CHAPTER I
ADVENTURERS’ PACT
SAXE TEMPLE regarded with pardonable pride the supper-table laid for four in the parlor of his bachelor apartment. Then, as a knock made known the first arrival, he went to the door, and opened it eagerly. At sight of the tall, soldier-like figure standing on the threshold, his face lighted.
“Roy Morton, by all that’s good!” he cried.
“Hello Saxe, old man,” came the answer, in a musical monotone surprisingly gentle from one so stalwart. “Got your letter, and here I am. Incidentally, I’m tickled to death over the idea of some real excitement. I haven’t had any since a jolly fight in Mexico with a detective, who thought I was an absconder from the States, and tried to hustle me across the border.” Morton thrust out a rather heavy chin, so that in a twinkling his face grew threatening, savage; his kindly blue eyes paled, the lids drew closer. “I had colored souvenirs of his earnestness scattered all over my anatomy for a fortnight. But I didn’t have to have a doctor to patch me up, and he did, so I was satisfied. In fact, I got the doctor for him as soon as he apologized for his mistake.” Morton chuckled at the memory. His face was again all amiability.
Saxe laughed. “You still wear a chip on your shoulder in order to entice somebody into a scrap,” he said.
“Nonsense!” Morton exclaimed, huffily. “You ought to know that I don’t want anything violent. I always try to steer clear of trouble. It’s only when something comes up that a man must resent for the sake of his self-respect that I ever resort to brute force. Why, I——”
Saxe ruthlessly interrupted:
“Oh, certainly, you’re a man of peace, all right! Only—ah, here’s one of them.”
Saxe sprang to his feet, and hurried to the door, on which an imperative knocking sounded. As he turned the knob, the newcomer pushed his way into the room unceremoniously, a man as tall as Morton, but whose six feet of height bulked much larger by reason of the massive build and large head, thatched shaggily with thick, iron-gray hair. The face showed rugged ugliness, emphasized by muddy skin. His voice was wheezy from climbing the stairs.
“Well, and what’s it all about? What and why? Filibustering? Abduction? Sunken treasure? Count me in on the scheming, strategy, conspiring, plotting. But leave me out when it comes to donning the diving-suit, or engaging in the merry sword-play at the head of the stairs, or any aviation. Well, well, it’s like old times to be together.” He had shaken hands with the two men while speaking, serenely disregarding their verbal greetings, for his huge voice boomed over theirs. “No cigarette,” he concluded, waving away the offered box, as he sank down beside Morton on the couch. “I prefer a man’s smoke.” He drew forth, prepared and lighted an especially fat and black cigar. “The doctor says I smoke too much,” he added, comfortably, after inhaling a startling volume of the smoke.
Saxe smiled unsympathetically.
“It’s eating so much and taking no exercise that makes you puffy.”
Billy Walker snorted indignantly.
“I only eat enough to keep this absurdly large carcass of mine properly stoked,” he declared. “Of course, I don’t take violent exercise. I want my strength for brain-work. You can’t use the same vital force in two ways. If I wanted to be intellectually foolish like you and Roy, why, I’d consume my energy in keeping hard as nails. I, however, prefer intelligence to biceps—where’s Dave?”
“That’s the answer,” Saxe exclaimed, as a knock again sounded.
A moment later, David Thwing, the third and last guest, was in the room. He was the only short member of the group, but he was broad across the shoulders, with a stocky form that promised unusual strength. He might have been good-looking, but for the fact that his nose had once been disastrously smashed and never rightly repaired. Its present outline was as choppy as the Channel seas in a gale. It gave to his face a suggestion of the prize-ring.
Now that the party was complete, Saxe bade his guests take their places at the table.
“No explanations till we’re done with the meal,” he announced, in answer to the questions of his friends.
It was only when the table had been cleared of all save decanters and glasses and smoking materials, that he at last stood up to address his friends. A certain formality in his manner arrested their attention, and they regarded him with a sudden increase of curiosity.
“It’s now six years since we left the university,” Saxe began. “In the last year, we made a boyish pact. We agreed to answer the call of anyone of us who became embarked in adventure of a sort to require the assistance from the others. So I have summoned you in accordance with the terms of our agreement; you see, I really have a sort of adventure to offer you, though perhaps you’ll think I’m a bit selfish in the matter, for the profit will be all mine. Roy, however, has made money enough so that he doesn’t need any more, and Billy always did have more than he could spend, with his foolish ideas of just learning things, instead of living them. Dave is reasonably poor, but, too, he’s reasonably honest, and so he’s better off without the temptations of great wealth. I’ve come to the conclusion, after careful reflection, that I’m the only one of the quartette who actually is in want of money. My tastes are luxurious, and, too, I have ambitious projects in the direction of operas that I wish to write. I can’t give myself to such serious work while I have to turn all my energies into musical pot-boilers to soothe the savage breast of the wolf at the door.”
“The metaphor is mixed,” Billy Walker grumbled. “The purpose of pot-boilers is to soothe the stomach, not the breast. But what could be expected of a composer essaying oratory?”
Saxe accepted the criticism without rancor.
“Anyhow, I’ll let that stand by way of introduction,” he continued. “The pith of the matter is this: I’ve had some money left to me, a tidy sum in fact.”
Instantly, there came a chorus of congratulations from his friends. But the host waved his hand for silence, while he shook his head lugubriously.
“I’m not exactly ready for congratulations yet,” he declared, when they had fallen silent again. “It’s true, I’ve had some money left to me, but the deuce of it is, I don’t know where the money is.”
Exclamations burst forth anew, eager questionings.
“The simplest way of explaining the whole affair,” Saxe went on, “is to make it known to you in the form in which it was made known to me:
“The morning of the day on which I wrote to you, I received a letter. That letter was the first warning I had of this possible adventure. Now, I’ll read the letter to you, and then you’ll have the same knowledge of the whole matter as I have. By way of preface, I need only say that the writer of the letter has since died, and I have been formally notified by his lawyer concerning the old man’s will, in exact accordance with the terms of the letter he wrote me.”
The young man took from his breast-pocket a typewritten letter, and proceeded to read it aloud. From the first word to the last, the auditors sat silent, almost without movement,