# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV
LAUDERDALE ACTS
It was Sir Nicholas Oxenham's custom to spend his time between returning from his office and the dinner-hour at eight o'clock with his wife, and so, when Lauderdale arrived a few minutes before seven that evening he found Millicent quite alone. Lauderdale himself was full of life and spirits—he was young enough, and had been out of England long enough, to enjoy the delights and gaiety of a season in full swing, and he had had a good day. It gave Millicent a sharp pang to see his bright, almost boyish face as he came into the drawing-room, and when he kissed her, as confidently and fondly as if they had been plighted for six months instead of twenty-four hours, she felt more than a little disposed to cry. As for the young gentleman, he was just then far too much in love to be deeply observant, and he laughed as he drew her beside him on a convenient lounge.
"This is jolly!" he said. "There's nobody else coming, is there, Millie, so we'll have a whole hour all to ourselves. That was nice of you—to think of the extra half-hour."
​She had made up her mind to tell him everything, especially after the interview with her father. She knew that Lauderdale was to be trusted to the full; besides, she was not the woman to withhold her confidence where she had given her love. She turned and looked at him wistfully and a little sadly. And then Lauderdale saw.
"Why, Millie!" he exclaimed. "You're looking sad—and I believe you've been crying. Has—has anything gone wrong?"
"Yes, Jack," she answered. "That's why I sent for you half an hour earlier. I wanted to talk to you quietly."
Lauderdale felt as a man feels who is suddenly confronted with an unseen danger. He looked at her earnestly. She returned his gaze just as steadily.
"It's—it's nothing between you and me, Millie?" he said.
"Between our love for each other?" she answered. "Oh no, Jack—nothing can alter that."
Lauderdale caught her to him and kissed her passionately.
"Then I don't care what it is!" he said. "Nothing can matter so long as that's all right."
"Ah, but we're not everybody, Jack," she said. "You don't know what has happened."
"Then tell me—tell me!" he said impatiently.
"You remember that I told you this morning that I was troubled about my father?" she said. ​"Well, Jack, there was—there is—a reason for his altered conduct. He has told me of it this afternoon. He has had terrible losses. There was one over the Montalbian loan some time ago—others since. And recently he has been trying to right matters with one great deal—and he has failed."
Lauderdale stared at her and then at the evidences of wealth and luxury around them.
"Failed?" he said. "Does that mean that Sir Nicholas is—ruined?"
"What he calls ruined," replied Millicent. "He told me that when he has cleared off all his obligations he would have enough left to bring in about five or six hundred pounds a year. Then there is my mother's income of five hundred a year. That would be all out of the wreck."
"Oh, but I say!" exclaimed Lauderdale. "That isn't what I call ruin! Ruin means when you haven't a shilling to buy your breakfast with. A thousand or eleven hundred a year—why, there are fellows in ours who haven't got that—I know two chaps who have only eight hundred, including their pay. Beastly hard up they are, always, but hang it, they don't do so badly. Oh, that isn't ruin, Millie."
"It's what he calls ruin, Jack," said Millicent.
"Oh well—er—well, look here, Millie, you know, I've got four thousand a year—and I haven't spent it, either, so far," he said. "And now—now that you and I have fixed things ​up—well, of course we're all in the same boat, eh?"
Millicent rewarded him with a kiss.
"That's like what you always were, dear," she said. "You always wanted to share, even when you were a grubby little boy. Oh, if that were all, Jack! But it isn't."
"Not all? What else is there?" asked Lauderdale.
"Everything that's dreadful," she said. "Dreadful—and hateful. The truth is, Jack, Father wants to go on. He can't bear the idea of defeat—especially at his age, and with his reputation. He says that even now, if he can get the help he wants, he can put things straight and in a year or two recover all he has lost."
"That," said Lauderdale, "is what all of 'em say."
"He is trying to get that help, Jack. He is pretty confident of getting it," said Millicent. "And, Jack—it entirely depends upon me whether he gets it or not."
Lauderdale turned and gazed at her in sheer astonishment.
"On—you?" he said.
"On me," she answered. "Listen, Jack, to what I am bound to tell you. I shall never keep anything from you, never, at any time! Try to listen patiently to what I have to say. This morning, when I came home, I found Mr. Bartenstein waiting for me. Now, don't look ​so fierce and angry, Jack, but listen to me calmly."
"It's a bit difficult to keep either calm or patient when you hear that fellow's name mentioned!" said Lauderdale. "What on earth did he want with you?"
"He explained that he had come to tell me the real truth about my father's affairs," she answered.
"What business was that of his?" he asked.
"Now, Jack, be patient!" she said. "He told me everything, explained everything. It came to this—that my father was irretrievably ruined unless somebody helped him over this crisis. Mr. Bartenstein then said that he would help him—on one condition."
