An Amiable Charlatan

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All three of us remained silent for a moment. Then I coughed and took up
the wine list.

"What should you like to drink, Mrs. Bundercombe?" I asked in attempted
unconcern.

Mrs. Bundercombe adjusted her spectacles severely and transferred her
regard to me. I felt somehow as though I were back at school and had been
discovered in some ignominious escapade.

"You are aware, Paul," she replied, "that I drink nothing save a glass of
hot water after my meal. The subject of drink does not interest me. I
appeal to you now as a future member of the family: Fetch Mr. Bundercombe
here!"

I shook my head.

"Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, leaning over the table, "your husband during
his stay in London plunged freely into the Bohemian life of our city. I
will answer for it that he did so simply in pursuance of that hobby of
which we all know. I am convinced----"

"Paul," Mrs. Bundercombe interrupted, her voice if possible a little more
nasal even than usual, "will you fetch Mr. Bundercombe here, or must I
rise from my seat in a public place and remove him myself from--from that
hussy?"

I appealed to Eve.

"Eve," I begged, "please reason with your stepmother. There are certain
situations in life that can be faced in one way only. Mrs. Bundercombe
will no doubt have a few words to say to her husband on his return. Let
her keep them until then."

"Paul is right!" Eve declared. "Do take our advice!" she continued,
turning to her stepmother. "Let us eat our luncheon quite calmly. I am
perfectly certain dad will have some very good reason to give for his
presence here with that young lady."

Mrs. Bundercombe rose to her feet. I hastened to follow her example. We
stood confronting one another.

"It is either you or I, Paul!" she insisted.

"Then it had better be myself," I groaned.

I deposited my napkin on the table and made my way toward Mr. Bundercombe.
I smiled pleasantly at him and bowed apologetically toward his companion.

"Sorry," I said under my breath, "but I am afraid Mrs. Bundercombe means
to make trouble!"

Mr. Bundercombe looked at me with a gloriously blank expression. His
manner was not without dignity.

"I regret to hear," he replied, "that any person by the name of Mrs.
Bundercombe is looking for trouble. I scarcely see, however, how I am
concerned in the matter. You have the advantage of me, sir!"

I stared at him and stooped a little lower.

"She's tearing mad!" I whispered. "You don't want a scene. Couldn't you
make an excuse and slip away?"

Mr. Bundercombe frowned at me. He glanced at the young lady as though
seeking for some explanation.

"Is this young gentleman known to you, Miss Blanche?" he inquired.

She set down her glass and shook her head.

"Never saw him before in my life!" she declared. "What's worrying him?"

"Hitherto," Mr. Bundercombe said, "my somewhat unusual personal appearance
has kept me from an adventure of this sort, but I clearly understand that
I am now being mistaken for some one else. Your references to a Mrs.
Bundercombe, sir, are Greek to me. My name is Parker--Mr. Joseph H.
Parker."

"Do you mean to keep this up?" I protested.

Mr. Bundercombe beckoned to the _maitre d'hotel_ who came hastily to his
side.

"Do you know this gentleman?" he asked.

The _maitre d'hotel_ bowed.

"Certainly, sir," he answered, with a questioning glance toward me. "This
is Mr. Walmsley."

"Then will you take Mr. Walmsley back to his place?" Mr. Bundercombe
begged. "He persists in mistaking me for some one else. I am not
complaining, mind," he added affably; "no complaint whatever! I am quite
sure the young gentleman is genuinely mistaken and does not mean to be in
any way offensive. Only my digestion is not what it should be and these
little _contretemps_ in the middle of luncheon are disturbing. Run away,
sir, please!" he concluded, waving his hand toward me.

The _maitre d'hotel_ looked at me and I looked at the _maitre d'hotel_.
Then I glanced at Mr. Bundercombe, who remained quite unruffled. Finally I
bowed slightly toward the young lady and returned to my place.

"Well?" Mrs. Bundercombe snapped.

"It seems," I said, "that we were mistaken. That isn't Mr. Bundercombe at
all."

Mrs. Bundercombe's face was a study.

"Is this a jest?" she demanded severely.

"I wish it were," I replied. "Anyhow, Mrs. Bundercombe, you must really
excuse me, but there is nothing more I can do. The gentleman whom I
addressed insisted upon it that his name was Mr. Joseph H. Parker. No
doubt he was right. These likenesses are sometimes very deceptive," I
added feebly.

Mrs. Bundercombe rose to her feet. I made no effort to stop her; in fact
her action filled me with pleasurable anticipations. She walked across to
the table at which Mr. Bundercombe was seated. Eve and I both turned in
our places to watch.

