Part 14

"You see, the identification of thumb-prints is made by means of the characteristic involution of the nucleus and its envelope. One needs only a few square millimeters of area. There are three primary nuclei--arches, whorls and loops. Each has variously formed cores. The arch, for instance, may be tented or forked--so. The whorls may be circular or spiral. The loops may be nascent, invaded or crested, and may contain either a single or several rods, as they are called. Let me see your thumb, please. You have a banded, duplex, spiral whorl. It was there when you were born, it will be the same in form when you die. Mine is an invaded loop with three rods."

He saw by Cayley's face that he had scored. Such technical detail was, in point of fact, Cayley's penchant, and he was interested. Granthope proceeded:

"Almost every distinguishing characteristic of the human body has been used at one time or another for divination or interpretation, as I suppose you know."

Cayley saw an opening. "But what do you think the reading of moles, for instance, amounts to, really?"

"The reading of them, very little, of course. But the location of them, a good deal."

"Ah," said Cayley, "I thought so. Then you affirm an esoteric basis with regard to such interpretations? You think that a mass of absolute knowledge has been conserved, coming down from no one knows where, I suppose?"

"There are several ways of looking at it," Granthope answered him. He threw himself back in his chair and gathered the company in with his eyes. "One theory, as you know, is that palmistry derives its authority from the fact that the lines are produced by the opening and closing of the hand--originally, at least--the fundamental markings being inherited, as are our fundamental mental characteristics--and that such alteration of the tissue is directly affected by the character. One stamps his own particular way of doing things upon his palm. Using the right hand most, more is shown there that is individually characteristic. Of course this theory will not apply to the distribution of moles upon the body. But it seems to me that every part of an organic growth must be consistent with the whole, and with what governs it. Everything about a person must necessarily be characteristic of the individual. There are really no such things as accidents, if we except scars. We recognize that in studying physiognomy, and, to a certain extent, in phrenology. It is suggested less intelligibly in a person's gait, gesture and pose. Everything that is distinctive must be significant, if only we have the power of interpreting it. Of course we have not that power as yet. Palmistry, being the most obvious and striking method, has been more fully developed. A great amount of data has been collected upon the subject, and every good palmist is continually adding to that material. But I believe that, to a possible higher intelligence, any part of a man's body would reveal his character--since every specialized partial manifestation of himself must be correlated with every other part and the whole. How else could it be? An infinite experience would draw a man's mental and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe, as it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole extinct animal from a single bone. I think that there can be, in short, no possible divergence from type without a reason for it; and that reason is the same one that molded his character."

"But that doesn't explain prognostication of the future." By this time the animus of Cayley's attack had died out. He was now impersonally interested.

"No scientific palmist attempts to give more than possibilities. He must combine with the signs in the hands a certain amount of psychology--a knowledge of the tendencies of human nature--in order to predict. But, after all, his diagnosis, when it is logical, is as accurate as that of the ordinary physician, and the risk is less serious. How many doctors look wise and take serious chances--or prescribe bread-pills? There's guess-work enough in all professions."

By this time the two had been joined by several others who hung over them in a group, listening. Fernigan interjected:

"That's right! Even Blanchard has to guess what he's talking about most of the time!"

"And you have to guess whether you're sober or not!" said slim Keith with the white nose.

"When you talk about the probable tendencies of human nature, you don't know what you're up against," said Cayley, retreating. "San Francisco is a town where people are likely to do anything. There's no limit, no predicting for them. They were buying air-ship stock on the street down at Lotta's fountain, the last thing I heard."

The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing his Chinese paper crown, took him up enthusiastically.

"You can be more foolish here without getting into the insane asylum than any place on earth, but you have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist before you can really call yourself bug-house. Look at old man Bennett! You couldn't make anything up he wouldn't believe!"

"What about him?" said Cayley. "I would like to have him for my collection of freaks.

"Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here. I knew him well, but I forget the details. It was something fierce though, the way they worked him."

Granthope smiled. "I can tell you something about Bennett," he offered. "I happened to hear the whole story nearly at first hand."

"Let's have it," Cayley proposed.

Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather pleased at having an audience.

