# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 37/Number 1/Mr. Homor's Legacy

Extracted from Red Book magazine, 1921 May, pp. 57–60, 143–147. Accompanying illustrations by Raeburn Van Buren may be omitted. [# Joseph P. Cray]
A further adventure of Mr. Cray of the U.S.A.
M. HOMOR'S LEGACY
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Illustrated by RAE VAN BUREN
A further adventure of Mr. Cray of the U.S.A.
MR. JOSEPH P. CRAY, wandering around the world in his pleasant quest of adventures, harmless or otherwise, found himself one March morning on the terrace of the Golf Hotel at Hyères. By his side stood the young man in irreproachable flannels whom he had just intercepted on his way to the tennis-courts. It was a somewhat amazing meeting.
“Is it Major Hartopp this time?” Mr. Cray inquired.
The young man signified assent.
“It is only bunglers who keep changing their pseudonyms,” he said. “I am not a bungler.”
Mr. Cray for once in his life was a little taken aback.
“You are taking this pretty coolly, young fellow, aren't you?” he observed. “I suppose you know that for several months the police have been looking for the man who tried to cash a check for a thousand pounds on my account, and for the scarlet Mephistopheles who scooped up about ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels at Covent Garden?”
The young man shook his head gently.
“You exaggerate the position, my dear Mr. Cray.” he expostulated. “In the first place, the check for one thousand pounds you signed; in the second place, it could never be proved that it was presented; and with regard to the jewels, not one of them has ever been traced, and there is not a shred of evidence to connect the scarlet Mephistopheles with those robberies—or, if it comes to that, me with the scarlet Mephistopheles.”
“There is the matter of your past record in America,” Mr. Cray murmured.
“There I grant you a trick,” the young man interrupted. “If you care to communicate with the police, I will admit that I might find my position untenable. Somehow I do not think that you will do so.”
“And why not?” Mr. Cray inquired.
“Come this way, and I will show you.”
The pseudo Major Hartopp led his companion along the front of the terrace to where a little recess formed a shelter secure from the lightly moving wind, and where the sun came pouring in, soft and warm and genial. An invalid chair was drawn up against the wall, and lying in it at full length was a woman. Mr. Cray felt a little thrill of pity as the pale, wasted face was turned toward his, and the dark, hollow eyes lit up for a moment with mingled fear and recognition.
“This is the reason why we are here,” Hartopp explained. “The doctors told us that nothing but the sun could keep my wife alive. That is why I accepted the risk.”
Mr. Cray leaned over the chair.
“I am very sorry to see you so ill,” he said.
She smiled at him—a very mirthless effort
“It was Christine Saboa,” she faltered. “She seems to have torn my heart to pieces. Now she has gone, and I am myself again. Only—she went too late.”
“You must never say that,” Mr. Cray enjoined cheerfully. “This place has cured more invalids than any spot in the south of France.”
She looked at him mournfully. “Are we allowed to stay here?” she said.
“So far as I am concerned, yes,” Mr. Cray replied. “I've no call to remember anything I don't choose, and I wont. But before we close the subject, will you tell me how you got me to sign those checks?”
“I didn't do it,” she assured him. “It was Christine Saboa, and she has gone.”
“No chance of her turning up again, I suppose?” Mr. Cray inquired.
The figure in the chair shook her head wistfully
“My body is not strong enough to hold her,” she answered.
MR. CRAY settled down to live the everyday life of the little community. He played golf in the morning, dozed with a cigar in the sunshine in the afternoon, and played bridge in the evening. All the time he kept his eye upon the Hartopps, and by degrees a conviction sprang up in his mind. Although, to all appearance. Hartopp, who was a fine athlete, was engrossed by the care of his invalid wife and the sports of the place. he was in reality at Hyères for some other purpose. He had a habit of absenting himself sometimes for the whole day, of taking long walks into the country and returning with a moody, downcast expression. He was persona grata amongst the younger guests, but he took little pains to ingratiate himself with anyone. And just as Mr. Cray watched him, so he seemed at times to be watching Mr. Cray. But for that wan figure, which only the sunlight seemed to keep alive, there were times when Mr. Cray regretted that he had not obeyed his first instinct and sent a wire to Scotland Yard.
“What's your husband got on his mind?” he inquired, frankly, one morning of Mrs. Hartopp.
She turned her great sunken eves toward him
“He is worried about financial matters,” she told him solemnly.
