Cora supposed that it must be very pleasant.
“Yes,” he returned. “But I was mighty sorry to hear your father wasn’t much better than when I left. The truth is, I wanted to have a talk with him, and I’ve been reproaching myself a good deal that I didn’t go ahead with it last summer, when he was well, only I thought then it mightn’t be necessary—might be disturbing things without much reason.”
“I’m afraid you can’t have a talk with him now,” she said. “The doctor says–-“
“I know, I know,” said Pryor, “of course. I wonder”—he hesitated, smiling faintly—“I wonder if I could have it with you instead.”
“Me?”
“Oh, it isn’t business,” he laughed, observing her expression. “That is, not exactly.” His manner became very serious. “It’s about a friend of mine—at least, a man I know pretty well. Miss Madison, I saw you driving out through the park with him, yesterday noon, in an automobile. Valentine Corliss.”
Cora stared at him. Honesty, friendliness, and grave concern were disclosed to her scrutiny. There was no mistaking him: he was a good man. Her mouth opened, and her eyelids flickered as from a too sudden invasion of light—the look of one perceiving the close approach of a vital crisis. But there was no surprise in her face.
“Come in,” she said.
… . When Corliss arrived, at about eleven o’clock that morning, Sarah brought him to the library, where he found Cora waiting for him. He had the air of a man determined to be cheerful under adverse conditions: he came in briskly, and Cora closed the door behind him.
“Keep away from me,” she said, pushing him back sharply, the next instant. “I’ve had enough of that for a while I believe.”
He sank into a chair, affecting desolation. “Caresses blighted in the bud! Cora, one would think us really married.”
She walked across the floor to a window, turned there, with her back to the light, and stood facing him, her arms folded.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, noting this attitude. “Is it the trial scene from a faded melodrama?” She looked steadily at him without replying. “What’s it all about to-day?” he asked lightly. “I’ll try to give you the proper cues if you’ll indicate the general nature of the scene, Cora mine.”
She continued to look at him in silence.
“It’s very effective,” he observed. “Brings out the figure, too. Do forgive me if you’re serious, dear lady, but never in my life was I able to take the folded-arms business seriously. It was used on the stage of all countries so much that I believe most new-school actors have dropped it. They think it lacks genuineness.”
Cora waited a moment longer, then spoke. “How much chance have I to get Richard Lindley’s money back from you?”
He was astounded. “Oh, I say!”
“I had a caller, this morning,” she said, slowly. “He talked about you—quite a lot! He’s told me several things about you.”
“Mr. Vilas?” he asked, with a sting in his quick smile.
“No,” she answered coolly. “Much older.”
At that he jumped up, stepped quickly close to her, and swept her with an intense and brilliant scrutiny.
“Pryor, by God!” he cried.
“He knows you pretty well,” she said. “So do now!”
He swung away from her, back to his chair, dropped into it and began to laugh. “Old Pryor! Doddering old Pryor! Doddering old ass of a Pryor! So he did! Blood of an angel! what a stew, what a stew!” He rose again, mirthless. “Well, what did he say?”
She had begun to tremble, not with fear. “He said a good deal.”
“Well, what was it? What did he tell you?”
“I think you’ll find it plenty!”
“Come on!”
“YOU!” She pointed at him.
“Let’s have it.”
“He told me”—she burst out furiously—“he said you were a professional sharper!”
“Oh, no. Old Pryor doesn’t talk like that.”
She came toward him. “He told me you were notorious over half of Europe,” she cried vehemently. “He said he’d arrested you himself, once, in Rotterdam, for smuggling jewels, and that you were guilty, but managed to squirm out of it. He said the police had put you out of Germany and you’d be arrested if you ever tried to go back. He said there were other places you didn’t dare set foot in, and he said he could have you arrested in this country any time he wanted to, and that he was going to do it if he found you’d been doing anything wrong. Oh, yes, he told me a few things!”
He caught her by the shoulder. “See here, Cora, do you believe all this tommy-rot?”
She shook his hand off instantly. “Believe it? I know it! There isn’t a straight line in your whole soul and mind: you’re crooked all over. You’ve been crooked with ME from the start. The moment that man began to speak, I knew every word of it was true. He came to me because he thought it was right: he hasn’t anything against you on his own account; he said he LIKED you! I KNEW it was true, I tell you.”
He tried to put his hand on her shoulder again, beginning to speak remonstratingly, but she cried out in a rage, broke away from him, and ran to the other end of the room.
“Keep away! Do you suppose I like you to touch me? He told me you always had been a wonder with women! Said you were famous for `handling them the right way’—using them! Ah, that was pleasant information for ME, wasn’t it! Yes, I could have confirmed him on that point. He wanted to know if I thought you’d been doing anything of that sort here. What he meant was: Had you been using me?”
“What did you tell him?” The question rang sharply on the instant.
“Ha! That gets into you, does it?” she returned bitterly. “You can’t overdo your fear of that man, I think, but I didn’t tell him anything. I just listened and thanked him for the warning, and said I’d have nothing more to do with you. How COULD I tell him? Wasn’t it I that made papa lend you his name, and got Richard to hand over his money? Where does that put ME?” She choked; sobs broke her voice. “Every—every soul in town would point me out as a laughing-stock—the easiest fool out of the asylum! Do you suppose I want you arrested and the whole thing in the papers? What I want is Richard’s money back, and I’m going to have it!”
“Can you be quiet for a moment and listen?” he asked gravely.
If you’ll tell me what chance I have to get it back.”
“Cora,” he said, “you don’t want it back.”
“Oh? Don’t I?”
“No.” He smiled faintly, and went on. “Now, all this nonsense of old Pryor’s isn’t worth denying. I have met him abroad; that much is true—and I suppose I have rather a gay reputation–-“
She uttered a jeering shout.
“Wait!” he said. “I told you I’d cut quite a swathe, when I first talked to you about myself. Let it go for the present and come down to this question of Lindley’s investment–-“
“Yes. That’s what I want you to come down to.”
“As soon as Lindley paid in his check I gave him his stock certificates, and cabled the money to be used at once in the development of the oil-fields–-“
“What! That man told me you’d `promoted’ a South American rubber company once, among people of the American colony in Paris. The details he gave me sounded strangely familiar!”
“You’d as well be patient, Cora. Now, that money has probably been partially spent, by this time, on tools and labour and–-“
“What are you trying to–-“
“I’ll show you. But first I’d like you to understand that nothing can be done to me. There’s nothing `on’ me! I’ve acted in good faith, and if the venture in oil is unsuccessful, and the money lost, I can’t be held legally responsible, nor can any one prove that I am. I could bring forty witnesses from Naples to swear they have helped to bore the wells. I’m safe as your stubborn friend, Mr. Trumble, himself. But now then, suppose that old Pryor is right—as of course he isn’t—suppose it, merely for a moment, because it will aid me to convey something to your mind. If I were the kind of man he says I am, and, being such a man, had planted the money out of reach, for my own use, what on earth would induce me to give it back?”