The Destroying Angel. Vance Louis Joseph

ingrained as his strut.

      He reasserted the dignity now with a jerk of his maltreated hand, as well as with an appreciable effort betrayed by his resentful glare.

      "Do I know you?" he demanded haughtily. "If not, what the devil do you mean by such conduct, sir?"

      With a laugh, Whitaker took him by the shoulders and spun him round smartly into a convenient chair.

      "Sit still and let me get a good look," he implored. "Think of it! Juley Max daring to put on side with me! The impudence of you, Juley! I've a great mind to play horse with you. How dare you go round the streets looking like that, anyway?"

      Max recovered his breath, readjusted his glasses, and resumed his stare.

      "Either," he observed, "you're Hugh Whitaker come to life or a damned outrage."

      "Both, if you like."

      "You sound like both," complained the little man. "Anyway, you were drowned in the Philippines or somewhere long ago, and I never waste time on a dead one… Drummond – " He turned to the lawyer with a vastly business-like air.

      "No, you don't!" Whitaker insisted, putting himself between the two men. "I admit that you're a great man; you might at least admit that I'm a live one."

      A mollified smile moderated the small man's manner. "That's a bargain," he said, extending a pale yellow paw; "I'm glad to see you again, Hugh. When did you recrudesce?"

      "An hour ago," Drummond answered for him; "blew in here as large as life and twice as important. He's been running a gold farm out in New Guinea. What do you know about that?"

      "It's very interesting," Max conceded. "I shall have to cultivate him; I never neglect a man with money. If you'll stick around a few minutes, Hugh, I'll take you up-town in my car." He turned to Drummond, completely ignoring Whitaker while he went into the details of some action he desired the lawyer to undertake on his behalf. Then, having talked steadily for upwards of ten minutes, he rose and prepared to go.

      "You've asked him, of course?" he demanded of Drummond, nodding toward Whitaker.

      Drummond flushed slightly. "No chance," he said. "I was on the point of doing it when you butted in."

      "What's this?" inquired Whitaker.

      Max delivered himself of a startling bit of information: "He's going to get married."

      Whitaker stared. "Drummond? Not really?"

      Drummond acknowledged his guilt brazenly: "Next week, in fact."

      "But why didn't you say anything about it?"

      "You didn't give me an opening. Besides, to welcome a deserter from the Great Beyond is enough to drive all other thoughts from a man's mind."

      "There's to be a supper in honour of the circumstances, at the Beaux Arts to-night," supplemented Max. "You'll come, of course."

      "Do you think you could keep me away with a dog?"

      "Wouldn't risk spoiling the dog," said Drummond. He added with a tentative, questioning air: "There'll be a lot of old-time acquaintances of yours there, you know."

      "So much the better," Whitaker declared with spirit. "I've played dead long enough."

      "As you think best," the lawyer acceded. "Midnight, then – the Beaux Arts."

      "I'll be there – and furthermore, I'll be waiting at the church a week hence – or whenever it's to come off. And now I want to congratulate you." Whitaker held Drummond's hand in one of those long, hard grips that mean much between men. "But mostly I want to congratulate her. Who is she?"

      "Sara Law," said Drummond, with pride in his quick color and the lift of his chin.

      "Sara Law?" The name had a familiar ring, yet Whitaker failed to recognize it promptly.

      "The greatest living actress on the English-speaking stage," Max announced, preening himself importantly. "My own discovery."

      "You don't mean to say you haven't heard of her. Is New Guinea, then, so utterly abandoned to the march of civilization?"

      "Of course I've heard – but I have been out of touch with such things," Whitaker apologized. "When shall I see her?"

      "At supper, to-night," said the man of law. "It's really in her honour – "

      "In honour of her retirement," Max interrupted, fussing with a gardenia on his lapel. "She retires from the stage finally, and forever – she says – when the curtain falls to-night."

      "Then I've got to be in the theatre to-night – if that's the case," said Whitaker. "It isn't my notion of an occasion to miss."

      "You're right there," Max told him bluntly. "It's no small matter to me – losing such a star; but the world's loss of its greatest artist —ah!" He kissed his finger-tips and ecstatically flirted the caress afar.

      "'Fraid you won't get in, though," Drummond doubted darkly. "Everything in the house for this final week was sold out a month ago. Even the speculators are cleaned out."

      "Tut!" the manager reproved him loftily. "Hugh is going to see Sara Law act for the last time from my personal box – aren't you, Hugh?"

      "You bet I am!" Whitaker asserted with conviction.

      "Then come along." Max caught him by the arm and started for the door. "So long, Drummond…"

      VI

      CURTAIN

      Nothing would satisfy Max but that Whitaker should dine with him. He consented to drop him at the Ritz-Carlton, in order that he might dress, only on the condition that Whitaker would meet him at seven, in the white room at the Knickerbocker.

      "Just mention my name to the head waiter," he said with magnificence; "or if I'm there first, you can't help seeing me. Everybody knows my table – the little one in the southeast corner."

      Whitaker promised, suppressing a smile; evidently the hat was not the only peculiarity of Mr. Hammerstein's that Max had boldly made his own.

      Max surprised him by a shrewd divination of his thoughts. "I know what you're thinking," he volunteered with an intensely serious expression shadowing his pudgy countenance; "but really, my dear fellow, it's good business. You get people into the habit of saying, 'There's Max's table,' and you likewise get them into the habit of thinking of Max's theatre and Max's stars. As a matter of fact, I'm merely running an immense advertising plant with a dramatic annex."

      "You are an immense advertisement all by your lonesome," Whitaker agreed with a tolerant laugh, rising as the car paused at the entrance of the Ritz.

      "Seven o'clock – you won't fail me?" Max persisted. "Really, you know, I'm doing you an immense favour – dinner – a seat in my private box at Sara Law's farewell performance – "

      "Oh, I'm thoroughly impressed," Whitaker assured him, stepping out of the car. "But tell me – on the level, now – why this staggering condescension?"

      Max looked him over as he paused on the sidewalk, a tall, loosely built figure attired impeccably yet with an elusive sense of carelessness, his head on one side and a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. The twinkle was momentarily reflected in the managerial gaze as he replied with an air of impulsive candour: "One never can tell when the most unlikely-looking material may prove useful. I may want to borrow money from you before long. If I put you under sufficient obligation to me, you can't well refuse… Shoot, James!"

      The latter phrase was Max's way of ordering the driver to move on. The car snorted resentfully, then pulled smoothly and swiftly away. Max waved a jaunty farewell with a lemon-coloured hand, over the back of the tonneau.

      Whitaker went up to his room in a reflective mood in which the theatrical man had little place, and began leisurely to prepare his person for ceremonious clothing – preparations which, at first, consisted in nothing more strenuous than finding a pipe and sitting down to stare out of the window. He was in no hurry – he had still an hour and a half before he was due at the Knickerbocker – and the afternoon's employment had furnished him with a great deal of material to stimulate his thoughts.

      Since