“Hm! I should have thought he'd been set up for a bit,” Mr. Cray observed
She shook her head slowly
“He has some securities.” she explained naïvely, “but it is too early to realize upon them yet. You wouldn't care, I suppose, to make an advance upon them?”
“God bless my soul, no!” Mr. Cray declared, a little pettishly. “I'm trafficking with my conscience some if I keep my mouth shut, but you mustn't try to rope me in as a partner.”
“You look at these things so unreasonably,” she murmured. “You have never lost anything worth speaking of through us.”
“Personally, perhaps not.” Mr. Cray acknowledged, “but I have a conscience.”
Then she suddenly saw a bent figure approaching
“You are a dear thing,” she said, “although sometimes you can be very hard. Please go now. Here comes Mr. Homor. He wants to speak to me about his wife.”
“His late wife,” Mr. Cray observed. raising his hat.
“That is a foolish term,” she answered reprovingly.
Mr. Cray glanced at the gaunt, bent figure approaching, noticed the eager gleam which shone for a moment in the lusterless eyes, and turned away.
“Hm!” he muttered. “I suppose Mr. Homor can look after himself.”
On the golf-links Mr. Cray found Hartopp practicing iron shots, and challenged him to a few holes.
“See here, Hartopp,” he said, as soon as they got started, “I kind of take an interest in you and your wife, although the Lord knows why. I guess it's because she seems sick. What's the game with Mr. Homor?”
Hartopp was a little irritable.
“My dear friend,” he replied, “there is no game at all. Mr. Homor is interested in spiritualism and has just lost his wife. Mina is able to console him.”
“Anything doing in the way of séances?”
MAJOR HARTOPP sighed.
“I believe that something of the sort has been arranged for this evening,” he admitted. “There are two or three women in the hotel, and one other man, who belong to the cult.”
“Are you going?”
“I am not,” was the firm reply. “I am very much opposed to the whole business. Besides, I don't think Mina is strong enough.”
“Why don't you stop it, then?”
Major Hartopp glanced at his companion almost contemptuously.
“If you know as little of Mina as that,” he said, “you've been wasting your time.”
“I sometimes wonder,” Mr. Cray rejoined, “whether I know as much about either of you as any person with an ounce of common sense ought to.”
Major Hartopp played a wonderful approach and watched his ball run to the hole. Then he turned toward his companion, the flicker of a smile upon his lips.
“These flashes of superintelligence, Cray,” he declared, “convince me that you are really a great man. Do you realize that I am three up to bogey?”
That afternoon there was only one topic of conversation in the lounge and on the terrace of the Golf Hotel. It had been privately announced that a small séance would take place after dinner in Mrs. Hartopp's suite, to which various people who had professed themselves interested had been invited. Mrs. Hartopp herself was invisible, resting for the exertions of the evening. Major Hartopp, when spoken to upon the subject, was abrupt and almost rude. It was at this period of his stay at the Golf Hotel that Mr. Cray first came into contact with Mr. George Pomfret, a middle-aged quiet-looking man of studious habits and a marked propensity for solitude. He paused before the former's chair on the terrace.
“Are you helping your friends this evening, sir?” he inquired.
Mr. Cray was in rather a bad temper, and the question annoyed him.
“How in thunder should I be helping them?” he retorted. “I don't take any stock in spiritualism, and the Hartopps are only hotel acquaintances of mine.”
“Is that all?” the other asked quietly.
Mr. Cray felt the keen gray eyes upon his face and found himself at a disadvantage.
“I met them once in town,” he acknowledged.
“Ah!”
Mr. Pomfret passed on, stooping a little, as was his wont, leaning upon his stick, and with a general air of introspection which had been recognized as one of his chief characteristics. Mr. Cray smoked on for some time and then. strolled round the front to the side of the hotel. The suite allotted to the Hartopps was on the ground floor for the convenience of Mrs. Hartopp. Mr. Cray studied it thoughtfully. There were windows opening to the ground, in each of the bedrooms and the sitting-room, and on the other side of the bathroom was a small door, through which Mrs. Hartopp's invalid chair generally issued. There were one or two ideas which occurred to him as he stood there in ruminative frame of mind.
“Maybe,” he decided, “I'll see something of that séance.”
MR. CRAY challenged his acquaintance Major Hartopp to a game of billiards that evening after dinner. The latter, after one game, in which he gave his opponent a hundred and twenty-five out of two hundred and fifty and beat him by sixty, put up his cue and declined to play any more.