Lauderdale sat staring at her. Some vague suspicion of what was coming had already risen in him. His eyes were growing angry.
"Well?" he said. "And that was———"
"That I should marry him," she almost whispered. "Oh, Jack, Jack, could you have conceived such villainy?"
Lauderdale leapt to his feet with an imprecation with which his sweetheart felt heartily in agreement. He walked about the room like a caged tiger for a minute or two; then he came and stood before his sweetheart with his hands plunged to the full depths of his trousers pockets and a very determined look on his face—an attitude which she had seen him assume many ​a time in his boyhood when he was very angry. She smiled at the recollection.
"Of course you sent the fellow to the right-about, Millie?" he said quietly.
"I told him as plainly as possible what I thought of him," she answered. "I told him that I wouldn't marry him to save my life, Jack."
"Well?" said Lauderdale.
"He said very calmly that he thought I should marry him—for my mother's sake," she continued. "You see how he tried to work on my feelings. I told him that I was engaged to another man—whom I loved. He paid no more heed to that than if I had told him I was in love with the Achilles statue. He simply walked out, saying that he should call here at noon tomorrow for my answer, and that upon it depended the answer he should give to my father an hour later. Oh, Jack dear, what's to be done?"
Lauderdale rapped out another objurgation.
"Done!" he exclaimed. "What I should like to do is to go straight off and give the scoundrel a jolly good hiding. Done, indeed!"
"But, Jack—my father?" she said.
Lauderdale faced round on her. "Look here, Millie," he said almost sternly, "have you ever had the slightest, faintest notion of doing the self-sacrificing daughter dodge since this fellow put the idea before you?"
"No, Jack, honestly, no; I think I should kill ​myself first," she answered earnestly. "And since I have heard from Father that there would be enough left for him and Mother to live upon, I have been less troubled—except that Father will take Bartenstein's refusal so much to heart."
"That's inevitable," said Lauderdale. "Now then, Millie, you're going to do what I tell you—I'm in command now. Sit down at that desk and write exactly what I tell you. Ready? Very well; begin—'Sir, I wish you to know that I absolutely decline under any circumstances whatever to accept the offer which you made me this morning, and I beg to tell you that I positively decline to see you again or to hold any communication with you.' Got all that? Then sign it, address it, and give it to me. That settles that chap—if it doesn't, I'll settle him." Millie handed the envelope to her lover with a sigh of relief. She knew Lauderdale to be a strong man.
"Now, Millie, listen further," he said. "Say nothing of this to your father tonight. I won't mention our own affair tonight, either. Let your father go to Bartenstein tomorrow and get his answer. When he comes away he will find a note from me awaiting him at his office. Leave the rest to me. And now give me a kiss, and then I'll play you a fifty at billiards until dinner-time."
It seemed to Millie that Lauderdale did his best to enliven her father and herself that evening, and when he said good night to her she ​whispered to him that she felt quite cheerful again. Lauderdale went off with a smiling face, but the smile changed to a very black frown as soon as he was clear of the house. "Now for Mr. Marcus Bartenstein!" he said.
He found a taxi-cab close by and bade the man drive him round to Princes Gate. It was then nearly midnight, but he knew that Bartenstein was a member of Parliament and would not return home until late. When he reached the house its master had not returned—a sleek-looking serving-man in morning dress informed him that sometimes Mr. Bartenstein came straight from the House, and sometimes did not—it was always a matter of uncertainty. But while they were talking a motor-brougham drew up and the famous financier stepped out and entered the hall.
Whatever these two men felt at sight of each other (and each knew the other well, having met several times at the Oxenhams), they showed no signs of anything but politeness in presence of the serving-man. There were formal bows on each side, but the spectator remembered afterwards that there was no hand-shaking.
"I apologize to you for calling at this late hour, Mr. Bartenstein," said Lauderdale, "but it is necessary that I should see you for a few moments on very urgent business."
"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Lauderdale," answered the other. "After all, it is not so very late we sometimes get much later hours than ​this in the House I can assure you. In fact, midnight is an early hour for me. Chester," he continued, turning to the man, "is the supper-tray set out in the study?"
"Everything is there, sir," replied Chester.
"And I suppose all the servants are gone to bed? Well, you can go to bed, too, Chester," said the financier. "I shan't want you again tonight—I will let Mr. Lauderdale out myself. Now, Mr. Lauderdale, come to my study."
Chester went to bed and to sleep, and slept soundly until morning. It was his duty to carry his master hot water at seven o'clock, and at that hour he opened Mr. Bartenstein's door. But there was no Mr. Bartenstein there, and the bed had not been slept in. And Chester, first surprised, then suddenly afraid, set down the hot water and went round to the study. He opened the door. The full glare of electric light, which had never been turned off, showed to his frightened eyes something that sent him hurrying to the butler and the telephone.