# Love Insurance/Chapter 17

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CHAPTER XVII
THE SHORTEST WAY HOME
THE moon was shining in that city of the picturesque past. Its light fell silvery on the narrow streets, the old adobe houses, the listless palms. In every shadow seemed to lurk the memory of a love long dead—a love of the old passionate Spanish days. A soft breeze came whispering from the very sea Ponce de Leon had sailed. It was as if at a signal—a bugle-call, a rose thrown from a window, the boom of a cannon at the water's edge—the forgotten past of hot hearts, of arms equally ready for cutlass or slender waist, could live again.
And Minot was as one who had heard such a signal. He loved. The obstacle that had confronted him, wrung his heart, left him helpless, was swept away. He was like a man who, released from prison, sees the sky, the green trees, the hills again. He loved! The moon was shining!
​He stood amid the colorful blooms of the hotel courtyard and looked up at her window, with its white curtain waving gently in the breeze. He called, softly. And then he saw her face, peering out as some senorita of the old days from her lattice—
"I've news—very important news" he said. "May I see you a moment?"
Far better this than the telephone or the bell-boy. Far more in keeping with the magic of the night.
She came, dressed in the white that set off so well her hair of gleaming copper. Minot met her on the veranda. She smiled into his eyes inquiringly.
"Do you mind—a little walk?" he asked.
"Where to?"
"Say to the fort—the longest way."
She glanced back toward the hotel.
"I'm not sure that I ought—"
"But that will only make it the more exciting. Please. And I've news—real news."
She nodded her head, and they crossed the ​courtyard to the avenue. From this bright thoroughfare they turned in a moment into a dark and unkempt street.
"See," said Minot suddenly, "the old Spanish churchyard. They built cities around churches in the old days. The world do move. It's railroad stations now."
They stood peering through the gloom at a small chapel dim amid the trees, and aged stones leaning tipsily among the weeds.
"At the altar of that chapel," Minot said, "a priest fell—shot in the back by an Indian's arrow. Sounds unreal, doesn't it? And when you think that under these musty stones lies the dust of folks who walked this very ground, and loved, and hated, like you and—"
"Yes—but isn't it all rather gloomy?" Cynthia Meyrick shuddered.
They went on, to pass shortly through the crumbling remains of the city gates. There at the water's edge the great gray fort loomed in the moonlight like a historical novelist's dream. Its huge iron-bound doors were locked for the ​night; its custodian home in the bosom of his family. Only its lower ramparts were left for the feet of romantic youth to tread.
Along these ramparts, close to the shimmering sea, Miss Meyrick and Minot walked. Truth to tell, it was not so very difficult to keep one's footing—but once the girl was forced to hold out an appealing hand.
"French heels are treacherous," she explained.
Minot took her hand, and for the first time knew the thrill that, encountered often on the printed page, he had mentally classed as "rubbish!" Wisely she interrupted it:
"You said you had news?"
He had, but it was not so easy to impart as he had expected.
"Tell me," he said, "if it should turn out that what poor old George said this morning was a fact—that Allan Harrowby was an impostor—would you feel so very badly?"
She withdrew her hand.
"You have no right to ask that," she replied.
"Forgive me. Indeed I haven't. But I was moved to ask it for the reason that—what George ​said was evidently true. Allan Harrowby left suddenly for the north an hour ago."
The girl stood still, looking with wide eyes out over the sea.
"Left—for the north," she repeated. There was a long silence. At length she turned to Minot, a queer light in her eyes. "Of course, you'll go after him and bring him back?" she asked.
"No." Minot bowed his head. "I know I must have looked rather silly of late. But if you think I did the things I've done because I chose to—you're wrong. If you think I did them because I didn't love you—you're wrong, too. Oh, I—"
"Mr. Minot!"
"I can't help it. I know it's indecently soon—I've got to tell you just the same. There's been so much in the way—I'm wild to say it now. I love you."
The water breaking on the ancient stones below seemed to be repeating "Sh—sh," but Minot paid no heed to the warning.
