Treasure trail

Front matter

Bonk P4 3

Tre,

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Chapter I. W

"W T’E sympathize with you,” said the bank manager, but that is how the situation stands.”

Yernon Winslowe fumbled for his cigarette case, got up and flicked his lower lip with a nervous fore¬ finger.

“But I don’t understand,” he said; “the whole thing

is so- You don’t mind if I smoke? Thanks. Won’t

you? No. You see, Sullivan told me distinctly he only wanted me to back the bill for a month or two until he had sold out some American railroad stock. There was never any suggestion that he wouldn’t be able to meet it himself. It was just a friendly transaction. Now I haven’t a match.”

The bank manager produced a box of wax vestas, struck one and offered it ceremonially. In ordinary circumstances he did not encourage smoking in his private office, but the case justified the small concession. From the bank’s point of view, Yernon Winslowe had been an ideal depositor—of the type which leaves large sums of money lying idle in a cur¬ rent account to the profit of the firm.

“Thanks. Why, he never even sent me a line—this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Did you know Mr. Sullivan well?”

“Casually. We met, you know, from time to time. Hunted a bit together. He was a member of one or two of my clubs.”

Mr. Woodward shook his head.

“Rather a scanty acquaintanceship to warrant backing his signature for five thousand pounds.”

“I trusted the fellar.”

Mr. Woodward became grave.

“It has been my unhappy experience to find that persons who are in difficulties are all too ready to shift their liabilities on to the shoulders of their friends. I fear Mr. Sullivan has proved himself a traitor to friendship. In the circumstances we have no choice but to pay up with what grace we may.”

“And how shall I stand then?”

Mr. Woodward consulted some figures on a slip of paper at his side.

“Your credit is five thousand one hundred and seventytwo pounds, eight shillings. We shall, of course, be pleased to meet your cheques up to a certain margin until such a time as you may have concluded the sale of any property or shares you may think necessary. ’ ’

Vernon Winslowe threw up his head and laughed.

“Shares or property—you’re joking. Beyond a tumbledown old barn of a house in Cornwall and few bits of furni¬ ture, I haven’t a bean until my old uncle pegs out. ’ ’

“Mr. Winslowe, you are not serious.”

“I soon shall be.”

“But the money you inherited from your father?”

Vernon waved a hand in the air. Mr. Woodward pushed his chair back.

“Impossible.”

* 1 On the contrary, all too possible. ’’ His face became sud¬ denly grim. “It comes home to me rather forcibly that I’ve acted like every kind of a fool.”

“But seventy thousand pounds in a little over three years?”

“Seventy-five, to be exact,” said Vernon; “and, barring a few bright patches, precious little good it’s done me.” He threw his cigarette into the spotless grate. “When must we meet that bill ? ’ ’

“At once.”

“You can’t wait until I’ve seen Sullivan?”

Mr. Woodward looked up in surprise.

“Seen him?” he repeated. “But he left England quietly three days ago—evaded his creditors and-”

“Bolted.”

“Exactly. My informant tells me a woman accompanied him.”

“A woman! He married her?”

“I believe not.”

Vernon flushed.

“I say, look out—be careful, rather—I mean—who was she?”

“I cannot say.”

Vernon’s breath escaped between shut teeth.

“We won’t inquire,” he said; then: “Comes to this, I’ve been swindled.” A sudden surge of anger reddened his forehead. “My Lord! Woodward, I’m beginning to wonder where I haven’t been swindled these last three years. Well, it’s no good raising a wail—one learns by experience. Thanks very much. Good day.”

As he turned the handle of the door the bank manager’s voice recalled him.

“In the circumstances, Mr. Winslowe, I fear I shall have to retract my words about a temporary accommodation. My directors-”

Vernon Winslowe cut him short.

“Oh, naturally,” said Vernon. “Naturally.” Then he went out.

On the pavement he stopped and lit another cigarette.

“So much for my African farm!” he said. “What’s left

to do ? A hundred or two, and then-” His fists clenched.

* 1 If Sullivan were here now! Damned twister! Lord, what a fool I’ve been!”