“I am going to bed,” he said shortly.
Mr. Cray glanced at the clock.
“Wont you find the séance a little disturbing?” he asked. “Besides, the only pleasant thing about these shows is that the are silent. Spooks don't seem to care about a noise.”
It was at this point that Mr. Cray became vastly interested. ..... Through the door came a shadowy figure.
The two men parted. Mr. Cray also went to his room, but he emerged a few minutes later by the back entrance and found his way into the grounds. The night was dark, and a slight mistral was blowing from the hills. He made his way silently round until he reached the walk in front of the Hartopp's suite. Here he made a careful examination of his surroundings. So far as it was possible to tell, he was the only person who was seeking this illicit means of obtaining information as to the séance. From the chinks in the gayly lighted windows of the main building of the hotel came the sound of the orchestra playing dance-music in the lounge. Every now and then he could even distinguish fragments of conversation from the numerous bridge-parties. Inside the room, through the inch or two of gaping blind which was his only means of observation, everything at first seemed shielded by a wall of deep black.
Presently, however, one by one the white faces of those who sat around the table, blurred and imperceptible in detail, still became faintly recognizable. Every now and then there was a low murmuring, which he had learned to tabulate in his mind as the spirit voice of the medium. Everyone seemed deeply stirred, tragically interested. He heard Homor's raucous, trembling voice.
“If I am to have comfort, I must see her.... Let me see her for one moment.”
Again there came Mrs. Hartopp's voice, faint and weary, yet always with its suggestive, unearthly note.
“I will try. Look away from me, everyone, while I try.”
“Why Mr. Cray!” she exclaimed. “How delightful!”
It was at this point that Mr. Cray became vastly interested. From the direction of the voice. he gathered that Mrs. Hartopp had been lying upon a couch drawn up close to a screen. Without being able to trace any movement, the white blur of her face seemed to disappear An intense silence followed. The window of the bedroom on the other side of the door was softly pushed open. Almost immediately the door itself opened several inches. Mr. Cray in those moments forgot his wariness. Through the window stepped an indistinguishable form bearing a bundle on its arm. Through the door came a shadowy figure. And just then, on the top of his head, Mr. Cray received a soft, resonant crack. .... It was considerably later when he found himself lying on the gravel terrace, looking up at the stars.
Very slowly he scrambled to his feet. His head was still aching and was remarkably sore. From the sitting-room window, a few yards away, lights were now burning, although most of the lights in the hotel had been extinguished. He struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock, which meant that he had been lying there for nearly an hour. He staggered to his feet, shook the dust from his clothes, reëntered the hotel by the back way and made his way to his room.
It was a very grim Mr. Cray, however, who strolled out on the terrace the following morning and made his way with a certain ominous deliberation to the little sunny corner where Mrs. Hartopp usually held her court. The corner was more crowded than usual, but the lady herself was absent. Mr. Homor was sitting there, however, surrounded by a little bevy of women. Mr. Homor, without a doubt, was a very changed man. On the outskirts of the little gathering the newcomer paused to regard him with wonder. The hopeless, almost pathetic misery of his face was gone. That wistful fear of impending death, which was always with him, had also passed. He was like a man who on the threshold of the grave had found new hope. He sat there in the sunshine with a serene smile upon his lips.
“Where's the lady this morning?” Mr. Cray asked.
“She is utterly exhausted with the efforts of last night,” one of the women told him. “It is very doubtful whether she will be up today at all.”
“What sort of a show did you have?” Mr. Cray proceeded curiously.
“It was wonderful,” the woman murmured.
“Marvelous!” another echoed.
“It was without doubt one of the most amazing demonstrations I have ever seen,” a man declared.
Mr. Cray opened his lips to speak, and at that moment Mr. Homor leaned a little forward in his chair. He looked straight across at Mr. Cray.
“It was more than anything which has been said,” he declared. “It was just a miracle. Mr. Cray, I saw my wife—my dear wife whom I lost many months ago.”
Mr. Cray held his peace for a moment. Then he ventured a single question.
“Are you quite sure of that, Mr. Homor?” he asked.
“I am absolutely and entirely sure of it,” was the confident answer. “She came to me out of the shadows of that room, dressed as I remember her best, her hair, her little articles of jewelry, the light in her kind eyes—they were all there. It was unmistakable, and though it sounded a long way off, I heard her voice.”