"I've cared for you," he went on, "ever since that morning on the train when we raced the ​razor-backs—ever since that wonderful ride over a God-forsaken road that looked like Heaven to me. And every time since that I've seen you I've known that I'd come to care more—"
The girl stood and stared thoughtfully out at the soft blue sea. Minot moved closer, over those perilous slippery rocks.
"I know it's an old story to you," he went on, "and that I'd be a fool to hope that I could possibly be anything but just another man who adores you. But—because I love you so much—"
She turned and looked at him.
"And in spite of all this," she said slowly, "from the first you have done everything in your power to prevent the breaking off of my engagement to Harrowby."
"Yes, but—"
"Weren't you overly chivalrous to a rival? Wouldn't what—what you are saying be more convincing if you had remained neutral?"
"I know. I can't explain it to you now. It's all over, anyway. It was horrible while it lasted—but it's over now. I'm never going to work again for your marriage to anybody—except one man. ​The man who is standing before you—who loves you—loves you—"
He stopped, for the girl was smiling. And it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to.
"I'm sorry, really," she said. "But I can't help it. All I can see now is your triumphant entrance last night—your masterly exposure of that silly necklace—your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that Harrowby and I might be married on Tuesday. In the light of all that has happened—how can you expect to appear other than—"
"Foolish? You're right. And you couldn't possibly care—just a little—"
He stopped, embarrassed. Poorly chosen words, those last. He saw the light of recollection in her eye.
"I should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope—for me—"
"If we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different—and Harrowby had never been—I might—"
"You might—yes?"
​"I might not say what I'm going to say now. Which is—hadn't we better return to the hotel?"
"I'm sorry," remarked Minot. "Sorry I had the bad taste to say what I have at this time—but if you knew and could understand—which you can't of course— Yes, let's go back to the hotel—the shortest way."
He turned, and looked toward the towers of the De la Pax rising to meet the sky—seemingly a million miles away. So Peary might have gazed to the north, setting out for the Pole.
They went back along the ramparts, over the dry moat, through the crumbling gates. Conversation languished. Then the ancient graveyard, ghastly in the gloom. After that the long lighted street of humble shops. And the shortest way home seemed a million times longer than the longest way there.
"Considering what you have told me of—Harrowby," she said, "I shall be leaving for the north soon. Will you look me up in New York?"
"Thank you," Minot said. "It will be a very great privilege."
Cynthia Meyrick entered the elevator and put ​of sight in that gilded cage she smiled a twisted little smile.
Mr. Minot beheld Mr. Trimmer and his "proposition" basking in the lime-light of the De la Pax, and feeling in no mood to listen to the publicity man's triumphant cackle, he hurried to the veranda. There he found a bell-boy calling his name.
"Gen'lemun to see you," the boy explained. He led the way back into the lobby and up to a tall athletic-looking man with a ruddy, frank, attractive face.
The stranger held out his hand.
"Mr. Minot, of Lloyds?" he asked. "How do you do, sir? I'm very glad to know you. Promised Thacker I'd look you up at once. Let's adjourn to the grill-room."
Minot followed in the wake of the tall breezy one. Already he liked the man immensely.
"Well," said the stranger, over a table in the grill, "what'll you have? Waiter? Perhaps you heard I was coming. I happen to be the owner of the yacht in the harbor, which somebody has christened the Lileth."
​"Yes—I thought so," Minot replied. "I'm mighty glad you've come. A Mr. Martin Wall is posing as the owner just at present."
"So I learned from Thacker. Nervy lad, this Wall. I live in Chicago myself—left my boat—Lady Evelyn, I called her—in the North River for the winter in charge of a caretaker. This Wall, it seems, needed a boat for a month and took a fancy to mine. And since my caretaker was evidently a crook, it was a simple matter to rent it. Never would have found it out except for you people. Too busy. Really ought not to have taken this trip—business needs me every minute—but I've got sort of a hankering to meet Mr. Martin Wall."
"Shall we go out to the boat right away?"