"Why, he went to investigating spiritualism and fell into the hands of a man named Harry Wing and a gang of mediums here. They won Bennett over to a firm belief, step by step, till he was the dupe of every ghost that appeared in the materializing circles, which cost him twenty-five dollars an evening, by the way. One man that helped Wing out, played spirit, pretended to be his dead son, and used to ask him for jewelry so that he could dematerialize it, and then rematerialize it for identification. If Bennett went down to Los Angeles he'd take the same train and turn up at a circle there, proving he was the same spirit by the rings that had been given him up here. Well, Bennett got so strong for it that after a while they didn't bother with cabinets and dark seances--the players used to walk right in the door. Then they'd tell him that, as partly materialized spirits, they ought to have dinner to increase their magnetism, and he'd send out for chicken and wine. Finally they got him so they'd point out people on the street and assert that they were spirits. The prettiest test was when they materialized Cleopatra. I've never seen the Egyptian queen, but she certainly wasn't a bit prettier than the girl who played her part. Bennett, as an extraordinary test of her strength, was allowed to take her out to the Cliff House in a hack. The curtains of the carriage had to be pulled down to keep the daylight from burning her."

"Oh, Cliff House, what crimes have been committed in thy name!" Fernigan murmured.

"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence was so valuable in accustoming spirits to earth-conditions, that they were going to reveal a new bible to him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and he would go down to posterity as its author. In return, he was to help civilize the planet Jupiter. You see, Jupiter being an exterior planet was behind the earth in culture. Bennett contributed all sorts of agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized and sent to Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used as patterns. Wing even got him to contribute a five hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose. It was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even when it was shown to Bennett by his friends, who were trying to save him, he wouldn't believe it was the same one. They milked him out of every cent at last, and he died bankrupt."

Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the drawing-room doors were half opened and Mrs. Page appeared on the threshold pouting.

"Aren't you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed petulantly. "You might let us have Mr. Granthope, at least."

The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.

Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect upon what he had done, but in that moment he regretted his indiscretion in telling the Bennett story. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to make himself interesting and agreeable; now he wondered what price he would have to pay for it. The next moment his speculations vanished at the sight of Clytie.

He went directly to her and sat down. Although the party was dispersed in little groups, the conversation had become more or less general, and he had no chance to talk to her alone. He received her smile, however, and she favored him with as much of her talk as was possible.

As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost languor, she made the other women in the room look either negligently lolling or awkwardly conscious. He noticed how some of them showed the fabled western influence of environment by the frank abandon of their pose, how others held themselves rigidly, as if aware of their own lack, and sought, by stern attention, to conceal it. Clytie's head was poised proudly, her hands fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers. Her whole body was faultlessly composed, unified with harmonious lines, as if a masterly portrait were gently roused into life.

Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese parody, accompanied by absurd pantomime. Granthope could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still busy with her admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the library.

Mr. Maxwell's books were rare and carefully selected, a treat for such an amateur as Granthope. He went from case to case fingering the volumes, opening and glancing through one after another. The pursuit kept him longer than he had intended.

There was a smaller room off the library, used as a study and shut off by a portiere. Granthope, standing near the entrance, suddenly heard the sound of swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued, modulated voices of two women. With no intention at first of eavesdropping, he kept on with his perusal of the book in his hand. The first part of the conversation he remembered rather than listened to, but it soon attracted his alert attention.

"I think it's a rather extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maxwell's asking him, though, don't you?" one of the ladies said.

The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic voice: "Oh, she wanted an attraction, I suppose, and he's really very good-looking, you know."

"He's handsome enough, but he's too much like a matinee hero for me; my dear, he's absolutely impossible, really! He's not the sort of person one cares to meet more than once. He's beyond the pale.

"It's rather cruel to invite him just to show him off, I think. In a way, he had to accept."

"Oh, I expect he's only too glad to come."

"I wonder how he feels! Do you suppose he has any idea that he's out of his element? It must be strange to be willing to accept an invitation when you know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."

"Don't worry. A charlatan has to have a pretty thick skin--no doubt he'll make use of all of us, and brag about his acquaintance. That's his business, you know; he has to advertise himself."

"I know; but every man has his own sense of dignity, and it must be somewhat mortifying--no self-respecting coal-heaver would accept such an invitation--his pride would keep him from it.

"I don't see how a man like that can have much pride. A coal-heaver has, after all, a dignified way of earning his living. This man hasn't. His trade can't permit him to be self-respecting. It's more undignified than any honest labor would be. Why, he lives by trickery and flattery, and now he's beginning to toady, too. Just look at the way he is after Clytie Payson, already."

"Yes, I can't see why she permits it, but she seems to be positively fascinated by him. Isn't it strange how a fine girl like that is usually the most easily deceived? Did you see the way she was looking at him at supper? That told the story. Of course, you'd expect it of Mrs. Page, but not of Cly."

