Number Seventeen | Page 7

And why should he adopt the first of
these alternatives? Was he not bringing himself practically within the
law?
Why should any man be shielded, no matter what his social position or
how beautiful his daughter, who might possibly have caused the death
of the pleasant-mannered and ladylike woman fated now to remain for
ever a tragic ghost in the memory of one who had dwelt under the same
roof with her for five months?
It was a thorny problem, yet it permitted of only one solution. Duty

must be done though the heavens fell.
This conviction grew on Theydon as his cab scurried across the Thames
and along Birdcage Walk. A pretty conceit could not be allowed to
sweep aside the first principles of citizenship. Indeed, so reassuring was
this reasoned judgment that he felt a sense of relief as he paid off the
cab and rang the bell of the Forbes mansion.
He gave his name to a footman, who disposed of his overcoat and hat,
and led him to an upstairs drawing room. Even the most fleeting
glances at hall and staircase revealed evidences of a highly trained
artistic taste gratified by great wealth. The furniture, the china, the
pictures, were each and all rare and well chosen.
"Mr. Theydon," announced the man, throwing wide the door.
A lady, bent over some prints spread on a distant table, turned at the
words, and hastened to greet the guest.
"My father is expecting you, Mr. Theydon," she said. "He was detained
rather late in the city, but will be here now at any moment."
Theydon was no neurotic boy, whose surcharged nerves were liable to
crack in a crisis demanding some unusual measure of self-control. Yet
the room and its contents-- and, not least, the graceful girl advancing
with outstretched hand-- swam before his eyes.
Because this was "Evelyn," and it was certain as the succession of night
to day that Mrs. Lester's mysterious visitor must have been "Evelyn's"
father, James Creighton Forbes.
CHAPTER II
THE COMPACT
So petrified was Theydon by coming face to face with the last person
breathing whom he expected to meet in that room, that he stumbled
over a small chair which lay directly between him and his hostess. At

any other time the gaucherie would have annoyed him exceedingly; in
the existing circumstances, no more fortunate incident could have
happened, since it brought Evelyn Forbes herself unwittingly to the
rescue.
"I have spoken twenty times about chairs being left in that absurd
position," she cried, as their hands met, "but you know how
wooden-headed servants are. They will not learn to discriminate.
People often sit in that very place of an afternoon, because any one
seated just there sees the Canaletto on the opposite wall in the best light.
When the lamps are on, the reason for the chair simply ceases to exist,
and it becomes a trap for the unwary. You are by no means the first
who has been caught in it."
Theydon realized, with a species of irritation, that the girl was
discoursing volubly about the offending chair merely in order to
extricate an apparently shy and tongue-tied young man from a morass
of his own creation.
That an author of some note should not only behave like a country
bumpkin, but actually seem to need encouragement so that he should
"feel at home" in a London drawing room, was a fact so ridiculous that
it spurred his bemused wits into something approaching their normal
activity.
"I have not the excuse of the Canaletto," he said, compelling a pleasant
smile, "but may I plead an even more distracting vision? I came here
expecting to meet an elderly gentleman of the class which flippant
Americans describe as 'high-brow,' and I am suddenly brought face to
face with a Romney 'portrait of a lady' in real life. Is it likely that such
an insignificant object as a chair, and a small one at that, would succeed
in catching my eye?"
Evelyn Forbes laughed, with a joyous mingling of surprise and relief.
Most certainly, Mr. Theydon's manner of speech differed vastly from
the disconcerting expression of positive bewilderment, if not actual
fright, which marred his entrance.

"Do I really resemble a Romney? Which one?" she cried.
"An admitted masterpiece."
"Ah, but people who pay compliments deserve to be put on the rack. I
insist on a definition."
"Lady Hamilton as Joan of Arc."
He drew the bow at random, and was gratified to see that his hearer was
puzzled.
"I don't know that particular picture," she said, "but I cannot imagine
any model less adapted to the subject."
"Romney immortalized the best qualities of both," he answered
promptly. "Please, may I look at the Canaletto which indirectly waylaid
me?"
She turned to cross the room,