The Black Bag | Page 7

adventurer, of course; the
woods are full of 'em. A queer fish, even of his kind! And with a trick
up his sleeve as queer and fishy as himself, no doubt!"

II
"AND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST
UPON THEM"
The assumption seems not unwarrantable, that Mr. Calendar
figuratively washed his hands of Mr. Kirkwood. Unquestionably Mr.

Kirkwood considered himself well rid of Mr. Calendar. When the latter
had gone his way, Kirkwood, mindful of the fact that his boat-train
would leave St. Paneras at half-after eleven, set about his packing and
dismissed from his thoughts the incident created by the fat _chevalier
d'industrie_; and at six o'clock, or thereabouts, let himself out of his
room, dressed for the evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the
other hand a cane,--the drizzle having ceased.
A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground floor of the
establishment in something short of five minutes. Pausing in the office
long enough to settle his bill and leave instructions to have his luggage
conveyed to the boat-train, he received with entire equanimity the
affable benediction of the clerk, in whose eyes he still figured as that
radiant creature, an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby,
where he surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-room attendant,
ere entering the dining-room.
The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner, the handsome room but
moderately filled with patrons. Kirkwood absorbed the fact
unconsciously and without displeasure; the earlier, the better: he was
determined to consume his last civilized meal (as he chose to consider
it) at his serene leisure, to live fully his ebbing moments in the world to
which he was born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate draught of
luxury.
A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a corner table in
juxtaposition with an open window, through which, swaying
imperceptibly the closed hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of the
London evening's sweet, damp breath.
Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh of pleasure. He was
dining, for the last time in Heaven knew how long, in a first-class
restaurant.
With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him the menu-card. He
had served in his time many an "American, millionaire"; he had also
served this Mr. Kirkwood, and respected him as one exalted above the
run of his kind, in that he comprehended the art of dining.

Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing, his order complete.
To distract a conscience whispering of extravagance, Kirkwood lighted
a cigarette.
The room was gradually filling with later arrivals; it was the most
favored restaurant in London, and, despite the radiant costumes of the
women, its atmosphere remained sedate and restful.
A cab clattered down the side street on which the window opened.
At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy. Incuriously
Kirkwood glanced her way. She was bending forward, smiling,
flattering her escort with the adoration of her eyes. They were lovers
alone in the wilderness of the crowded restaurant. They seemed very
happy.
Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of emotion. It took him
some time to comprehend that it was envy.
He was alone and lonely. For the first time he realized that no woman
had ever looked upon him as the woman at the adjoining table looked
upon her lover. He had found time to worship but one mistress--his art.
And he was renouncing her.
He was painfully conscious of what he had missed, had lost--or had not
yet found: the love of woman.
The sensation was curious--new, unique in his experience.
His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he sat pondering.
Abstractedly, he ground its fire out in an ash-tray.
The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered.
He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce doing it justice. His
dream troubled him--his dream of the love of woman.

From a little distance his waiter regarded him, with an air of
disappointment. In the course of an hour and a half he awoke, to
discover the attendant in the act of pouring very hot and black coffee
from a bright silver pot into a demi-tasse of fragile porcelain. Kirkwood
slipped a single lump of sugar into the cup, gave over his cigar-case to
be filled, then leaned back, deliberately lighting a long and slender
panetela as a preliminary to a last lingering appreciation of the scene of
which he was a part.
He reviewed it through narrowed eyelids, lazily; yet with some slight
surprise, seeming to see it with new vision, with eyes from which
scales of ignorance had dropped.
This long and brilliant dining-hall, with its quiet perfection of
proportion and appointment, had always gratified his love of the
beautiful; to-night it pleased him to