Part 15

“My young friend, you are very rich, very powerful. You can do everything. You fear nothing. This is the year nineteen hundred and thirteen. But I tell you this: the woman who will be your wife, in this world and throughout eternity has received your message. It was ordained from the beginning. You have not seen her; you have not heard her; you have not touched her. And yet you will know her when you see her and when you hear her and when you feel her. Into the darkness you went. Out of the darkness she will come. Nothing you can do can change it. Improve your hours by thinking of her. Think of the love you have to give her! Think of it constantly! Of your love! Yours! Of hers you cannot guess. The love you will give will make her your mate! Your love! And so, Thomas Thome Merriwether, think of the One Woman!”

“I think--”

“I know! Amusement, sneers, skepticism, anger--all are one to me. I ask nothing, expect nothing, desire nothing, and fear nothing from you, young sir. A queer experience this--eh? An unexplained and apparently unconcluded little game? A plot foiled by your cleverness--what? A joke? A piece of lunacy? Call it anything you wish. Again I thank you. Good evening, Mr. Merriwether.”

And Tom was politely ushered from the room by the strange man and from the house by the four over-intelligent footmen.

III

Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his amiability that after the coffee he said:

“Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way all you have to do is to tell me what it is.”

“Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking--”

Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to think--alone.

Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and somebody to love? Why had the springtime--since the night before--come to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes, tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks, so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking--if he would be honest with himself--of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was.

He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his father noticed it.

“What's up, Tom?”

“What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking.”

“Terrible thing, my boy--thinking at meal-time,” said E. H. Merriwether, with a self-conscious look of badinage.

“Yes, it is. I'll quit.”

“Is it anything about which you need advice--or help, my boy?” said the great little railroad dynast, very carelessly.

His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as though it were a weakness.

“No, indeed. There is nothing the matter--really. I was thinking I'd like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your next tour of inspection.”

The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up.

“Will you?” he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost tremble.

“Yes.”

And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very close to each other.

On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face. He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas. Her complexion was beautiful. No more!

On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience, and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it. Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity.

He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose faces looked too intelligent for footmen.

“I wish to see Mr.--er--your master.”

“Does he expect you, sir?” The tone was not as respectful as footmen in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether millions. “No; but he knows me.”

“Who knows you, sir?”

“Your master.”

“Could you tell me his name, sir?”

“No; but I can tell you mine.”

“He's not at home, sir.”

“I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment.”

“I'm sorry, sir. He's not in.”

The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the man.

“I am anxious to see him.”

“Im sorry. I can't take it, sir,” said the footman, with such melancholy sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul.

Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had compelled even the footmen to obey him!

“But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir--”

“Thank you. Take it anyhow.”

He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars, and almost turned green.

“I--I d-daresent, sir!” he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.

Tom left him, walked across the Avenue to the Park, and sat down on a bench. He settled down to think calmly over the mysterious affair, and looked about him.

The grass in the turf places had taken on a definite green, as though it were May. The trees were not yet in leaf, making the grass-greenness seem a trifle premature, but Tom noticed that the buds on the trees and shrubs were bursting; there were little feathery tips of tender red and pale green--tiny wings about to flutter upward because the sun and the sky beckoned to them to go where it was bright and warm. The sky was of a spotless turquoise, as though the spring cleaning up there had been thorough. The clouds were of silver freshly burnished for the occasion. The air was alive, laden with subtle thrills; it throbbed invisibly, as though the light were life, and life were love. He saw hundreds of sparrows, and they all twittered; and all the twitterings were very, very shrill, and yet very, very musical. And also they twittered in couples that hopped and darted and aerially zigzagged--always together and always twittering!

A policeman stopped and said something to a nurse-maid. The nurse-maid said something to the policeman. He was young and she was pretty. Then the policeman said nothing to the nurse-maid, and the nurse-maid said nothing to the policeman. Then two faces turned red. Then one face nodded yes. Then the other face walked away, swinging a club; and--by all that was marvelous!--swinging the club in time to the tune the sparrows were twittering--in couples--the same tune, as though the club-swinger's soul were whistling it!

Tom smiled uncertainly--he wanted to give money, lots of it, to the policeman and to the nursemaid; and he knew it was impossible--it was too obviously the intelligent thing to do! So, instead, he drew a deep breath.