"No need of that. We'll run out in the morning with the proper authorities." The stranger leaned across the table, and something in his blue eyes startled Minot. "In the meantime," he said, "I happen to be interested in another matter. What's all this talk about George Harrowby coming back to life?"
​"Well, there's a chap here," Minot explained, "who claims to be the elder brother of Allan Harrowby. His cause is in the hands of an advertising expert named Trimmer."
"Yes. I saw a story in a Washington paper."
"This morning George Harrowby, so-called, confronted Allan Harrowby and denounced Allan himself as a fraud."
The man from Chicago threw back his head, and a roar of unexpected laughter smote on Minot's hearing.
"Good joke," said the stranger.
"No joke at all. George was right—at least, so it seems. Allan Harrowby cleared out this evening."
"Yes. So I was told by the clerk in there. Do you happen to know—er—Allan?"
"Yes. Very well indeed."
"But you don't know the reason he left?"
"Why," answered Minot, "I suppose because George Harrowby gave him twenty-four hours to get out of town."
Again the Chicago man laughed.
​"That can't have been the reason," he said. "I happen to know."
"Just how," inquired Minot, "do you happen to know?"
Leaning far back in his chair, the westerner smiled at Minot with a broad engaging smile.
"I fancy I neglected to introduce myself," he said. "I make automobiles in Chicago—and my name's George Harrowby."
"You—you—" Minot's head went round dizzily. "Oh, no," he said firmly. "I don't believe it."
The other's smile grew even broader.
"Don't blame you a bit, my boy," he said. "Must have been a bit of a mix-up down here. Then, too, I don't look like an Englishman. Don't want to. I'm an American now, and I like it."
"You mean you're the real Lord Harrowby?"
"That's what I mean—take it slowly, Mr. Minot. I'm George, and if Allan ever gets his eyes on me, I won't have to prove who I am. He'll know, the kid will. But by the way—what I want now is to meet this chap who claims to be me—also his friend, Mr. Trimmer."
​"Of course you do. I saw them out in the lobby a minute ago." Minot rose. "I'll bring them in. But—but—"
"What is it?"
"Oh, never mind. I believe you."
Trimmer and his proposition still adorned the lobby, puffed with pride and pompousness. Briefly Minot explained that a gentleman in the grill-room desired to be introduced, and graciously the two followed after. The Chicago George Harrowby rose as he saw the group approach his table. Suddenly behind him Minot heard a voice:
"My God!" And the limp Englishman of the sandwich boards made a long lean streak toward the door. Minot leaped after him, and dragged him back.
"Here, Trimmer," he said, "your proposition has chilblains."
"What's the trouble?" Mr. Trimmer glared about him.
"Allow me," said Minot. "Sir—our leading vaudeville actor and his manager. Gentlemen—Mr. George Harrowby, of Chicago!"
"Sit down, boys," said Mr. Harrowby genially. ​He indicated a chair to Mr. Trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. The Chicago man turned to that same proposition. "Brace up, Jenkins," he said. "Nobody will hurt you."
But Jenkins could not brace. He allowed Minot to deposit his limp body in a chair.
"I thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled.
"A common mistake," smiled George Harrowby. "My family has thought the same, and I've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. Mr. Trimmer, will you have a—what's the matter, man?"
For Mr. Trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition.
"I want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "See here, you cringing cur—what does this mean?"
"I thought he was dead," murmured poor Jenkins in terror.
"You'll think the same about yourself in a minute—and you'll be right," Trimmer predicted.
"Come, come," said George Harrowby pacifically. "Sit down, Mr. Trimmer. Sit down and ​have a drink. Do you mean to say you didn't know Jenkins here was faking?"
"Of course I didn't," said Trimmer. He sat down on the extreme edge of a chair, as one who proposed to rise soon. "All this has got me going. I never went round in royal circles before, and I'm dizzy. I suppose you're the real Lord Harrowby?"
"To be quite correct, I am. Don't you believe it?"
"I can believe anything—when I look at him," said Trimmer, indicating the pitiable ex-claimant to the title. "Say, who is this Jenkins we hear so much about?"
