He went up-stairs with a better heart.

He went straight to his window-sill and cooled his hot cheeks in the night air. The old trees still stood sentry duty in the moonlight, the people sat still as dolls left out all night, the noises of the town were reduced to a pleasant murmur.

"G.o.d! what a good old world it is!" thought Evan, unconscious of his perfect inconsistency. "How good it is to be young and alive; to see; to feel; to laugh; to love; to know things! I guess I'm a little drunk on it now, but I want more, more! I shall never have my fill!"

As he lay in bed it suddenly occurred to him that he was head over heels in love with a woman whose name he did not know.

CHAPTER V

THE HAPPY LITTLE FAMILY

At the Deaves mansion next morning it was Alfred who opened the ma.s.sive steel grill to admit Evan. The second man favoured him with a sly wink.

"Cheese it, kid," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "They're layin' for you."

This meant nothing to Evan.

In the centre of the house where the hall opened up he found George Deaves walking up and down with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of a hara.s.sed man of affairs. There was a histrionic quality in all young Deaves' att.i.tudes. The old man in slippers was hunched in a pseudo-mediaeval chair, while a fat servant, Hilton, the butler Evan guessed, was standing at the foot of the stairs. Another man in chauffeur's livery was beside him.

It all had the look of a set scene, and from the way their faces changed at the sight of him, the inference was inescapable that it had been set for Evan. He wondered greatly what it was all about, but felt no particular uneasiness.

George Deaves bent a venomous glance on him. "Follow me," he said hollowly.

The whole procession wended its way up the winding, shallow stairs; first George Deaves, grasping the hand rail and planting his feet virtuously, then old Deaves, his heels coming out of his slippers at every step, then Evan, then the three servants. Evan heard them sn.i.g.g.e.ring behind him.

At the door of the library George Deaves said: "You come in, Papa.

Hilton, Wilson and Alfred, you wait outside in case I call you."

"Does he expect me to a.s.sault him?" thought Evan.

In the library young Deaves flung himself back in his chair, and placing the tips of his fingers together said pompously: "Now, my man, I advise you to tell the truth."

Evan began to get hot. "That is my custom," he said quietly.

Notwithstanding his pompous air the younger Deaves was visibly nervous; he had not his father's force of character. "It is useless for you to feign innocence," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Evan.

Deaves said: "I may as well let you know I have a policeman waiting down-stairs."

There is no man however sure of himself that would not be to some degree disconcerted by this announcement. Evan changed colour.

Deaves, quick to notice it, smiled disagreeably, and Evan's cheeks grew hot indeed.

"Have him up-stairs," said Evan. "I don't know what this flummery is all about. Hand me over to the police and maybe I'll find out."

"Give me a specimen of your handwriting," said Deaves, shoving writing materials towards him.

"Certainly," said Evan. "I have no reason to be ashamed of it."

"Write five thousand dollars, first in figures, then spelled out."

Evan did so, and shoved the paper back. Deaves compared it with a letter which lay in front of him, the old man peering over his shoulder.

"Nothing like," the latter said disappointed.

"That doesn't prove anything!" snapped the son. "I didn't suppose that he worked this single-handed. He has confederates."

Evan's momentary discomfiture had subsided. The situation was becoming too absurd. Was he accused of forgery or blackmail? He began to grin.

"You said you were an artist," said George Deaves with a sapient air.

"Can you prove it?"

"Certainly," said Evan. "If you'll come to my studio. There are dozens of my canvases there."

"But how would I know you painted them?"

"Oh, I'll do you one while you wait."

"Facetiousness won't do you any good," said Deaves severely. "This is a serious matter. Please explain how you came to be in that little obscure street where you met Papa yesterday?"

"There is no explanation," said Evan. "I was just walking about."

The young man sneered. He tossed over the letter that lay before him.

"Read that," he said.

Evan applied himself to it with no little curiosity. Meanwhile he was aware that the two were watching him like lynxes. The letter was written in a neatly-formed, highly characteristic hand on a sheet of cheap note-paper without any distinguishing marks. Evan read:

"Mr. George Deaves:

Dear Sir:

We take pleasure in enclosing copy of a humorous little story that has been prepared for the press. None will appreciate it better than you and 'Poppa' we are sure. If you think it is too good to be offered to the public it will cost you five thousand dollars for the exclusive rights, including motion pictures and dramatic. But unless we hear from you before the day is out we will take it that you don't want to buy, and it will be offered to the _Clarion_ for to-morrow's edition.

The _Clarion_ is always delighted to get hold of these human interest tales. Copies will be mailed to everybody in the social register, and especially to Mrs. George Deaves.

But if you want to reserve the fun to yourself bring five one-thousand-dollar bills to the reading-room of the New York Public Library this morning. Call for Lockhart's History of the Crimean War in two folio volumes and insert the bills in volume one at the following pages: 19, 69, 119, 169, 219. Then return the books to the desk.

With kindest regards,

Yours very sincerely, THE IKUNAHKATSI."

A noiseless whistle escaped from Evan's lips; his eyes were bright.

For the moment he forgot that he was the accused. His sole feeling was one of the keenest curiosity. A fascinating mystery was suggested.

The impudent letter was like a challenge.