"Poor daddy!" Eve murmured under her breath. "Why couldn't he have chosen
a smaller restaurant. He is going to catch it now!"

"I think I'll back your father," I observed. "He is quite at his best this
morning."

The exact words that passed between Mr. Bundercombe and his wife we, alas!
never knew. She turned her left shoulder pointedly toward the young woman,
whom she had designated as a hussy, and talked steadily for about a minute
and a half at Mr. Bundercombe. The history of what followed was reflected
in that gentleman's expressive face. He appeared to listen, at first in
amazement, afterward in annoyance, and finally in downright anger. When at
last he spoke we heard the words distinctly.

"Madam," he said, "I don't know who you are, and I object to being
addressed in a public place by ladies who are strangers to me. Be so good
as to return to your seat. You are mistaking me for some one else. My name
is Joseph H. Parker."

For a lady who had won renown upon the platform as a debater, Mrs.
Bundercombe seemed afflicted with considerable difficulty in framing a
suitable reply; and while she was still a little incoherent Mr.
Bundercombe softly summoned the _maitre d'hotel_. It may have been my
fancy, but I certainly thought I saw a sovereign slipped into the hand of
the latter.

"Charles," Mr. Bundercombe confided, "my luncheon is being spoiled by
people who mistake me for a gentleman who, I believe, does bear a singular
resemblance to me. My name is Parker! This lady insists upon addressing me
as Mr. Bundercombe. I do not wish to make a disturbance, but I insist upon
it that you conduct this lady to her place and see that I am not disturbed
any more."

The _maitre d'hotel's_ attitude was unmistakable. Within the course of a
few seconds Mrs. Bundercombe was restored to us. I thought it best to
ignore the whole matter and plunged at once into a discussion of
gastronomic matters. "I have ordered," I began, "some Maryland chicken."

"Then you can eat it!" Mrs. Bundercombe snapped. "Not a mouthful of food
do I take in this place with that painted hussy sitting by Joseph's side a
few feet away! Oh, I'll fix him when I get him home!"

She drew a little breath between her teeth, but she was as good as her
word. She refused all food and sat with her arms folded, glaring across at
Mr. Bundercombe's table. My admiration for that man of genius was never
greater than on that day. So far from hurrying over his luncheon, he
seemed inclined to prolong it.

There was no lack of conversation between him and his companion. They even
lingered over their coffee and they were still at the table when Eve and I
had finished and Mrs. Bundercombe was sipping the hot water, the only
thing that passed her lips during the entire meal. I paid the bill and
rose. Mrs. Bundercombe, after a moment's hesitation, followed us.

"Eve and I thought of going into the Academy for a few minutes," I said
tentatively as we reached the entrance hall.

Mrs. Bundercombe plumped herself down on a high-backed chair within a yard
of the door.

"I," she announced, "shall wait here for Joseph!"

I realized the futility of any attempt to dissuade her; so we left her
there, spent an hour at the Academy and did a little shopping. On our way
back an idea occurred to me. We reentered the restaurant. Mrs. Bundercombe
was still sitting there in a corner of the hall.

"Thinks he can tire me out, perhaps!" she remarked in an explanatory
manner. "Well, he just can't--that's all!"

I moved a few steps farther in and glanced down the restaurant. Then I
returned.

"But, my dear Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, "your husband has gone long ago!
He went out the other way. I am not sure--but I believe we saw him in Bond
Street quite three quarters of an hour ago."

"There is another way out?" Mrs. Bundercombe asked hastily.

"Certainly there is," I told her; "into Jermyn Street."

"Why was I not told?" she demanded, rising unwillingly to her feet.

"Really," I assured her, "I didn't think of it."

She followed us out. We all walked down Piccadilly.

"Will you please," she said, "direct me to a tea-shop?"

I pointed one out to her. She left us without a word of farewell. Eve and
I turned down into the Haymarket.

"Nice example your parents are setting us!" I remarked.

Eve sighed.

"I wish I knew what dad was up to!" she murmured.

At that moment we met him. He came strolling along, his silk hat a little
on the back of his head, a cigar in his mouth, his hands grasping his cane
behind his back. "Bundercombe or Parker?" I inquired as we came to a
standstill on the pavement.

He grinned.

"Nasty business, that!" he remarked cheerfully. "Why don't you keep to the
Ritz or the Berkeley? Anyway," he added, his tone changing, "I'm glad I met you, Paul. I want your help in a little matter."

I shook my head.

"Quite out of the question!" I declared emphatically.

"Don't forget that Paul is an M.P., dad!" Eve said severely. "You mustn't
attempt to bring him into any of your little affairs."