"Jenkins was the son of my father's valet," George Harrowby explained. "He came to America with me. We parted suddenly on a ranch in southern Arizona."
"Everybody said you was dead," persisted Jenkins, as one who could not lose sight of that fact.
"Yes? And they gave you my letters and belongings, eh? So you thought you'd pose as me?"
"Yes, sir," confessed Jenkins humbly.
Mr. Trimmer slid farther back into his chair.
​"Well," he said, "it's unbelievable, but Henry Trimmer has been buncoed. I met this able liar in a boarding-house in New York, and he convinced me he was Lord Harrowby. It was between jobs for me, and I had a bright idea. If I brought this guy down to the wedding, established him as the real lord, and raised Cain generally, I figured my stock as a publicity man would rise a hundred per cent. I'd be turning down fifty-thousand-dollar jobs right and left I suppose I was easy, but I'd never mixed up with such things before, and all the dope he had impressed me—the family coat of arms, and the motto—"
The Chicago man laughed softly.
"Credo Harrowby," he said.
"That was it—trust Harrowby," said Trimmer bitterly. "Lord, what a fool I've been. And it's ruined my career. I'll be the laughing-stock—"
"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Trimmer," smiled George Harrowby. "I'm sure you're unduly pessimistic about your career. I'll have something to say to you on that score later. For the present—"
"For the present," broke in Trimmer with ​fervor, "iron bars for Jenkins here. I'll swear out the warrant myself—"
"Nonsense," said Harrowby, "Jenkins is the most harmless creature in the world. Led astray by ambition, that's all. With any one but Allan his claims wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Poor Allan always was a helpless youngster."
"Oh—Jenkins," broke in Minot suddenly. "What was the idea this morning? I mean your calling Allan Harrowby an impostor?"
Jenkins hung his head.
"I was rattled," he admitted. "I couldn't keep it up before all those people. So it came to me in a flash—if I said Allan was a fraud maybe I wouldn't have to be cross-examined myself."
"And that was really Allan Harrowby?"
"Yes—that was Allan, right enough."
Mr. Minot sat studying the wall in front of him. He was recalling a walk through the moonlight to the fort. Jephson and Thacker pointed accusing fingers at him over the oceans and lands between.
"I say—let Jenkins go," continued the genial ​western Harrowby, "provided he returns my property and clears out for good. After all, his father was a faithful servant, if he is not."
"But," objected Trimmer, "he's wasted my time. He's put a crimp in the career of the best publicity man in America it'll take years to straighten out—"
"Not necessarily," said Harrowby. "I was coming to that. I've been watching your work for the last week, and I like it. It's alive—progressive. We're putting out a new car this spring—an inexpensive little car bound to make a hit. I need a man like you to convince the public—"
Mr. Trimmer's eyes opened wide. They shone. He turned and regarded the unhappy Jenkins.
"Clear out," he commanded. "If I ever see you again I'll wring your neck. Now, Mr. Harrowby, you were saying—"
"Just a minute," said Harrowby. "This man has certain letters and papers of mine—"
"No, he hasn't," Trimmer replied. "I got 'em. Right here in my pocket." He slid a packet of papers across the table. "They're yours. Now, about—"
​Jenkins was slipping silently away. Like a frightened wraith he flitted gratefully through the swinging doors.
"A middle-class car," explained Harrowby, "and I want a live man to boost it—"
"Beg pardon," interrupted Minot, rising, "I'll say good night. We'll get together about that other matter in the morning. By the way, Mr. Harrowby, have you any idea what has become of Allan?"
"No, I haven't. I sent him a telegram this afternoon saying that I was on my way here. Must have run off on business. Of course, he'll be back for his wedding."
"Oh, yes—of course," Minot agreed sadly, "he'll be back for his wedding. Good night, gentlemen."
A few minutes later he stood at the window of 389, gazing out at the narrow street, at the stately Manhattan Club, and the old Spanish houses on either side.
"And she refused me!" he muttered. "To think that should be the biggest piece of luck that's come to me since I hit this accursed town!"
​He continued to gaze gloomily out. The—er—moon was still shining.