A panorama of other little incidents crowded up in his brain. There was an odd similarity between them—the result in nearly every case had been the same. Men he had

believed in—trusted implicitly—who- Why, only the

night before, those Congo shares—a thing given him as ab¬ solutely sound—had gone to nothing. Naturally, the man who advised him to buy couldn’t have known, or even guessed at,

the true state of affairs, but- No, hang it—he must take

it as a sportsman! Perish the thought that every one of his acquaintances was concerned in a conspiracy to do him harm.

But it was a difficult thought to escape from in view of his experiences since, from a poor hut rather distinguished naval officer, he had become a man of leisure with money to burn. How many fellows who had borrowed from him had ever at¬ tempted to repay ? How many racing tips followed in all good faith had brought him a winner? The same with in¬ vestments. Everything he had touched, governed by other men’s advice, had gone wrong—everything. Then there were those hard-luck stories whose tellers had ever found in Yernon Winslowe a sympathetic and a generous listener. He had stepped from the Navy a white and woolly lamb, and tuft by tuft the wool had been shorn from his hide. It was he who paid the fares for other men’s travel—the invited guest who met his host’s bills as well as his own. With sudden resentment he saw himself the victim of organ¬ ized conspiracy, wherein no single method had been neglected to separate him from his coin. From the society of clean, honest companions, bound together by indissoluble ties of common hardship and common danger—the everyday fare of war conditions—he had declined into a coterie of clever ones who, under the ensign of heartiness and good-fellowship, worked to despoil the very men whose whisky they drank and whose hands they clasped in friendship. Blind, credu¬ lous fool to have given his trust into such keeping. Criminal fool not to have cleared out before they stripped him clean. For months misgivings had pricked him that not to chance alone was due the steady ebbing of his fortunes. But he had waited for the tide to turn—had shirked taking the firm decision and making the clean cut. His energies had been dulled by the possession of money which he had not earned. Life was too simple, too easy. It was pleasant to keep a few hunters, take a moor—follow the seasons abroad—play a bit of polo—knock about with merry companions. These things were much too good to jettison at a first symptom of bad luck. The habit of work had been overlaid by the habit of idleness, and he hesitated to slam the door of his chambers in Duke Street and start life on an African farm with his sleeves rolled up. The possession of riches had been so amusing. It was fun to be the rich man of the party and to share one’s riches with a service generosity among the less fortunate. It stood to his credit that to no one had he refused aid and from no one had he asked credit for the aid so willingly given. Even those who sponged most freely admitted him to be the prince of givers, the most trusting fellow alive. Some of the more adventurous declared that he was almost too easy prey.

And now he was to pay the penalty of his own free¬ handedness.

At the top of St. James’s Street he stopped and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one—too early for lunch. He considered whether or no he should drop in anywhere for a short drink, and decided against it. While he hesitated aj man named Dillon came up and touched him on the sleeve.

“ Hello, V. W.,” exclaimed the new-comer; “the very chap I wanted to see. I’m taking a girl out to lunch at the Carlton, and was stepping across to the club to cash a cheque. You can save me five minutes by lending me a tenner. I’m late as it is.”

“When are you meeting her?”

“One o’clock, old man.”

“Then you’ve heaps of time to get to the club and back.”

Dillon looked hurt.

“If you’d rather not,” said he, and pursued his way with a shrug.

Yernon hauled him back with the crook of his stick. He knew nothing against Dillon, and it was a pity to sacrifice a generous reputation for the sake of a ten-pound note.

“Take it, you ass,” he said, pulling a couple of fivers from his case; “but let me have it back soon. I’m rather broke.”

Dillon was all smiles again.

“I’ll send my man along with it to-night. You must meet this girl; she’s a darling. G’bye.” With a, wave of the hand he was gone.

Yernon Winslowe walked slowly down St. James’s Street towards the Mall. It was a clear, sunny day, and he intended to sit under the trees for a while and think. He was just entering the gates when an unworthy thought attacked him.

He tried to banish it, but without success. It reasserted it¬ self in his mind.

“Go and find out,” said the thought; “no harm in making sure.”

Turning about, he strode off in the direction of the Carlton. The commissionaire touched his hat, a smiling cloak-room at¬ tendant took his coat and stick with a word of welcome. He entered the Palm Court and ordered a cocktail. Dillon was nowhere to be seen. The head-waiter approached him and he put a question.

