Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖

Mrs. Sin, who had been watching the three intently, did not fail to perceive this glance. Mollie Gretna characteristically said a silly thing.

“Oh!” she cried. “I wonder whatever is the matter with him! He looks as though he had gone mad!”

“It is perhaps his heart,” said Mrs. Sin harshly, and she raised her bold dark eyes to Sir Lucien's face.

“Oh, please don't talk about hearts,” cried Rita, willfully misunderstanding. “Monte has a weak heart, and it frightens me.”

“So?” murmured Mrs. Sin. “Poor fellow.”

“I think a weak heart is most romantic,” declared Mollie Gretna.

But Gray's behavior had cast a shadow upon the party which even Mollie's empty light-hearted chatter was powerless to dispel, and when, shortly after midnight, Sir Lucien drove Rita home to Prince's Gate, they were very silent throughout the journey. Just before the car reached the house:

“Where does Mrs. Sin live?” asked Rita, although it was not of Mrs. Sin that she had been thinking.

“In Limehouse, I believe,” replied Sir Lucien; “at The House. But I fancy she has rooms somewhere in town also.”

He stayed only a few minutes at Prince's Gate, and as the car returned along Piccadilly, Sir Lucien, glancing upward towards the windows of a tall block of chambers facing the Green Park, observed a light in one of them. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he raised the speaking-tube.

“Pull up, Fraser,” he directed.

The chauffeur stopped the car and Sir Lucien alighted, glancing at the clock inside as he did so, and smiling at his own quixotic behavior. He entered an imposing doorway and rang one of the bells. There was an interval of two minutes or so, when the door opened and a man looked out.

“Is that you, Willis?” asked Pyne.

“Oh, I beg pardon, Sir Lucien. I didn't know you in the dark.”

“Has Mr. Gray retired yet?”

“Not yet. Will you please follow me, Sir Lucien. The stairway lights are off.”

A few moments later Sir Lucien was shown into the apartment of Gray's which oddly combined the atmosphere of a gymnasium with that of a study. Gray, wearing a dressing-gown and having a pipe in his mouth, was standing up to receive his visitor, his face rather pale and the expression of his lips at variance with that in his eyes. But:

“Hello, Pyne,” he said quietly. “Anything wrong—or have you just looked in for a smoke?”

Sir Lucien smiled a trifle sadly.

“I wanted a chat, Gray,” he replied. “I'm leaving town tomorrow, or I should not have intruded at such an unearthly hour.”

“No intrusion,” muttered Gray; “try the armchair, no, the big one. It's more comfortable.” He raised his voice: “Willis, bring some fluid!”

Sir Lucien sat down, and from the pocket of his dinner jacket took out a plain brown packet of cigarettes and selected one.

“Here,” said Gray, “have a cigar!”

“No, thanks,” replied Pyne. “I rarely smoke anything but these.”

“Never seen that kind of packet before,” declared Gray. “What brand are they?”

“No particular brand. They are imported from Buenos Ayres, I believe.”

Willis having brought in a tray of refreshments and departed again, Sir Lucien came at once to the point.

“I really called, Gray,” he said, “to clear up any misunderstanding there may be in regard to Rita Irvin.”

Quentin Gray looked up suddenly when he heard Rita's name, and:

“What misunderstanding?” he asked.

“Regarding the nature of my friendship with her,” answered Sir Lucien coolly. “Now, I am going to speak quite bluntly, Gray, because I like Rita and I respect her. I also like and respect Monte Irvin; and I don't want you, or anybody else, to think that Rita and I are, or ever have been, anything more than pals. I have known her long enough to have learned that she sails straight, and has always sailed straight. Now—listen, Gray, please. You embarrassed me tonight, old chap, and you embarrassed Rita. It was unnecessary.” He paused, and then added slowly: “She is as sacred to me, Gray, as she is to you—and we are both friends of Monte Irvin.”

For a moment Quentin Gray's fiery temper flickered up, as his heightened color showed, but the coolness of the older and cleverer man prevailed. Gray laughed, stood up, and held out his hand.

“You're right, Pyne!” he said. “But she's damn pretty!” He uttered a loud sigh. “If only she were not married!”

Sir Lucien gripped the outstretched hand, but his answering smile had much pathos in it.

“If only she were not, Gray,” he echoed.

He took his departure shortly afterwards, absently leaving a brown packet of cigarettes upon the table. It was an accident. Yet there were few, when the truth respecting Sir Lucien Pyne became known, who did not believe it to have been a deliberate act, designed to lure Quentin Gray into the path of the poppy.