"On this occasion," Mr. Bundercombe expostulated, "I am on the side of the
law. Mr. Cullen, whom I am probably going to see presently, will be my
brother-in-arms."

"What do you need me for, then?" I asked.

"As to absolutely needing you, perhaps I don't," Mr. Bundercombe admitted.
"On the other hand, it's a very interesting little affair, and one in
which you could take a hand without compromising yourself."

"What about Eve?" I inquired.

"Not this time!" Mr. Bundercombe replied. "The only risk there is about
the affair," he explained, "is that it is just possible there may be a bit
of a scrap."

"What's the program?" I asked.

"To-night, at home, at ten o'clock. Can you manage it?"

"Rather," I answered; "if Eve doesn't mind. This is the night you promised
to go with your mother to a lecture somewhere, isn't it?" I reminded her.

She nodded.

"Very well," she consented resignedly, "so long as you don't let him get
hurt, dad."

"No fear of that!" Mr. Bundercombe declared cheerfully. "If they go for
any one they'll go for me. So long, young people! At ten o'clock, Paul!"

At precisely the hour agreed upon that evening I presented myself at Mr.
Bundercombe's house in Prince's Gardens. I noticed that the manner of the
servant who admitted me was subdued and there was a peculiar gloom about
the place. Very few lights were lit and the farther portion of the house,
of which one could catch a glimpse from the little circular hall, seemed
entirely deserted. I was shown at once into Mr. Bundercombe's study upon
the ground floor. Mr. Bundercombe was seated at a writing table, with his
face toward the door. He greeted me with a friendly nod and pointed to a
little table upon which stood an abundant display of cigars and cigarettes
of all brands.

I helped myself and lit a cigarette.

"May I know something of this evening's program?" I asked.

"Spoil the whole show?" Mr. Bundercombe objected earnestly. "Just play the
part of assistant audience and stick this into your pocket, will you?"

He threw toward me a very small revolver that he had produced from a
drawer.

"Only the last three chambers are loaded," he remarked. "You'll have to
click three times if you do use it. I don't think you'll need to, though.
Take a stall and watch the fun. I'll tell you only this: You remember Bone
Stanley, as he was called in those days--the man who was sent to prison
for fifteen years for bank robbery and for shooting the manager? Down
Hammersmith way it was. The fellow was an American."

"I remember it quite well," I assented. "He was tried for murder and
convicted of manslaughter."

Mr. Bundercombe nodded.

"He was released this afternoon. He'll be here in a few minutes."

"Here!" I exclaimed.

Mr. Bundercombe nodded but did not offer any further explanation. Coupled
with a certain gravity of expression he had the appearance of a schoolboy
for whom a feast was being set out. "Quite a pleasant little evening we
are going to have!" he promised. "You wait!"

I frowned a little uneasily.

"You are quite sure you're not letting me in for--"

Mr. Bundercombe plunged into the middle of my little protest.

"You're all right, Paul!" he assured me. "Cullen's in the house at the
present moment and there are two other detectives with him. They are
letting me run this thing simply because I know more about it than they
do; and for certain reasons I'm not giving my whole hand away. Don't you
worry, Paul! You'll be all right this time. Listen!"

We heard a very feeble ring at the bell. Mr. Bundercombe nodded.

"That's Stanley," he whispered. "Sit down!"

A man was shown into the room a moment later. I leaned forward in my chair
so as to see more distinctly the hero of one of the most famous cases that
had ever been tried in a criminal court. Of his renowned good looks there
was little left. He stood there, still tall, with high cheekbones, furtive
eyes and long mouth. He wore good clothes, his linen was irreproachable,
and he kept his gloves on. Nevertheless the stamp of the prison was upon
him.

"Mr. Stanley?" Mr. Bundercombe said. "Good! I am glad you were prevailed
upon to come."

"I am still wholly in the dark as to what this means!" the newcomer
remarked.

"I'll tell you in a very few sentences," Mr. Bundercombe promised. "Will
you sit down?"

"I prefer to stand," Stanley replied, "until I know exactly in whose house
I am and what your interest in me is."

"Very well!" Mr. Bundercombe agreed. "Here is my history: My name is
Joseph H. Bundercombe. I am an American manufacturer. I have made a
fortune in manufacturing Bundercombe's Reaping Machines. You may call it a
hobby, if you like, but I have always been interested in criminals and
criminal methods--not the lowest type, but men who have pitted their
brains against others and robbed them.

"As soon as I arrived in this country I found an interest in inquiring
into the identities of American criminals imprisoned over here, with a
view to helping any deserving cases. Your name came before me. I studied
your case. I became interested in it. I learned that your time was almost
up. A chance inquiry revealed to me a state of things that I determined to
bring before your knowledge."