“Do you carry any picture of her with you?” Mr. Cray inquired.
“There is a picture of her in my room,” Mr. Homor replied, “but no one has ever seen it. You are perhaps one of those,” he went on, “who find it hard to believe. Heaven knows I found it hard enough until last night! For months I have been carrying with me always the loneliness which is almost worse than death, and the fear of things to come which grows with those who have only a short time to live. And now look at me! I am a new man. I am content to live or to die. There is no fear left in me.”
Mr. Cray stood for a moment gazing at that thin streak of the Mediterranean shining below. All thoughts of exposing the trick which he felt sure he had seen, passed away. He said nothing of his own accident; nor did he hint at his own convictions. He nodded his head reverently.
“Mr. Homor, I congratulate you,” he said, as he moved on “Yours was a wonderful experience. It should be helpful to many others.”
“I mean to make it so,” was the enthusiastic reply.
On his mechanical way down to the golf-links Mr. Cray was accosted by Mr. Pomfret, his acquaintance of the previous afternoon,
“Been hearing about the manifestation last night?” the latter inquired.
Mr. Cray nodded but kept his own counsel. He would have passed on, but he other detained him.
“I have been wondering, Mr. Cray,” he continued, “whether you could spare me a moment to discuss a matter of some little importance?”
“Sure!' Mr. Cray assented. “I'm doing nothing. Get right on with it.”
Mr. Pomfret drew him toward the hotel.
“If you would be so kind,” he begged, “please take me to your room. We can speak there without any possibility of being overheard.”
Mr. Cray was surprised but acquiescent. Together the two men ascended in the lift and entered the spacious and very pleasant room which had been allotted to Mr. Cray. His guest looked around it appreciatively.
“Very nice quarters,” he observed. “Very nice indeed. Now, Mr. Cray, have any idea what I want with you?”
“Not the slightest in the world,” was the truthful reply.
Mr. Pomfret unbuttoned his coat and showed a small medallion on the inside of his waistcoat.
“In case that does not make things clear to you,” he said, “will you allow me?”
He handed over a card, which Mr. Cray read in amazement:
Superintendent George Pomfret Scotland Yard.
“Well, you surprise me,” Mr. Cray acknowledged. “That's your job, however. What can I do for you?”
“I am here,” the detective explained, “in search of certain jewelry stolen from Covent Garden on the night of the ball in November last.”
Mr. Cray nodded. “I was there.”
“You were there,” the other continued, “with your friends Major and Mrs. Hartopp.”
“I don't know about being with them,” Mr. Cray objected. “I met them there for the first time.”
Mr. Pomfret's fingers caressed his chin thoughtfully.
“For the first time!” he repeated. “Mrs. Hartopp spent a great part of the evening in your box, and my information is that you left the ball together.”
“Sure!” Mr. Cray admitted. “I gave them a lift. If you make inquiries a your headquarters, you will find a little further information concerning the events of that evening.”
“My immediate business is to do with the jewelry,” was the cautious reply “Acting upon certain information, I may tell you that in the first place I have searched the suite and luggage of Major and Mrs. Hartopp.”
“Any luck?”
“Not up to the present. With your permission,” the man went on, his eyes traveling curiously about the room, “I will now proceed further with my duty.
MR. CRAY gazed at his visitor in amazement.
“Let me get this,” he exclaimed. “Do I understand that you are here to search my apartment, that you think I am mixed up in any way with the Hartopps?”
Mr. Pomfret smiled.
“We don't need to go into that,” he said. “You were with them on the night of the robbery, and you are here staying at the same hotel. I admit that I have no search-warrant, but if I might offer you my advice—”
“Search, by all means,” Mr. Cray interrupted, throwing himself into an easy-chair. “When you've finished, I'll tell you a yarn about the Hartopps which you can verify for yourself when you get back to town.”
The detective made no reply. He made a prompt and methodical search of the whole of Mr. Cray's baggage. When he had finished, he pointed to a cupboard.
“What is in there?”
“Some empty bags,” was the prompt reply. “The door isn't locked.”
Mr. Pomfret rummaged about for some minutes. Finally he dragged out into the room a kit-bag.
“Have you the key of this?” he asked.
Mr. Cray stared at the bag with a puzzled frown.
“That's not my bag,” he declared.