"Don't you believe it! Cly's no fool--she sees through him. He's interesting, you can't deny that; and you know that a clever man can get about anything he wants in this town. There are too few of them to go round, and so they're all spoiled. But Cly's only playing him."

"You don't think she's deliberately fooling him, do you?"

"Nonsense! I know Cly as well as you do. She would always play fair enough, of course, but that doesn't prevent her wanting to study a new specimen, especially one as attractive as Granthope. But it won't last long. Cly's too honest. It's likely that he'll go too far and take advantage of her--then she'll call him down and dismiss him."

"Do you think he imagines that he could really--" began the other.

"Oh, _he's_ no fool either! He knows perfectly well where he belongs, but he's working his chances while they last."

Granthope had been deliberately listening and, as the last words came to his ears, his emotion burst into flame. This, then, was how he was regarded by the new circle into which he had been admitted. He was a curiosity, handsome, but beyond the pale--even Clytie, it was probable, was willing to amuse herself with him. The illumination it gave him as to his status was vivid, its radiance scorched him.

He had never caught this point of view before. He had been too interested in his emergence from obscurity, he had even congratulated himself upon his increasing success. Now he saw that the further he went on that road the further away from Clytie he would be--he saw the chasm that separated them. His undignified profession appeared to him for the first time in its true aspect. The humiliation and mortification of that revelation was sickening. He had not believed that it was possible for him to suffer over anything so keenly. The insults he had received, produced, after a poignant moment of despair, an energetic reaction. His fighting instinct was awakened. He had achieved a certain control of himself, he had a social poise and assurance that kindled his mind at the prospect of an encounter.

He drew aside the portiere and walked boldly into the little room.

Two ladies were sitting there, picturesque in their costumes. Their rainbow-hued garments showed a bizarre blotch of color in the quiet monochrome of the place. Their faces were whitened with powder, their eyebrows blackened to the willow-curve, their lips lined with red--they looked, in the half-light, like fantastic, exotic Pierrettes. As they caught sight of him they started up with surprise, almost with fear. Granthope bowed with a quiet smile, perfectly master of himself.

"I want to apologize for having overheard your conversation," he said. "I must confess that I was eavesdropping. My business is, you know, to read character for others, and I don't often have a chance to hear my own so well described. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure."

He had the whip-hand now. There was nothing for them to say; they said nothing, staring at him, their lips parted.

He walked through to the door of the hall and there paused like an actor making his exit from the stage. A cynical smile still floated on his lips. He had never looked more handsome, with his black hair, his clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them over calmly, without haste. His costume became him and he wore it well. Now, as he raised his hand, the long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little away from his fingers. Below, his lavender trousers gleamed softly. It was a queer draping for his serious pose. It was a strangely figured pair that he addressed as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their splendid silken garments.

He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm in his smooth voice: "I would like to tell you, if it is any satisfaction for you to know, that your operation has been successful. It was rather painful, without the anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover. I think I may even be better for it, perhaps restored to health--who knows!" Then his smile became enigmatic; he left them and went down the stairs.

He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him, some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled.

"I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said.

"Oh, if I only did! Something has--you have changed, somehow."

"Is it an improvement?"

"You know, it is my theory that you're going to--" She gave up her explanation--her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been embarrassed?"

"I suppose it was good for my vanity."

"Then you have heard something unpleasant."

"The truth often is."

"Was it true?"

He laughed it off. "It was nothing I mightn't have known."

"Then it is for you to make it false, isn't it?"

"If I can."

"I think there is nothing you couldn't do if you tried."

"There is nothing I couldn't do if I had your help," he answered.

For answer, she took the little gold heart-shaped bottle from its mesh-work and handed it to him.

"You must learn--but perhaps this may help you. Will you keep it?"

He took it and thanked her with his eyes. Then, their dialogue being interrupted, he moved off. He wandered about, speaking to one and another for a few moments, gradually drifting toward the hall.

As he stood just outside the reception-room he glanced up the broad stairs carelessly, thinking of the two ladies to whom he had spoken. He smiled to himself, wondering if they had yet come down. While he was watching, he saw a woman at the top of the stairs, looking over the rail. A second glance showed her to be a servant. She descended slowly, and, in a moment, beckoned stealthily. He paid no attention.

She came nearer, and, finally, seeing no one with him, called out to him in a whisper. It was Lucie, Mrs. Maxwell's maid. The moment Granthope recognized her, he walked into the parlors again, as if he had not noticed her.

Soon after that he paid his farewell amenities to his hostess and went up to where he had left his hat and coat. Lucie was in the upper hall waiting for him.