"You sent me a telegram," Mr. Stanley interrupted, "as I was stepping on
the steamer at Southampton. I have returned to London for your
explanation."

"You will probably," Mr. Bundercombe remarked genially, "be thankful all
your life that you did. Now listen!"

"Who is this person?" Mr. Stanley asked, indicating me. "He is my
prospective son-in-law, Mr. Paul Walmsley," Mr. Bundercombe explained; "a
member of Parliament. I have asked him to be present because I may need a
little support, and also because it may help to convince you that I am in
earnest.

"Twenty years ago, Mr. Stanley, you came to the conclusion that honest
methods were of little use to any one seeking to make a large fortune. You
joined with two other men, Richard Densmore and Philip Harding, in a
series of semicriminal conspiracies.

"You pooled all your money--you had the most --and you determined that if
you could not make a living honestly you would rob those with less brains
than yourself. When half your capital was gone, this Hammersmith bank
robbery was planned and took place. You were the only one caught and you
held your tongue like a man; but, all the same, you were used as a cat's-
paw."

"In what way?" Stanley asked softly.

"You all three had revolvers; you all three arranged that they should be
uncharged. Cartridges were put into yours without your knowledge. You held
up your revolver and pressed the trigger, believing it to be empty. The
others knew better. You shot the bank manager and in the stupefaction that
followed you became an easy captive. The others escaped."

Stanley moved a little on his feet. His lips were slightly parted, his
eyes fixed upon Mr. Bundercombe.

"What story is this you are telling me?" he muttered.

"A true one!" Mr. Bundercombe continued.

"Now listen! The total amount in possession of your two confederates when
you went into prison was under a thousand pounds. You heard from them
periodically as struggling paupers. Harding met you out of prison. He was
almost in rags. They were at the end of their resources, he told you. He
gave you a hundred pounds, to procure which, he assured you with tears in
his eyes, they had almost beggared themselves. It was to enable you to
leave the country and make a fresh start.

"You were even grateful. You shook him by the hand. You left him at the
hotel at Southampton only an hour before you got my telegram."

"What of it?" Stanley asked.

"Nothing, except this," Mr. Bundercombe concluded: "Your two partners were
so scared at the result of the Hammersmith affair and at your sentence
that they turned over a new leaf. They went into business as outside
stockbrokers--with your capital. The agreement as to a third profits was
still in force. They had what I can describe only as the devil's own luck.
I should say their total capital to-day is at least fifty thousand pounds.

"The time came for you to be released. They had no idea of parting with a
third of their money and taking you into the business. All the time they
had deceived you. They continued the deception. Harding met you as a poor
man. But for me you would have been on your way to South Africa by this
time, with a hundred pounds in your pocket."

"Is what you are telling me the truth?" Stanley demanded.

"Absolutely!" Mr. Bundercombe declared. "I stumbled across the truth in
making inquiries concerning you and your probable future. I had meant, as
a matter of fact, to put up a little money of my own to give you a fresh
start. In the course of these inquiries I happened to run across a young
woman who had been a typist in Harding's office. It was from her I learned
the truth. As he rose in the world Harding seems to have treated the girl
badly. A little kindness and a little attention on my part, and I learned
the truth. She placed me in possession of the whole story after we had
lunched together to-day."

Stanley at last took the chair he had so long refused. He sat with his
arms folded.

"And I kept my mouth closed!" he muttered. "It was their job. I would no
more have pulled the trigger of my revolver than I would have shot myself
--if I had known. It was they who put the cartridges there!"

He sat for a moment quite still. Mr. Bundercombe rang the bell.

"The gentlemen I am expecting," he said, "will be here in a moment. You
can show them in directly they arrive."

The man bowed and withdrew. Mr. Bundercombe turned to his visitor.

"I have made the acquaintance," he continued, "of these two men, your late
partners--sought them out and made it purposely. They are coming here to
see me to-night. They fancy that it is just a friendly call. They know
that I have money to invest. I have even made use of them, employed them
to buy for me bonds of my own choosing. They think it is an affair of a
little business chat, perhaps, and a restaurant supper. Pull yourself
together, Stanley! Go into that corner, behind the curtain. Wait your
time!"

Stanley rose slowly to his feet. His face was drawn as though with pain.

"It isn't so much the money," he muttered, "only I thought--I fancied they
would have been there to meet me, to shake me by the hand, to stay with
me! And they wanted to push me off out of the country!"