“Monsieur Dillon? But no, I have reserved no table for Monsieur Dillon.”

“Ah,” said Vernon, “perhaps he’s lunching downstairs.”

He swallowed his drink and went down to the grillroom.

The frock-coated gentleman in charge shook his head politely.

“He has not been here for many days.”

“Thank you,” said Vernon. “I’ll wait in the lounge till he turns up.”

He lit a cigarette and waited. A small clock struck the quarter. Vernon’s anger was growing very cold.

“The liar,” he muttered. “The liar.”

Once again he returned to the Palm Court and hung about for twenty minutes, but neither Dillon nor his darling made an appearance. It was as well, perhaps, for the meeting could hardly have been a pleasant one. Wave upon wave of resentment was breaking against the battlements of Vernon Winslowe’s humour and forbearance. Indignation was stor¬ ing itself up within him. It increased his blood pressure, troubled the clear workings of his brain and lungs. The foundations of his generosity and good nature were begin¬ ning to sink. The edifice of life that he had built for himself was slowly but surely tilting off the straight. It was an odd feeling—an alarming feeling. Under the novelty of it sweat started from his forehead in hot beads. Angry he had been often enough before, violent even, but resentment and malice were qualities with which he was a stranger. Also they were qualities which he had despised most in other men. Yet-

“Why, if it isn’t Y. W.,” said a girl’s voice. “Doris, you know Yernon Winslowe.”

He came to his feet and found himself being introduced by one sunshiny maiden to another. With the first he was acquainted, in a haphazard kind of way. The second he only knew by sight—a privilege to be shared by anyone who had twelve and six wherewith to buy a theatre stall and who possessed a memory for the faces of the ladies of the chorus.

“We were waiting for Bobby Tile,” said Lola, “but the wretch has rung up to say he can’t come. Be a dear, Y. W., and give us lunch.”

“We’re much too well dressed to go to an A.B.C.,” fluted Doris, with a twenty-two carat smile, “and it simply won’t run to anything more ’spensive.”

“Of course, if you’re expecting someone,” began Lola.

Yernon shook his head.

“I was only expecting my luck to hold,” he replied. “Isn’t there a saying, ‘it never rains but it pours’?”

“You’ve had a lucky day?”

“You wouldn’t believe if I told you.”

“Then of course you’d love to give us lunch?”

What could he say ? He said nothing and made a gesture that might have meant anything.

“Y. W. is the soul of chivalry,” said Lola, “and he did marvels in the war, my dear. Didn’t you get a Y.C. or something ? ’ ’

Yernon smiled. It was evident his guests intended to pay for the lunch with flattery and endearment. He hated himself for recognizing the fact. It was pitiable to say good¬ bye to a long-established credulity. Lola and Doris belonged to a type for which he had little use, but hitherto he had been simple enough to accept their honeyed addresses with mild appreciation. It was only now he read trickery in every word and inflexion. Subconsciously he added another black mark to the already lengthening list of resentments.

This circumstance notwithstanding, he conducted himself as host in a manner that defied criticism. He was charming— he was lavish. He looked to it that the wine was not too dry and that the fruits were out of season. His guests were de¬ lighted—nay, more—ecstatic. They talked all the while and looked as pretty as they possibly could. Perhaps it is a euphemism to say they talked—prattled is the word. They prattled about “shows” they had seen—things they “simply adored” or were “too impossible”—the kind of men they liked or couldn’t stand (in this matter they were eloquent and revealed predilections in favour of dark men with very smooth hair and straight brows—men, in short, with a marked likeness to Vernon). They prattled about taxis, face cream— a little hat in Bond Street, much too expensive to buy and, “which of course, is sure to have been snapped up by now, so it’s no good talking of it”—about films which had been or were about to be released—about tiresome relations—late hours—the latest dance steps—getting married—being hard up—where to buy the best gloves, and how to spend the afternoon.

Vernon’s task was easy. He had leisure to lean back in his chair and reflect upon the damnable innocence of it all.

When the meal was over and the bill was paid, the prob¬ lem of what to do next was ventilated.

“You’ve given us a duck of a lunch, so you decide. Shall we go and see Douglas Fairbanks or shall we stroll round and do a bit of shopping?”