Instantly there came to him not the odor of spring and of green things growing, but of sweet peas and summer winds, and changing, evanescent faces, pink-and-white as flowers, with flower-odor associations and eyes full of glints and brightnesses that recalled dewdrops and sunlight and stars. And these glittering points shifted in tune to the twittering of birds and the swinging of Park policemen's clubs.

Love was in the air! Love was making Tom Mer-riwether impatient, as that love which is the love of loving always makes the mateless man.

He could no longer sit calmly. He could not sit at all. He craved to do something, to do anything, so long as it was motion. Therefore he walked briskly northward. At Ninetieth Street he halted abruptly. He had begun to walk mechanically and he could think of what he did not wish to think. So he shook himself free from the spell and walked back.

An hour had passed. He again rang the bell of 777. The same footman opened the door.

“Is he in?” asked Tom, impatiently.

“Yes, sir--he is, sir. I told him the moment he came in, sir.” He looked as uncomfortable as a lifelong habit of impassivity permitted.

“What did he say?” asked Tom.

“He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me.”

“And you said?”

“I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank you, sir! This way, sir.”

The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any menial he announced:

“Mr. Merriwether!”

The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous visits--recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game? Also the new question: Where is she?

The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.

“Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?” And he motioned him to a chair.

“Thank you.”

“How can I serve you?”

“Who is the woman?” said Tom, abruptly. “Your fate!” answered the man.

“Her name?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Her address?”

“I don't know it.”

“What is your game?”

“I have money enough for my whims and time enough to gratify my desire to help you. Eugenics is my hobby. I recognize that I cannot fight against the decree of destiny.”

“I am tired of all this humbug.”

“I ask nothing of you now. You can go or you can come. You can go to India or to Patagonia--or even farther. You may send detectives and lawyers, or even thugs, to me. You may cease your search for her--if you can!”

“You have roused my curiosity--”

“That is a sign of intelligence.”

“I tell you now that I don't believe a word of what you say.”

“Free country, young man.”

“I've had enough of this nonsense--”

“Though I am always glad to see you, young sir, and would not wound your feelings for worlds”--the man's voice was very polite, but also very cold--“I might be forgiven for observing that I did not ask you to call.”

“I'll give you a thousand dollars--”

The man stopped him with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

“One of the pearls I offered you, Mr. Merriwether, is valued at ten thousand dollars. You did not select that one; but I'll exchange the one you took for it--now if you wish.”

“That's all very well, but--” Tom paused, and the man cut in:

“Do you wish to see her from a safe distance? Or do you wish to talk to her without seeing her? Or--”

“To see her and talk to her!”

“Wait!”

The man intently regarded the tip of Tom's left shoe for fully five minutes. Then he raised his head and clapped his hands twice. The black manservant with the fez appeared.

The man said something in Arabic--at least it sounded so to Tom. The black answered. The man spoke again. The black replied:

The man said what sounded to Tom like, “_Ay adad_.”

The negro answered, “_Al-sabi! Al-sabi wal Saboun_.”

The man waved his hand dismissingly and the negro salaamed and left the room.

After a moment the man turned to Tom and said, with obvious perplexity: “I am not sure it is wise for me to meddle, but perhaps it is written that I am to help you three times. Who knows?”

He stared into Tom's eyes as though he would read a word there--either yes or no. But Tom said, a trifle impatiently:

“Well, sir?”

“Go to the opera to-night. Take seat H 77. No other seat will do.”

“H 77--to-night,” repeated Thomas Thorne Merriwether.

“The opera is 'Madame Butterfly.'”

“Thanks,” said Tom, and started for the door. He halted when the man spoke.

“It is the seat back of G 77. None other will do.”

“Good day, sir,” said Tom, and left the room.

IV

The telephone operator in E. H. Merriwether's office manipulated the plugs in the switchboard and answered in advance:

“Mr. Merriwether's office!”

From the other end of the wire came:

“This is the Rivulet Club. Mr. Waters wishes to speak to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Personal matter.”

“He's engaged just now. Will any one else do?”

“No. Say it is Mr. Waters--about Mr. Tom Merriwether.”

People resorted to all manner of tricks and subterfuges to speak to Mr. E. H. Merriwether--deluded people who thought they could get what they wished if only they could speak to Mr. Merriwether himself. They never succeeded. He was too well guarded by highly paid experts who prevented the waste of his precious time. But the telephone operator knew her business. She switched the would-be conversationalist on to the private secretary's line, saying: “Mr. Waters, Rivulet Club, wishes to speak to Mr. E. H. in regard to Mr. Tom Merriwether.”

