PAGE 8
The God Of Coincidence
by
“Better wait!” urged Forsythe. “You’ll find nothing so good out at a music-hall. This is Houdini getting out of his handcuffs before an audience entirely composed of policemen.”
Sam shook his head gloomily.
“I have a few handcuffs of my own to get rid of,” he said, “and it makes me poor company.”
He bade his friend good night and, picking his way among the tables, moved toward the pillar on which the waiter had hung his hat. The pillar was the one beside which Hertz was sitting, and as Sam approached the man he satisfied his curiosity by a long look. Under the glance Hertz lowered his eyes and fixed them upon his newspaper. Sam retrieved his hat and left the restaurant.
His mind immediately was overcast. He remembered his disappointment and that the parting between himself and Polly was now inevitable. Without considering his direction he turned toward Charing Cross Road. But he was not long allowed to meditate undisturbed.
He had only crossed the little street that runs beside the restaurant and passed into the shadow of the National Gallery when, at the base of the Irving Memorial, from each side he was fiercely attacked. A young man of eminently respectable appearance kicked his legs from under him, and another of equally impeccable exterior made an honest effort to knock off his head.
Sam plunged heavily to the sidewalk. As he sprawled forward his hat fell under him and in his struggle to rise was hidden by the skirts of his greatcoat. That, also, he had fallen heavily upon his hat with both knees Sam did not know. The strange actions of his assailants enlightened him. To his surprise, instead of continuing their assault or attempting a raid upon his pockets, he found them engaged solely in tugging at the hat. And so preoccupied were they in this that, though still on his knees, Sam was able to land some lusty blows before a rush of feet caused the young men to leap to their own and, pursued by several burly forms, disappear in the heart of the traffic.
Sam rose and stood unsteadily. He found himself surrounded by all of those who but a moment before he had left contentedly dining at Pavoni’s. In an excited circle waiters and patrons of the restaurant, both men and women, stood in the falling snow, bareheaded, coatless, and cloakless, staring at him. Forsythe pushed them aside and took Sam by the arm.
“What happened?” demanded Sam.
“You ought to know,” protested Forsythe. “You started it! The moment you left the restaurant two men grabbed their hats and jumped after you; a dozen other men, without waiting for hats, jumped after them. The rest of us got out just as the two men and the detectives dived into the traffic.”
A big man, with an air of authority, drew Sam to one side.
“Did they take anything from you, sir?” he asked.
“I’ve nothing they could take,” said Sam. “And they didn’t try to find out. They just knocked me down.”
Forsythe turned to the big man.
“This gentleman is a friend of mine, inspector,” he said. “He is a stranger in town and was at Pavoni’s only by accident.”
“We might need his testimony,” suggested the official.
Sam gave his card to the inspector and then sought refuge in a taxicab. For the second time he bade his friend good night.
“And when next we dine,” he called to him in parting, “choose a restaurant where the detective service is quicker!”
Three hours later, brushed and repaired by Mrs. Wroxton, and again resplendent, Sam sat in a secluded corner of Deptford House and bade Polly a long farewell. It was especially long, owing to the unusual number of interruptions; for it was evident that Polly had many friends in London, and that not to know the Richest One in America and her absurd mother, and the pompous, self-satisfied father, argued oneself nobody. But finally the duchess carried Polly off to sup with her; and as the duchess did not include Sam in her invitation–at least not in such a way that any one could notice it– Sam said good-night–but not before he had arranged a meeting with Polly for eleven that same morning. If it was clear, the meeting was to be at the duck pond in St. James’s Park; if it snowed, at the National Gallery in front of the “Age of Innocence.”