It was clear which answer was expected, and for the first time in his life Vernon deliberately gave the wrong one. It marked an epoch in his downward career. The two sun¬ shiny maidens, bravely endeavouring to satisfy themselves with such blessings as had already been bestowed, were con¬ ducted to the cinema. Moreover, they were conducted on foot along certain by-ways of the West End remarkable for an absence of attractive shop-fronts. Of the three none hated that walk so much as Vernon Winslowe. But, as has been said, it marked an epoch.

Very splendid and daring was the picture, but had he been asked afterwards, Vernon would have been unable to recount a single incident that had occurred. His mind was occupied solely with the calculated ruin of his fortunes.

During the interval the lights were lowered and the result of the Grand National was projected on the screen, a racecard showing all the runners, a giant hand ticking off the winners—one, two, and three.

Vernon Winslowe leaned forward in his seat, then threw up his head and laughed.

Not even a place!

Without a word of explanation or farewell he walked out of the building.

Not even a place!

So much for Atwood’s tip!

“A certainty,” Atwood had said. “The surest thing in years. Put your shirt on it, my boy.”

But Vernon had been wise enough to keep his shirt against a rainy day—a shirt roughly valued at five thousand pounds —a shirt which, as events of the morning proved, had passed over his head for the last time and now covered the retreat¬ ing form of Sullivan. He had, however, backed Atwood’s opinion to the extent of handing him two hundred and fifty pounds to invest on the course at the best price obtainable.

Not even a place!

“And I begin to wonder if the beggar put the money on at all.”

Vernon Winslowe delivered this remark in the astonished face of a passer-by, who hurriedly crossed the road at the imminent risk of being run down by a platoon of taxis.

Chapter II

H E was not very sure what happened after that.

With mutinous thoughts for company, he wandered from street to street. In Trafalgar Square he got mixed up in a demonstration of the unemployed and found himself occupying the position of a buffer State between the conflicting forces of order and disorder. The entertainment included a police baton charge and a small hail of flints wrapped in newspapers. Also there were broken heads and a good deal of general scuffling. Being in the mood for some¬ thing of the kind, Vernon indulged in a free-lance battle of his own, striking out with impartiality in both directions. He emerged from the fray brighter in spirit and poorer by the loss of a gold watch, which in defiance of regulations had been presented to him by the crew of a submarine on the occasion of his being awarded the D.S.O.

Fortunately, in view of his existing state of mind, he was unaware of the loss until later in the day. His appearance as a result of the fray giving rise to comment from passers-by, he determined to return to his chambers and change his clothes.

In St. James’s Square his attention was attracted by a sprightly figure striding along before him with ringing steps. With a gasp of astonishment Vernon realized that he was in the presence of the last line of his defences. True, there is nothing very astonishing in meeting a man who happens to be your uncle a few steps away from his own club, and it was not on this account that Vernon gasped. His astonish¬ ment was induced by the evidence of health and physical fitness which radiated from the figure before him. When last they met some three months before, the old gentleman was testy, infirm, and preparing for the supreme adventure of dying. Yet here he was swinging along like a boy and using his cane not for support, but to rattle against the railings.

“Bless my soul,” he exclaimed, in response to Vernon’s 11 Uncle Fletcher.” “What in blazes have you been up to? Are ye drunk? Been in a fight? Look at your hat! And your tie’s out.”

Vernon nodded towards Trafalgar Square.

“Those unemployed beggars,” he explained.

‘ 1 Like your father, like your father! Always in trou¬ ble—a typical Winslowe. The old pirate strain, eh, eh!” He supplemented his remarks with a dig in the ribs.

“You seem extraordinarily fit,” said Vernon gravely. “Never saw such a change in a man.”

Old Fletcher Winslowe threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah, ha, ha, you spot it, eh? My boy, I’m a youngster again—a youngster, my boy.” And to illustrate the truth of his words he performed a vigorous pas sent on the pave¬ ment. “Want to know why? An elixir, my boy—twenty years of new life coursing through my veins. Thyroid, my lad, thyroid. ’Pon my soul, I’d guarantee to go five rounds with any man you like to name! ’ ’

He covered up, put in some clever footwork, and handed the K.O. to an imaginary adversary with a vitality amazing for one of his years.

