“Hurry up, Michael,” came Marion’s voice tensely from the elevator.
“Let me explain,” cried Charley frantically. “I want—”
Michael moved away from him—the elevator came and the gate clanged open.
“You act as if I’d committed some crime.” Charley was following Michael along the hall. “Can’t you understand that this is all an accidental situation?”
“It’s all right,” Michael muttered, “I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” Charley’s voice rose with exasperation. He was working up anger against them so as to justify his own intolerable position. “You’re going away mad and I asked you to come in and join the party. Why did you come up here if you won’t come in? Did you—?”
Michael walked into the elevator.
“Down, please!” cried Marion. “Oh, I want to go down, please!”
The gates clanged shut.
They told the taxi-man to take them directly home—neither of them could have endured the theater. Driving uptown to their apartment, Michael buried his face in his hands and tried to realize that the friendship which had meant so much to him was over. He saw now that it had been over for some time, that not once during the past year had Charley sought their company and the shock of the discovery far outweighed the affront he had received.
When they reached home, Marion, who had not said a word in the taxi, led the way into the living-room and motioned for her husband to sit down.
“I’m going to tell you something that you ought to know,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for what happened to-night I’d probably never have told you—but now I think you ought to hear the whole story.” She hesitated. “In the first place, Charley Hart wasn’t a friend of yours at all.”
“What?” He looked up at her dully.
“He wasn’t your friend,” she repeated. “He hasn’t been for years. He was a friend of mine.”
“Why, Charley Hart was—”
“I know what you’re going to say—that Charley was a friend to both of us. But it isn’t true. I don’t know how he considered you at first but he stopped being your friend three or four years ago.”
“Why—” Michael’s eyes glowed with astonishment. “If that’s true, why was he with us all the time?”
“On account of me,” said Marion steadily. “He was in love with me.”
“What?” Michael laughed incredulously. “You’re imagining things. I know how he used to pretend in a kidding way—”
“It wasn’t kidding,” she interrupted, “not underneath. It began that way—and it ended by his asking me to run away with him.”
Michael frowned.
“Go on,” he said quietly, “I suppose this is true or you wouldn’t be telling me about it—but it simply doesn’t seem real. Did he just suddenly begin to—to—”
He closed his mouth suddenly, unable to say the words.
“It began one night when we three were out dancing,” Marion hesitated. “And at first I thoroughly enjoyed it. He had a faculty for noticing things—noticing dresses and hats and the new ways I’d do my hair. He was good company. He could always make me feel important, somehow, and attractive. Don’t get the idea that I preferred his company to yours—I didn’t. I knew how completely selfish he was, and what a will-o’-the-wisp. But I encouraged him, I suppose—I thought it was fine. It was a new angle on Charley, and he was amusing at it just as he was at everything he did.”
“Yes—” agreed Michael with an effort, “I suppose it was—hilariously amusing.”
“At first he liked you just the same. It didn’t occur to him that he was doing anything treacherous to you. He was just following a natural impulse—that was all. But after a few weeks he began to find you in the way. He wanted to take me to dinner without you along—and it couldn’t be done. Well, that sort of thing went on for over a year.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing happened. That’s why he stopped coming to see us any more.”
Michael rose slowly to his feet.
“Do you mean—”
“Wait a minute. If you’ll think a little you’ll see it was bound to turn out that way. When he saw that I was trying to let him down easily so that he’d be simply one of our oldest friends again, he broke away. He didn’t want to be one of our oldest friends—that time was over.”
“I see.”
“Well—” Marion stood up and began biting nervously at her lip, “that’s all. I thought this thing to-night would hurt you less if you understood the whole affair.”
“Yes,” Michael answered in a dull voice, “I suppose that’s true.”