Mr. Pomfret's manner became a little more constrained.
“There is the same label upon it as on the rest of your luggage,” he pointed out, “and written in the same handwriting. Also, as you perceive, your initials.”
Mr. Cray rose to his feet and examined it in detail. Finally he handed his keys to the detective.
“You can try,” he said simply, “but I don't believe I have one which fits that bag.”
The surmise was correct. After a minutes' manipulation, however, the detective managed to open it with a master-key which he produced from his own pocket. Inside was a black tin box at which Mr. Cray stared in ever-increasing astonishment. Mr. Pomfret lifted the lid and closed it again almost immediately. A hurried glimpse was quite enough. The box was half-filled with a miscellaneous assortment of jewelry, in the midst of which flashed some very fine diamonds.
“Well, I'll be damned!” Mr. Cray exclaimed.
“Wave you any explanation to offer?” the detective asked.
“None,” was the bewildered reply. “The bag isn't mine, and I never saw the jewels before.”
The detective smiled faintly. It was obvious, however, that he too was puzzled.
“Mr. Cray,” he confessed, “I'll tell you frankly that I came into this room in the execution of my duty, but without the slightest suspicion that I should find here what I was in search of. I must send in my report to headquarters and reconstruct the case in my mind. In the meantime, I don't wish to do anything which might seem disagreeable. You have a very comfortable room here, with a pleasant balcony where you can take the air. If you will give me your parole not to leave it for twenty-four hours, you shall remain undisturbed.”
“On consideration that you let me send a telegram of my own to Inspector Johns of Scotland Yard,” Mr. Cray replied, “I agree.”
“I will send off personally any message with which you may intrust me,” the detective promised.
He left the room, carrying the kit-bag with him. Mr. Cray sat down at his writing-table and wrote a telegram. After luncheon he wrote more telegrams. Somehow or other the day dragged away. On the following morning he rose at the usual time, breakfasted and afterward walked restlessly up and down the room, smoking a cigar. There had come for him no word or message from Mr. Pomfret. Five minutes after the twenty-four hours had elapsed, he left his room and descended on to the terrace. He went at once to the information desk and asked for Mr. Pomfret.
“Mr. Pomfret left by the afternoon train yesterday, sir,” the man told him.
Mr. Cray was dumfounded.
“Did he leave any note or message for me?” he inquired.
The clerk searched the pigeonhole and produced a note, which Mr. Cray carried out into the sunshine. Its contents were brief and to the point:
    Dear Mr. Cray,
    I hasten to let you know that according to instructions received from headquarters the matter referred to between us yesterday will not be further proceeded with.
Faithfully yours, br/>George Pomfret
Mr. Cray wandered mechanically on to the corner where Mrs. Hartopp's invalid carriage was usually to be found. There were several people seated there, but no sign of the person of whom he was in search. An acquaintance welcomed him.
“Thought you'd left too, Mr. Cray. Didn't see anything of you yesterday.”
“I had a slight headache and stayed in my room,” was the somewhat grim explanation.
“You haven't heard the news, then?”
“Nary a thing!”
“First of all, then, the Hartopps left yesterday by the same train as Mr. Pomfret.”
“God bless my soul!” Mr. Cray exclaimed.
“She looked terribly ill,” his informant went on. “They had almost to carry her into the bus. Then you haven't heard about Mr. Homor, I suppose?”
“Not a thing.”
“His lawyer arrived from London last night. They say that he is much worse. The doctor announced this morning that he could not live through the day.”
“That's bad!” Mr. Cray murmured. “Anything else?”
“There's a great golf-match on this morning—the Costabel pro. and a visitor from Costabel, against Dell and Scott.”
“I'll stroll down and have a look,” Mr. Cray decided, lighting a cigar and turning away.
IT was very nearly two months later when full elucidation of many perplexing happenings came to Mr. Cray. Newly arrived in Monte Carlo, he made his first appearance at the Sporting Club and mingled for some time with the smartest crowd in Europe. In the act of trying to approach close to one of the roulette tables, he was suddenly aware of a tall and elegant woman who had risen from her place at the tables, with her hands full of notes and plaques which she was carelessly stuffing into a gold bag. Something about her expression puzzled him Their eyes met, and a charming smile of welcome parted her lips.
“Why, Mr. Cray!” she exclaimed. “How delightful!”