“I'll talk to him,” hastily said the private secretary.

“Hello, Mr. Waters! This is McWayne, Mr. Merriwether's private secretary. Has anything happened to Tom that--Oh! Yes--of course! At once, Mr. Waters.”

McWayne then had the operator put Mr. Waters on Mr. E. H.'s wire.

“Who?” said the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern. “Waters? Oh yes. Go ahead!”

And Mr. E. H. Merriwether heard, in a young man's voice:

“Say, Mr. Merriwether, some of the fellows here thought I'd better speak to you about Tom. He's been acting kind of queer; of course I don't mean crazy or--er--alarming; but--don't you know?--unusual.... Yes, sir! A little unusual for him, Mr. Merriwether. To-day it was about the opera. Says he's got to get a certain seat, no matter what it costs. Of course it isn't our business.... Oh no! he never drinks too much. No; never! We don't think we are called on to follow him to the Metropolitan, where he has just gone; but we thought you ought to know it. Please don't bring us into any--you know we are very fond of Tom; and we were a little worried, he's been so unlike himself lately. We teased him about being in love, and he--er--he seemed to get quite angry.... Yes, Mr. Merriwether; we'll keep you posted; and please don't give me away. It was a very delicate matter and--Don't mention it, Mr. Merriwether. We'd all do anything for Tom, sir. Good-by.”

E. H. Merriwether, the greatest little cuss in the world, as his admirers called him, hung up the telephone. His face, that impassive gambler's face which never told anything, now showed as plainly as could be that he was wounded in a vital spot.

His son Tom was all this great millionaire had!

His railroad became so much junk and his vast plans just so much waste paper as he thought of Tom. Was the boy going insane? Was it drugs? Was it one of those mysterious maladies that break millionaires' hearts by baffling the greatest physicians of the entire world and being beyond the reach of gold? Or was it a joke? Young Evert Waters was a friend of Tom's; but might not he exaggerate? He rang the bell for his private secretary.

“McWayne, send somebody with brains to the Metropolitan Opera House to find out whether my son Tom has been up there--box-office--and what he is up to. I want to know how he acts. I want to know where the boy goes and what he does, whom he sees and where. Get some specialist on--er”--he could not bring himself to say mental diseases--“on nervous troubles, and make an appointment with him to come to my house to-morrow morning. He will have breakfast with us--say, at eight-thirty. I don't want Tom to know.”

He avoided McWayne's eyes.

“Yes, sir,” said McWayne.

“Be ready to notify the papers to suppress any and all stories about Tom. I fear nothing and expect nothing, because I know nothing. Drop everything else and attend to these matters at once. I have heard that Tom is acting a little queer. It may be a lie or a joke--or a trick. I want to find out--that's all.”

He would learn before he acted decisively. He stared at a pigeonhole in his desk marked T. T. M. There he kept all letters Tom had written him from boarding-school and from college. Presently he raised his head and drew a deep breath. There was no need to worry until he knew. It would be a waste of energy and of time; and, for all his millions, he could not afford the waste. He rang a bell; and when a clerk appeared he said in his calm, emotionless voice:

“I'll see Governor Bolton the moment he comes in.”

There was a big battle on between capital and labor. He was in the thick of it. He put Tom out of his mind for the time being. He could do that at will; but he could not put Tom out of his heart--this little chap that people called ruthless.

V

Tom Merriwether went to the box-office at the Metropolitan and said, pleasantly, as men do when they ask for what they know will be given to them:

“I want the seat just back of G 77--orchestra--for to-night. I suppose it will be H 77.”

The clerk, who knew the heir of the Merriwether millions, said, “I'll see whether we have it, Mr. Merriwether.” He saw. Then he said, with sincere regret: “I'm very sorry. It's gone.”

“I must have it,” said Tom, determinedly.

“I don't quite see how I can help you, Mr. Merri-wether. I can give you another just as--”

“I don't want any other seat. Who bought it?”

“I don't know. It may be a subscription seat, sold months ago.”

“It's the double seven on the seventh row that I am concerned about. I want the seat just back of it.”

“I'll call up the ticket agencies. There's a bare chance they may have it.” After a few minutes he said, “I'm very sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but I can't get it. They haven't it.”