Michael’s business took a prosperous turn, and when summer came they went to the country, renting a little old farmhouse where the children played all day on a tangled half acre of grass and trees. The subject of Charley was never mentioned between them and as the months passed he receded to a shadowy background in their minds. Sometimes, just before dropping off to sleep, Michael found himself thinking of the happy times the three of them had had together five years before—then the reality would intrude upon the illusion and he would be repelled from the subject with almost physical distaste.
One warm evening in July he lay dozing on the porch in the twilight. He had had a hard day at his office and it was welcome to rest here while the summer light faded from the land.
At the sound of an automobile he raised his head lazily. At the end of the path a local taxicab had stopped and a young man was getting out. With an exclamation Michael sat up. Even in the dusk he recognized those shoulders, that impatient walk——
“Well, I’m damned,” he said softly.
As Charley Hart came up the gravel path Michael noticed in a glance that he was unusually disheveled. His handsome face was drawn and tired, his clothes were out of press and he had the unmistakable look of needing a good night’s sleep.
He came up on the porch, saw Michael and smiled in a wan, embarrassed way.
“Hello, Michael.”
Neither of them made any move to shake hands but after a moment Charley collapsed abruptly into a chair.
“I’d like a glass of water,” he said huskily, “it’s hot as hell.”
Without a word Michael went into the house—returned with a glass of water which Charley drank in great noisy gulps.
“Thanks,” he said, gasping, “I thought I was going to pass away.”
He looked about him with eyes that only pretended to take in his surroundings.
“Nice little place you’ve got here,” he remarked; his eyes returned to Michael. “Do you want me to get out?”
“Why—no. Sit and rest if you want to. You look all in.”
“I am. Do you want to hear about it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyhow,” said Charley defiantly. “That’s what I came out here for. I’m in trouble, Michael, and I haven’t got anybody to go to except you.”
“Have you tried your friends?” asked Michael coolly.
“I’ve tried about everybody—everybody I’ve had time to go to. God!” He wiped his forehead with his hand. “I never realized how hard it was to raise a simple two thousand dollars.”
“Have you come to me for two thousand dollars?”
“Wait a minute, Michael. Wait till you hear. It just shows you what a mess a man can get into without meaning any harm. You see, I’m the treasurer of a society called the Independent Artists’ Benefit—a thing to help struggling students. There was a fund, thirty-five hundred dollars, and it’s been lying in my bank for over a year. Well, as you know, I live pretty high—make a lot and spend a lot—and about a month ago I began speculating a little through a friend of mine——”
“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” interrupted Michael impatiently, “I——”
“Wait a minute, won’t you—I’m almost through.” He looked at Michael with frightened eyes. “I used that money sometimes without even realizing that it wasn’t mine. I’ve always had plenty of my own, you see. Till this week,” he hesitated, “this week there was a meeting of this society and they asked me to turn over the money. Well, I went to a couple of men to try and borrow it and as soon as my back was turned one of them blabbed. There was a terrible blow-up last night. They told me unless I handed over the two thousand this morning they’d send me to jail——” His voice rose and he looked around wildly. “There’s a warrant out for me now—and if I can’t get the money I’ll kill myself, Michael; I swear to God I will; I won’t go to prison. I’m an artist—not a business man. I——”
He made an effort to control his voice.
“Michael,” he whispered, “you’re my oldest friend. I haven’t got anyone in the world but you to turn to.”
“You’re a little late,” said Michael uncomfortably, “you didn’t think of me four years ago when you asked my wife to run away with you.”
A look of sincere surprise passed over Charley’s face.
“Are you mad at me about that?” he asked in a puzzled way. “I thought you were mad because I didn’t come to your party.”
Michael did not answer.
“I supposed she’d told you about that long ago,” went on Charley. “I couldn’t help it about Marion. I was lonesome and you two had each other. Every time I went to your house you’d tell me what a wonderful girl Marion was and finally I—I began to agree with you. How could I help falling in love with her, when for a year and a half she was the only decent girl I knew?” He looked defiantly at Michael. “Well, you’ve got her,