Mr. Cray shook hands dumbly with this very beautiful apparition. She wore a smart afternoon costume of black and white, a wonderful hat—black with white ospreys. In that very exclusive gathering her slim elegance, her air of gracious distinction, singled her out for universal notice.
“This is quite delightful,” she murmured. —“Guy!” Major Hartopp extricated himself from a little crowd and shook hands affably. Mr. Pomfret followed suit.
“Haven't forgotten me, I hope, Mr. Cray?” he asked, smiling.
Mrs. Hartopp laid her hand lightly upon Mr. Cray's coat-sleeve.
“Let us all,” she suggested amiably, “go and have a cocktail. If this is your first visit, Mr. Cray, you must be introduced to Charles.”
They found four seats in the little bar. Mr. Cray found himself seated between Major and Mrs. Hartopp. Mr. Pomfret strolled away and gave impressive orders to the white-linen-clad celebrity behind the counter.
“I always felt quite sure that we should meet again,” Mrs. Hartopp continued smilingly.
“I guess I was counting on it too,” Mr. Cray, who was beginning to recover himself, remarked. “What's that fellow Pomfret doing here with you?”
“Guy, dear, you explain,” Mrs. Hartopp suggested. “Tell Mr. Cray everything.”
Major Hartopp scratched at his stubby little mustache.
“I expect Mr. Cray has puzzled things out for himself long before this,” he observed.
“What about that jewelry?”
“Perhaps we took rather a liberty with you,” Major Hartopp went on. “We got those trifles out to Hyères quite safely, but Mina and I weren't feeling quite comfortable, so we thought they would be safer in your rooms, in a bag that—er—might have belonged to you.”
Mr. Cray muttered something under his breath and swallowed hard.
“But what about Pomfret?”
“Ah, yes—Pomfret!” Major Hartopp repeated. “Good fellow, George Pomfret.”
“One of our oldest friends,” Mrs. Hartopp murmured.
“You see, when we made up our minds to leave,” Major Hartopp explained, “we naturally wanted the jewels back again, the coast being clear, and all that sort of thing. Pomfret's done a few stunts with us before, and he undertook to get the jewels back and keep you out of the way in case you were inquisitive at our leaving.”
“I gather, then,” said Mr. Cray “that Mr. Pomfret is not connected with the detective force?”
“Great Scott, no!” was the emphatic reply. “On the contrary!”
“And the jewels?” queried Mr. Cray.
“Were safely disposed of long ago.” Mrs. Hartopp assured him.
“This is—er—one of the best markets in the world,” her husband observed, “for—delicate transactions of that sort. Lump sum down, and no questions asked, you know.”
“I see,” Mr. Cray murmured. “And you are now engaged, I presume, in spending the proceeds?”
Mrs. Hartopp laughed delightfully.
“My dear man, we don't need to do that,” she said. “Didn't you hear about Mr. Homor?”
“I've heard nothing,' Mr. Cray assured them. I've been in Algiers.”
“The dear man left me fifty thousand pounds in order that I might pursue my investigations. Wasn't it perfectly sweet of him?”
MR. CRAY sat quite still. Mr. Pomfret strolled up, followed by a waiter bearing on his silver tray four tall glasses filled with a cloudy, amber-colored liquid.
Mr. Cray mechanically accepted his glass but made no response. His attitude remained negative. Pomfret leaned a little toward him.
“Mr. Cray,” he said, “may I speak a plain word to you? You are one of those shrewd, amiable gentlemen of independent means who have a natural taste for adventure and who go muddling about the world, sometimes interfering a good deal in other people's business. You get lots of fun out of it, and from what I know of you, you generally come out on top. From what I know of you further, I believe you to be a latitudinarian. The law isn't always just. The criminal is sometimes a good fellow. Our friends here have been up against you a bit, but you haven't come to much harm. Anything you know that you don't care about, forget. Be a sportsman, and don't look as though you saw poison inside.”
Mina Hartopp's smile was irresistible.
“You are really such a dear, Mr. Cray,” she murmured. “You wont refuse to drink with me?”
Mr. Cray raised his glass. All four were solemnly clinked together. The tension had passed. As he set his glass down empty, a beatific smile parted Mr. Cray's lips. He made telegraphic signs to the gentleman of the to the functionary behind the bar.
“You'll repeat that with me,” he invited.
“It's pax, isn't it?” Mina Hartopp whispered in his ear.
“Sure!” Mr. Cray promised.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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