PAGE 18
His Own People
by
“I don’t understand you,” Mellin lifted himself painfully on an elbow. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it seems to me that you’re speaking disrespectfully of an angel that I’ve insulted, and I–“
“Now see here, Mellin, I’ll tell you something.” The boy’s white face showed sudden color and there was a catch in his voice. “I was–I’ve been mighty near in love with that woman! But I’ve had a kind of a shock; I’ve got my common-sense back, and I’m not, any more. I don’t know exactly how much money I had, but it was between thirty-five and thirty-eight thousand francs, and Sneyd won it all after we took off the limit–over seven thousand dollars–at her table last night. Putting two and two together, honestly it looks bad. It looks mighty bad! Now, I’m pretty well fixed, and yesterday I didn’t care whether school kept or not, but seven thousand dollars is real money to anybody! My old man worked pretty hard for his first seven thousand, I guess, and”–he gulped–“he’d think a lot of me for lettin’ go of it the way I did last night, wouldn’t he? You never see things like this till the next morning! And you remember that other woman sat where she could see every hand you drew, and the Countess–“
“Stop!” Mellin flung one arm up violently, striking the headboard with his knuckles. “I won’t hear a syllable against Madame de Vaurigard!” Young Cooley regarded him steadily for a moment. “Have you remembered yet,” he said slowly, “how much you lost last night?”
“I only remember that I behaved like an unspeakable boor in the presence of the divinest creature that ever–“
Cooley disregarded the outburst, and said:
“When we settled, you had a pad of express company checks worth six hundred dollars. You signed all of ’em and turned ’em over to Sneyd with three one-hundred-lire bills, which was all the cash you had with you. Then you gave him your note for twelve thousand francs to be paid within three days. You made a great deal of fuss about its being a ‘debt of honor.'” He paused. “You hadn’t remembered that, had you?”
Mellin had closed his eyes. He lay quite still and made no answer.
“No, I’ll bet you hadn’t,” said Cooley, correctly deducing the fact. “You’re well off, or you wouldn’t be at this hotel, and, for all I know, you may be fixed so you won’t mind your loss as much as I do mine; but it ought to make you kind of charitable toward my suspicions of Madame de Vaurigard’s friends.”
The six hundred dollars in express company checks and the three hundred-lire bills were all the money the unhappy Mellin had in the world, and until he could return to Cranston and go back to work in the real-estate office again, he had no prospect of any more. He had not even his steamer ticket. In the shock of horror and despair he whispered brokenly:
“I don’t care if they ‘re the worst people in the world, they’re better than I am!”
The other’s gloom cleared a little at this. “Well, you have got it!” he exclaimed briskly. “You don’t know how different you’ll feel after a long walk in the open air.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go and see what that newspaper-man, Cornish, wants; it’s ten o’clock. I’ll be back after a while; I want to reason this out with you. I don’t deny but it’s possible I’m wrong; anyway, you think it over while I’m gone. You take a good hard think, will you?”
As he closed the door, Mellin slowly drew the coverlet over his head. It was as if he covered the face of some one who had just died.
VIII. What Cornish Knew
Two hours passed before young Cooley returned. He knocked twice without a reply; then he came in.
The coverlet was still over Mellin’s head.