“I'm willing to pay any price for H 77. I'll give you a hundred dollars if you--”

“Mr. Merriwether, I couldn't do it if you offered me a thousand! If I could do it at all I'd be only too glad to do it for you--for nothing,” the clerk said, and blushed.

Everybody liked Tom.

The sincerity in the clerk's voice impressed young Mr. Merriwether, who thanked him warmly and withdrew. The baffled feeling that he took away with him from the ticket-window grew in intensity until he was ready to fight.

It was a natural-enough impulse that led him back to 777 Fifth Avenue; but he was not quite sure whether he was angry at the man for telling him to do what was obviously impossible or at himself for determining to find her!

He rang the bell of the house of mystery. The footman that answered was one of the intelligent four; but his face was impassive, as though he had never before seen Tom.

“Your master?” asked Tom, abruptly.

“Your card, please,” said the footman, impassively.

Tom gave it to him. The man disappeared, presently to return.

“This way, sir.” And at the door in the rear he paused and announced, “Mr. Merriwether!”

The master of the house was in his usual place. He bowed his head gravely and waited.

“I couldn't get the seat,” said Tom, with a frown.

“It is written, 'Vain are man's efforts!'”

“That's all very well, my friend. But the next time--”

“Fate deals with time--not with next time! There is no certainty of any time but one. If you can do nothing I can do nothing. I still say, The seat back of G 77 to-night.”

Tom Merriwether looked searchingly into the calm eyes before him. The baffled feeling returned; also, a great curiosity. What would the end be? At length he said, “Good day, sir.” He half hoped the man would volunteer some helpful remark.

“Good day, sir,” said the man, with cold politeness.

Tom went back to the Opera House and asked for somebody in authority to whom he might talk. They ushered him into Mr. Kirsch's presence. Mr. Kirsch, amiable by birth, temperament, and training, listened to him with much gravity; also, with a concern he tried to conceal, for it was too sad--a bright, clean-living, intensely likable chap like Tom, only heir to the Merriwether millions!

Fearing a scene, he told Tom that he would speak to the ticket-takers in the lobby to be on the lookout for ticket H 77. Then he conferred with the emissary McWayne had sent, who thereupon was able to send in a most alarming report.

The private secretary softened it as much as he could, and even dared to suggest to the chief that it might be a bet; but the little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, who had never flinched under any strain or stress, grew visibly older as he heard that his son was offering thousands for an opera-seat--for the seat back of the double seven, seventh row. It could mean but one thing!

Tom was so fortunate as to be standing beside the ticket-collector at the middle door of the main entrance when the owner of H 77 appeared. He was a fat man with a pink and shiny face, a close-cropped mustache, and huge pearl studs. The fat man was fortunately alone.

“Sir,” said Tom, “I should like to speak a moment with you.”

The man looked apprehensive. Then he said, “What is it about?”

“For very strong personal reasons I should like to exchange tickets with you. I can give you G 126--every bit as good--on the other side of the aisle.”

“Why should I change?” queried the shiny-faced man, suspiciously.

“To oblige a very nice young lady and myself. Of course, if you prefer to be paid--”

“I don't need money.”

“Well, I'll pay you a hundred dollars for your ticket,” said Tom, coldly.

The man shook his head from force of habit, in order that Tom might see he was offering too little. Then he said, recklessly:

“It's yours, my friend. I have a pet charity. I'll give your money to it. Where's the hundred?”

Tom took out a small roll of yellow bills, pulled off one, and handed it to the man with the pet charity, who took it, looked at it, nodded, put it in his pocket, gave the coupon to Tom, and then held out his right hand.

“Where is the ticket for G 120 that you'll give me in place of mine?”

Tom gave it to him and walked into the house, not knowing that McWayne's emissary had listened and reported. He sat in H 77 and tried to laugh at his own absurd behavior; but somewhere within him--away in, very deep--something was thrillingly alert, tantalizingly expectant.

The seat before him was empty. It remained empty during the first act. It angered Tom that the climax should be so long in coming. The three seats in front of him remained vacant until just before the curtain went up on the last act. Somebody came in just as the lights were lowered and occupied seat G 77.

Tom sat up and braced himself. He leaned over, vaguely desiring to be near her. Unconscious that he was under a strain he, nevertheless, drew a deep breath.