The Black Bag | Page 5

of
friendship--extraordinarily close in view of the meagerness of either's
information about the other, to say nothing of the disparity between
their ages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood knew little more than
that they had met on shipboard, "coming over"; that Brentwick had
spent some years in America; that he was an Englishman by birth, a
cosmopolitan by habit, by profession a gentleman (employing that term
in its most uncompromisingly British significance), and by inclination a
collector of "articles of virtue and bigotry," in pursuit of which he made
frequent excursions to the Continent from his residence in a quaint
quiet street of Old Brompton. It had been during his not infrequent, but
ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns in Paris that their steamer acquaintance
had ripened into an affection almost filial on the one hand, almost
paternal on the other....
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say

"Come in!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one
heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund figure of
medium height, clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a
brown "bowler" hat held tentatively in one hand, an umbrella weeping
in the other. A voice, which was unctuous and insinuative, emanated
from the figure.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so detached
had been his thoughts since the disappearance of the page.
"Yes, Mr. Calendar--?"
"Are you--ah--busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile robbed the retort of any
flavor of incivility.
Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain his host
but a moment, and readily surrendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood,
putting the latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which
Brentwick had occupied by the fireplace.
"It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood explained in deference
to the other's look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. "I'm
afraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp room--or a
damp cold room--such as you Britishers prefer."
"It is grateful," Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and well
cared-for hands to the warmth. "But you are mistaken; I am as much an
American as yourself."
"Yes?" Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, less
matter-of-course courtesy.
He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr. Calendar; he

was dressed with some care, his complexion was good, and the fullness
of his girth, emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, bespoke a
nature genial, easy-going and sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded,
were active--curiously, at times, with a subdued glitter--in a face large,
round, pink, of which the other most remarkable features were a
mustache, close-trimmed and showing streaks of gray, a chubby nose,
and duplicate chins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a
polished bald spot, girdled with a tonsure of silvered
hair--circumstances which lent some factitious distinction to a
personality otherwise commonplace.
His manner might be best described as uneasy with assurance; as
though he frequently found it necessary to make up for his
unimpressive stature by assuming an unnatural habit of authority. And
there you have him; beyond these points, Kirkwood was conscious of
no impressions; the man was apparently neutral-tinted of mind as well
as of body.
"So you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?" suggested
Kirkwood.
"'Saw your name on the register; we both hail from the same neck of
the woods, you know."
"I didn't know it, and--"
"Yes; I'm from Frisco, too."
"And I'm sorry."
Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over his mustache,
glanced alertly up at Kirkwood, as if momentarily inclined to question
his tone, then again stared glumly into the fire; for Kirkwood had
maintained an attitude purposefully colorless. Not to put too fine a
point upon it, be believed that his caller was lying; the man's
appearance, his mannerisms, his voice and enunciation, while they
might have been American, seemed all un-Californian. To one born and
bred in that state, as Kirkwood had been, her sons are unmistakably

hall-marked.
Now no man lies without motive. This one chose to reaffirm, with a
show of deep feeling: "Yes; I'm from Frisco, too. We're companions in
misfortune."
"I hope not altogether," said Kirkwood politely.
Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the response and mustered
up a show of cheerfulness. "Then you're not completely wiped out?"
"To the contrary, I was hoping you were less unhappy."
"Oh! Then you are--?"
Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel. "I have just heard
from my partner at home," he said with a faint smile; and quoted:
"'Everything gone; no insurance.'"
Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling inaudibly. "Too bad, too
bad!" he murmured sympathetically. "We're all hard hit, more or less."
He lapsed into