The Black Bag | Page 3

in
the quiet taste of his attire. To sum up, Kirkwood's very good
friend--and his only one then in London--Mr. Brentwick looked and
was an English gentleman.
"Why?" he persisted, as the younger man hesitated. "I am here to find
out. To-night I leave for the Continent. In the meantime ..."

"And at midnight I sail for the States," added Kirkwood. "That is
mainly why I wished to see you--to say good-by, for the time."
"You're going home--" A shadow clouded Brentwick's clear eyes.
"To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in adversity."
The cloud lifted. "That is the spirit!" declared the elder man. "For the
moment I did you the injustice to believe that you were running away.
But now I understand. Forgive me.... Pardon, too, the stupidity which I
must lay at the door of my advancing years; to me the thought of you as
a Parisian fixture has become such a commonplace, Philip, that the
news of the disaster hardly stirred me. Now I remember that you are a
Californian!"
"I was born in San Francisco," affirmed Kirkwood a bit sadly. "My
father and mother were buried there ..."
"And your fortune--?"
"I inherited my father's interest in the firm of Kirkwood & Vanderlip;
when I came over to study painting, I left everything in Vanderlip's
hands. The business afforded me a handsome living."
"You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?"
"Fifteen minutes ago." Kirkwood took a cable-form, still damp, from
his pocket, and handed it to his guest. Unfolding it, the latter read:
"_Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming back
everything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip_."
"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volunteered, "I tried the
banks; they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in
hand,--enough to see me home,--so closed the studio and came across.
I'm booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the
boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine
with me and see me off."

In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a
thoughtful look, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried.
"It's the only thing I can see."
"But your partner says--"
"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint
well enough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things
running again. Perhaps I might." Brentwick supported the presumption
with a decided gesture. "But have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it
out alone? For Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; I--"
"Your genius!"
"My ability, such as it is--and that only. It can wait.... No; this means
simply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid
earth, and get to work."
"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick, "the practice of it, folly.
Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter can
contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?"
"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood. "I can work like other
men."
"You can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I fear me
you will, dear boy. It's in keeping with your heritage of American
obstinacy. Now if it were a question of money--"
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood protested vehemently. "I've ample for my
present needs," he added.
"Of course," conceded Brentwick with a sigh. "I didn't really hope you
would avail yourself of our friendship. Now there's my home in Aspen
Villas.... You have seen it?"
"In your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with
commendable discretion, kept me without the doors," laughed the

young man.
"It's a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it with me
until--?"
"You are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night. I wanted
only this chance to see you before I left. You'll dine with me, won't
you?"
"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once
but many times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a
week, on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now
and the nine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen
Villas--"
"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of
the other's insistence. "I only wish I could. Another day--"
"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalously
independent. It's in your American blood." Frail white fingers tapped
an arm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. "I confess
I envy you," he observed.
"The opportunity to make a million in a year?" chuckled Kirkwood.
"No. I envy you your Romance."
"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years ago....
No, my