"Mr. Granthope," she whispered, "may I speak to you a moment? I have something."

"Not now," he said, passing on.

She plucked at his sleeve. "I've got a great story," she insisted.

He shook his head.

"Shall I come down to your office?"

"Be quiet!" he said under his breath, and went in for his things.

She was waiting for him when he emerged.

"I'll come down as soon as I can get off," she continued.

He shrugged his shoulders without looking at her, and went down-stairs, and out.

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE WEAVING OF THE WEB*

Madam Spoll was sitting in her study on Eddy Street, awaiting her victim, when Francis Granthope, immaculate as usual, appeared in her doorway, having been admitted by Spoll. She was in front of the glass, pinning on a lace collar.

"Hello, Frank," she said cordially, looking over her shoulder, "you're a sight for sore eyes! We don't see much of you, nowadays."

"I've been pretty busy, lately," he answered, sitting down and looking about with an expression of ill-concealed distaste. The stuffy, crowded room seemed more unpleasant than ever, after his evening at the Maxwells'. Madam Spoll seemed more gross. Everything that had been familiar to him had somehow changed. He seemed to have a different angle of vision. It was close and warm, and the air smelled of dust.

"You ain't a-going to forget your old friends, now you've got in with the four hundred, are you, Frank?" she said earnestly.

He pulled out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. As he struck the match he answered:

"Not if they don't meddle in my affairs." He gazed at her coolly as he inhaled a puff of smoke and sent a ring across the room.

Madam Spoll's face grew stern. "That's no way to talk, Frank. I've been the same as a mother to you, in times past, ever since you went into business, in fact. It looks like you was getting too good for us."

"Why, what's the matter now?"

"Oh, you're so stand-off, nowadays."

He laughed uneasily. "You always said I was spoiled."

"Well, who's spoiling you now? Miss Payson?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, well enough! Lord, why don't you come out with it! It's all in the family, ain't it? You've got her on the string, all right, ain't you?"

"I have not." The frown grew deeper in his forehead.

"H'm!" She drew a long breath. "Well, that means we'll have to begin at the beginning, then, I expect. I had a sort of an idea that you _had_ got her going, and wouldn't mind saying so, but if you're going to go to work and be mysterious, why, I'll have to talk straight business." She pointed at him with her pudgy finger. "Now, see here, she's been writing to you, anyways. You can't deny _that_."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think anything at all about it; I know. What d'you take me for? A Portugee cook? It's my business to know all about the Paysons, that's all. Very good."

Granthope looked more concerned, and eyed her suspiciously.

"There's only one way for you to have found that out," he said. "And that reminds me. I want to get those notes I gave you about her when you were up at my place. I didn't keep a copy, and I've forgotten some of the details that I need."

Madam Spoll raised her eyebrows, also her shoulders, and made an inarticulate noise in her throat. "Funny you need them so bad all of a sudden. Not that they done us much good--we've found out a lot for ourselves; about all we need for the present."

"Well, I haven't interfered with your game, and I don't see why you should interfere with mine. Only, I'd like those memoranda back, please." His tone was almost peremptory.

"I'm sorry, but I ain't got 'em."

"Where are they?"

"Why, I give 'em to Vixley."

Granthope saw that it was no use to go further. He had, in spite of his precautions, already aroused her suspicions, and so he pretended to consider the matter of no moment. Madam Spoll, however, was now thoroughly aroused.

"What I want to know, Frank, is whether you're with us or not."

"I thought the understanding was that we were to work separately."

"Separately _and_ together. Mutual exchange _and_ actual profit, for each and for all. We got a mighty good thing in Payson, me and Vixley have, and we propose to work it for all it's worth. It'll be for your interest to come in and help us out. True, you have done something, but now you're lallagagging, so to speak, when you might be making a big haul. Payson's easy, and we can steer the girl your way, through him. He'll believe anything. All we got to do is to say my guides want him to have you for a son-in-law, and the trick is as good as turned. I agree to get him started this afternoon. He's a ten-to-one shot. I can see that with half an eye. It'll only be up to you to make good with the girl, and Lord knows that'll be easy for you. Now is that straight enough for you?"

Granthope rose and began to pace the floor nervously. He paused to straighten some magazines upon the table, he adjusted a photograph upon the wall, he moved back a chair; then he turned to her and said:

"I don't see how there's anything in this for me. I'm through with all that sort of thing, and I think, on the whole, I'll stay out. I'm going in for straight palmistry--and--well, another kind of game altogether. You wouldn't understand it even if I explained. I've got a good start, now, and I don't want to queer myself."