“Well done, and good luck to you,” said Vernon, and he meant it.

Whatever else he might be charged with, no one could have accused Vernon Winslowe of belonging to the type which marks time in a pair of socks in the expectation of filling a dead man’s shoes. At the decease of his uncle, under the terms of his grandfather’s will, twenty thousand pounds was to come to Vernon. It was of a piece with the general irony of the situation that this inheritance, from occupying a posi¬ tion in the immediate foreground, had melted into the dis¬ tance. Thus to the list of those who had conspired against him was to be added a Herman doctor and an African monkey. The thought made Yernon laugh—and the laugh

pleased the old man exceedingly.

“A capital boy,” he said, bringing his hand down with a whack on Vernon’s shoulder. “Most nephews would be kick¬ ing and cursing at a turn like this. Come in and have a pint of beer. Whisky’s the devil, but beer’s a drink for the gods. Haven’t touched it for fifteen years, and now I’m doing my two quarts a day.”

But Yernon refused the invitation. In some oddly reflex way the fight and the meeting with the rejuvenated Fletcher Winslowe had done him good. He felt less out at elbows with the world and better prepared to meet adversity with good humour.

A batch of newly-arrived bills waiting on his writing-table and the discovery that his watch had been stolen were mainly responsible for the return of his angry gloom. His man was off duty that night. Yernon turned on a bath, and while it was filling, wandered from room to room of his little suite, leaving a collar in one place and a waistcoat in another and the shoes he had been wearing somewhere else. It was en¬ tirely alien to his ordinary habit to act thus. Life in the Navy had made of Yernon one of the tidiest and most method¬ ical men alive. But a strange new restlessness was attacking him, a restlessness that begat a sudden dislike of order and squareness. The perfect symmetry of the mantelpiece, with its clock and candlesticks and photograph frames arranged with mathematical precision, offended and irritated him. He wanted to push things about—-set the furniture crooked and tilt the pictures awry. Why should his rooms be allowed to behave as though nothing had happened to their owner? A room is, or should be, an expression of its owner’s mind. The decks of a ship are not scrubbed when mutiny is aboard. Yernon Winslowe, although he scarcely realized it, had de¬ clared a mutiny against his own traditions. His desire was toward disorder and the upsetting of established things, and in pursuing his desire he upset himself—stumbled over his kicked-off shoes and put his hand through the glass of a picture-frame when he sought to steady himself. Normally he

'would have laughed at the misadventure; to-day he swore,, sucked the cut in the heel of his hand, and, acting on an im>- pulse of senseless anger, tore the picture from the wall and was about to hurl it in the corner when its subject arrested the act.

It was an enlarged snapshot he had taken at a meet twoyears ago, a chaos of hounds and horsemen,, grooms, loungers, motors, farm-carts and bicycles. Prominent in the centre of the picture was Sullivan, mounted on a tall grey mare. Be¬ side him stood a girl in a riding-habit. She was pulling on a glove and smiling into Sullivan’s face. Extraordinarily alive and alert she looked. Her eyes were full of laughter and of fun. There was an amazing sweetness about her mouth—a sweetness and a determination, strangely mingled.. It was because of this girl Vernon had taken the photograph, it was because of her he had stayed in the neighbourhood a week longer than he had intended. They had never spoken to one another, although once or twice they took a fence side by side. He had meant to get an introduction and then he heard she was engaged—to Sullivan—to Sullivan!

Vernon Winslowe stood with the photograph in his hands—hands which shook violently. What was it the bank manager had said ? “ Gone abroad with some woman. ’ * “Married?” “I believe not.”

The picture crashed into the grate and simultaneously” there was a loud knocking at the front door.

“Yes, what is it?” cried Vernon, flinging open the door.

A young man in evening dress was on the landing.

“I fancy your bath is overflowing,” he said. “There’s a perfect Niagara coming through my ceiling, and as I’m. giving a dinner party it’s rather a nuisance.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Vernon truculently.

“Everything’s come through except the soap,” said the young man, and diving into the bathroom which adjoined the front door, he quickly turned off the tap.

