his face showed. They were a well matched pair, and they enjoyed playing with each other.

"There," cried Pony at last, "haven't you had enough? Luck's against you. I wouldn't run my head any longer against a brick wall, if I were you."

"My dear Pony, how often have I told you there is no such thing as luck. But to tell the truth I'm tired and I'm going home. The revenge is postponed. When do I meet the enemy again?"

Pony Rowell shuffled the cards idly for a few moments without replying or raising his eyes. At last he said:

"The next time I play you, Bert, it will be for high stakes."

"Good heavens, aren't you satisfied with the stakes we played for to- night?"

"No. I want to play you for a stake that will make even your hair stand on end. Will you do it?"

"Certainly. When?"

"That I can't tell just yet. I have a big scheme on hand. I am to see a man to-day about it. All I want to know is that you promise to play."

"Pony, this is mysterious. I guess you're not afraid I will flunk out. I'm ready to meet you on any terms and for any stake."

"Enough said. I'll let you know some of the particulars as soon as I find out all I want myself. Good-night."

"Good-night to you, rather," said Bert, as Mellish helped him on with his overcoat. "You've won the pile: robbing a poor man of his hard- earned gains!"

"Oh, the poor man does not need the money as badly as I do. Besides, I'm going to give you a chance to win it all back again and more."

When Ragstock had left, Pony still sat by the table absent-mindedly shuffling the cards.

"If I were you," said Mellish, laying his hand on his shoulder, "I would put that pile in the bank and quit."

"The faro bank?" asked Pony, looking up with a smile.

"No, I'd quit the business altogether if I were you. I'm going