He opened his lips a little wider and swore, softly but vindictively. Then
the bell rang. Mr. Bundercombe hastened to push him out of sight. We heard
the sound of strange voices in the hall. When the door was opened it was
obvious that the whole house was lit up. From somewhere in the distance
came the soft music of a piano.

Mr. Harding and Mr. Densmore were announced. I looked at them curiously.
They were both most correctly dressed in evening clothes. They both had
somehow the hard expression of worldly men, tempered not altogether
pleasantly by symptoms of good living. They greeted Mr. Bundercombe with
bluff heartiness. He gave them each a hand.

"Now, my friends," he said, "welcome to my house! Paul," he added, turning
to me, "let me introduce my two friends, Mr. Harding and Mr. Densmore--Mr.
Paul Walmsley. Mr. Walmsley has just been returned for the western
division of Bedfordshire."

They greeted me with more than affability. Mr. Harding assured me he had
read my speeches. Mr. Densmore thought no one was more to be envied than a
man who had the gifts that secured for him a seat in Parliament.

"It's early yet," Mr. Bundercombe declared genially. "Let's sit down. Tell
me a little about English business. It interests me. You bought those
Chilean bonds all right, I see. They are up an eighth to-night."

"A good purchase, Mr. Bundercombe," Mr. Harding assured him; "a very good
purchase! After all, though, there's not much money to be made out of
those government things. Now we've a little affair of our own--what do you
say, Densmore?" he broke off, looking toward his partner. "We could afford
to let Mr. Bundercombe come in a little way with us, I think?"

Mr. Densmore nodded.

"Not more than five," he said warningly. "Remember what you promised the
Rothschild people."

Mr. Harding nodded and crossed his knees. He lit a cigar from the box Mr.
Bundercombe passed round.

"This sounds interesting!" the latter remarked. "I dare say Mr. Walmsley,
too, has a little spare money for investment."

Mr. Densmore sighed, though his eyes were brightening.

"It's too good a thing," he explained confidentially, "to let the world
into. Between ourselves, there's a fortune in it, and we want to keep it
among our friends."

He drew a dummy prospectus from his vest pocket and began a long-winded
recital of some figures in which I was not particularly interested. Mr.
Bundercombe, however, appeared to be greatly impressed by what he heard.

"Gentlemen," he said, "there's just one little thing: American business
methods and English are different in one respect. In my country we've got
a sort of official guide that tells us exactly whom we are dealing with
and what their means are. Now I know you are good fellows and it seems to
me I'll be glad to go into this little affair with you; but we are
strangers financially, aren't we? Now if you were Americans I should say
to you: 'What's your rating?' and you'd tell me, because you'd know that I
could look it up in a business guide in ten minutes."

"Perfectly sound," Mr. Harding admitted--"perfectly! Neither my partner
nor I have anything to conceal. Last Christmas we were worth just over
sixty thousand pounds and since then we've made a bit."

"You've no other partner?" Mr. Bundercombe inquired.

"Certainly not!" Mr. Harding replied.

"Then what about our friend Stanley?" Mr. Bundercombe asked quietly.

Almost as he spoke Stanley walked into the middle of the little group. I
have never in the whole course of my life seen two men so thoroughly and
entirely amazed. Mr. Harding dropped his cigar on the carpet, where he let
it remain. They stared at Stanley as though they were looking upon a
ghost. Both men seemed somehow to have lost their confident bearing--
seemed to have shrunken into smaller, less assertive, meaner beings.

"Sixty thousand pounds," Mr. Bundercombe went on--"one-third of which
belongs to Stanley here."

"Absurd!" Harding faltered.

"Nothing--nothing of the sort!" Densmore declared.

Mr. Bundercombe very carefully lit another cigar. Then he rang the bell.
Harding rose to his feet. He was not looking in the least like the sleek,
opulent gentleman who had entered the room a few minutes before.

"What's that for?" he demanded, pointing to the bell.

The door was already opened. Mr. Bundercombe indicated the young lady who
stood upon the threshold--the lady with whom he had been lunching that day
at Prince's.

"I only wished to have the pleasure," Mr. Bundercombe explained, "of
presenting you two gentlemen--Mr. Harding especially--to this young lady."

"Blanche!" Mr. Harding exclaimed.

Mr. Densmore muttered something under his breath.

"My dear Miss Blanche," said Mr. Bundercombe, moving toward the door, "I
will not ask you to stay, as our interview is scarcely, perhaps, a
pleasant one. I simply wished you to show yourself so that Mr. Harding and
his friend might understand how useless certain denials on their part
would be. My servant will now place you in a taxi; and if you will do me
the honor of calling here at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning I think I can
promise you a satisfactory termination to this little affair."

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