“The overflow must be blocked up. So sorry to bother you, but the cutlets were practically washed away, and as.

the chicken which I had ordered to follow is in no sense a

water-fowl, I thought-”

“Oh, go to the devil,” said Vernon.

He had lost his sense of humour for the first time on record. His soul was in danger.

There is only one further incident to add to the score of the day’s disasters. It took place a,t a rather rowdy pot¬ house known as the Five Nations Club, where a number of men had gathered together for the purpose of expressing, through the medium of alcohol, rejoicing at the success achieved by a certain Mr. Atwood in finding the winner of the Grand National. Mr. Atwood had made a pot of money —it bulged from him everywhere. In his own picturesque speech he described himself as being “all over the stuff.” The liberality of the entertainment he provided proved him to be a good fellow—nay, more, the very best of fellows. Nearly everyone was drunk, and with that strangely limpid vision which is one of the greatest blessings drink bestows, they saw in Atwood qualities of grace and excellence hitherto undreamed of. Again and again was he called upon to reveal by what miracle of foresight he had picked the winner.

“My dear boys, I got sixty tot one five weeks ago. Planked on a hundred with old Johnny Dive. And on the course I was so plumb sure it was the goods, I took a chance and put up another two-fifty at a hundred to six.”

“Did you?”

Everyone in the room heard the quiet, menacing voice that spoke out of the shadows by the door.

“Two-fifty, Atwood, I think you said.”

“Hallo, V. W.,” said a voice with a hiccup. “Wha’s the trouble with you?”

But Vernon Winslowe paid no heed to the question. He walked straight up to Atwood and dropped a hand on his shoulder. Curiously purple Atwood had become all of a sudden. His smile of welcome was sickly.

“Five weeks ago, eh?” said Vernon. “Five weeks ago, Atwood? I didn’t ask you for that tip, you remember. You offered it—you remember that, don’t you? You gave it me as a friend. I suppose you took my bit yourself, eh?”

The courage of alcohol stimulated Atwood to reply.

“What’s wrong if I did?”

“Nothing in the world,” said Vernon slowly. “Nothing in the world. It’s sound finance to give a man a certain loser and collar his stakes. Nothing wrong if you can find a man who’s fool enough to stand for it. God I” His voice suddenly broke upwards. “God, I’m going to tell the lot of you what I think-”

The ring of inflamed faces turned toward him in anxious expectation.

“You—you,” and suddenly he stopped short, and threw up his head in a kind of laugh. “You clever gentlemen! I suppose I should be grateful for the lesson. And profit by it—and profit by it.”

His departure was as unexpected as his arrival.

Chapter III

T HERE is a song which in recent months has achieved popularity mainly on account of possessing a dole¬ ful and plaintive last line. Each verse recounts pithily a series of disasters resulting in the decline of some unhappy victim from virtue into vice. The tidings of fall are recorded by the simple phrase “ Another good man gone wrong,” and in no single instance would the fallen appear to be to blame. A concatenation of unkind incidents— incidents over which he had no power of control—was re¬ sponsible. Now the case of Yernon Winslowe was in point —for he was a generous and chivalrous gentleman brought to ruin through no other fault than credulity and a desire to improve the lot of his fellows. Granted ability to ex¬ press oneself in verse, it should have been possible in four metric lines to have said all that has been recorded in the earlier chapters, and thus have advanced more rapidly to the point at which this story takes a more unusual turn. In the absence of a lyrical gift, let it be said in plain prose that Yernon Winslowe, D.S.O., D.S.C., was beyond ques¬ tion a good man, for all that uncharitable circumstance twisted him out of the straight course into the crooked.

For what follows, heredity may to some extent he held responsible. The archives of the house of Winslowe pro¬ vided plenty of parallels in which Yernon’s forbears had acted with more violence than tact. Dotted down the ages were records of wild deeds carried out by Winslowes both -on the side of law and against it. Fletcher Winslowe, after a gallant career as a sea-rover, ended his days unhappily in a brush with a Russian sloop somewhere in the Baltic. He was captured, faced his trial ashore, and subsequently was hanged on a raft gibbet with a couple of iron hooks beneath his ribs. For sixteen hours he lived, swinging from his chains, while the raft drifted down-stream past town and village toward the sea. It was a cruel end for a man who everyone admitted had been a genial rascal.