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Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton

<h5 id="id01717">THE END OF A WONDERFUL WORLD</h5> Mr. Waddington turned his head away quickly and glanced half guiltily towards his companion. To his amazement, Burton had been gazing in the same direction. Their eyes met. Burton coughed. "A remarkably fine woman, that," Mr. Waddington declared. Burton looked at him in astonishment. "My dear Mr. Waddington!" he exclaimed. "You cannot really think so!" They both turned their heads once more. The woman in question was standing upon the doorstep of a milliner's shop, waiting for a taxicab. In appearance she was certainly somewhat striking, but her hair was flagrantly dyed, her eyebrows darkened, her costume daring, her type obvious. "A very fine woman indeed, I call her," Mr. Waddington repeated. "Shouldn't mind taking her to lunch. Good mind to ask her." Burton hesitated for a moment. Then a curious change came into his own face. "She is rather fetching," he admitted. The woman suddenly smiled. Mr. Waddington pulled himself together. "It serves us right," he said, a little severely, and hastening his companion on. "I was looking at her only as a curiosity." Burton glanced behind and move on reluctantly. "I call her jolly good-looking," he declared. Mr. Waddington pretended not to hear. They turned into Jermyn Street. "There are some vases here, at this small shop round the corner, which I want you particularly to notice, Burton," he continued. "They are perfect models of old Etruscan ware. Did you ever see a more beautiful curve? Isn't it a dream? One could look at a curve like that and it has something the same effect upon one as a line of poetry or a single exquisite thought." Burton glanced into the window and looked back again over his shoulder. The lady, however, had disappeared. "Hm!" he remarked. "Very nice vase. Let's get on to lunch. I'm hungry." Mr. Waddington stopped short upon the pavement and gripped his companion's arm. "Burton," he said, a trifle hesitatingly, "you don't think—you don't imagine—" "Not a bit of it!" Burton interrupted, savagely. "One must be a little human now and then. By Jove, old man, there are some ties, if you like! I always did think a yellow one would suit me." Mr. Waddington pressed him gently along. "I am not sure," he muttered, "that we are quite in the mood to buy ties. I want to ask you a question, Burton." "Go ahead." "You were telling me about this wonderful scheme of your friend the professor's, to make—Menatogen, I think you said. Did you part with both your beans?" "Both," Burton replied, almost fiercely. "But I've another fortnight or so yet. It can't come before—it shan't!" "You expect, I suppose, to make a great deal of money?" Mr. Waddington continued. "We shall make piles," Burton declared. "I have had a large sum already for the beans. My pockets are full of money. Queer how light-hearted it makes you feel to have plenty of money. It's a dull world, you know, after all, and we are dull fellows. Think what one could do, now, with some of the notes I have in my pocket! Hire a motor-car, go to some bright place like the Metropole at Brighton—a bright, cheerful, sociable place, I mean, where people who look interesting aren't above talking to you. And then a little dinner, and perhaps a music-hall afterwards, and some supper, and plenty to eat and drink—" "Burton!" Mr. Waddington gasped. "Stop! Stop at once!" "Why the dickens should I stop?" Burton demanded. Mr. Waddington was looking shocked and pained. "You don't mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that this is your idea of a good time? That you would go to a hotel like the Metropole and mix with the people whom you might meet there, and eat and drink too much, and call it enjoyment? Burton, what has come to you?" Burton was looking a little sullen. "It's all very well," he grumbled. "We're too jolly careful of ourselves. We don't get much fun. Here's your poky little restaurant. Let's see what it looks like inside." They entered, and a maitre d'hôtel came hurrying to meet them. Burton, however, shook his head. "This place is no good, Waddington," he decided. "Only about half-a-dozen stodgy old people here, no music, and nothing to look at. Let's go where there's some life. I'll take you. My lunch. Come along." Mr. Waddington protested but faintly. He murmured a word of apology to the maitre d'hôtel, whom he knew, but Burton had already gone on ahead and was whistling for a taxi. With a groan, Mr. Waddington noticed that his hat had slipped a little on one side. There was a distinct return of his rakish manner. "The Milan!" Burton ordered. "Get along as quick as you can. We are hungry." The two men sat side by side in the taxicab. Mr. Waddington watched his companion in half-pained eagerness. Burton certainly was looking much more alert than earlier in the morning. "I tell you money's a great thing," the latter went on, producing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "I don't know why I should have worried about this little business adventure. I call it a first-class idea. I'd like to be able to take taxies whenever I wanted them, and go round to the big restaurants and sit and watch the people. Come to a music-hall one night, Mr. Waddington, won't you? I haven't seen anything really funny for a long time." "I'm afraid I should like to," Mr. Waddington began,—"I mean I should be delighted." "What are you afraid about?" Burton asked quickly. Mr. Waddington mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Burton," he said hoarsely, "I think it's coming on! I'm glad we are going to the Milan. I wish we could go to a music-hall to-night. That woman was attractive!" Burton set his teeth. "I can't help it," he muttered. "I can't help anything. Here goes for a good time!" He dismissed the taxi and entered the Milan, swaggering just a little. They lunched together and neither showed their usual discrimination in the selection of the meal. In place of the light wine which Mr. Waddington generally chose, they had champagne. They drank Benedictine with their coffee and smoked cigars instead of cigarettes. Their conversation was a trifle jerky and Mr. Waddington kept on returning to the subject of the Menatogen Company. "You know, I've three beans left, Burton," he explained, towards the end of the meal. "I don't know why I should keep them. They'd only last a matter of seven months, anyway. I've got to go back sometime. Do you think I could get in with you in the company?" "We'll go and—Why, there is Mr. Bunsome!" Burton exclaimed. "Mr. Bunsome!" The company promoter was just passing their table. He turned around at the sound of his name. For a moment he failed to recognize Burton. There was very little likeness between the pale, contemptuous young man with the dreamy eyes, who had sat opposite to him at the professor's dinner table a few nights ago, and this flushed young man who had just attracted his attention, and who had evidently been lunching exceedingly well. It was part of his business, however, to remember faces, and his natural aptitude came to his assistance. "How do you do, Mr. Burton?" he said. "Glad to meet you again. Spending some of the Menatogen profits, eh?" "Friend of mine here—Mr. Waddington," Burton explained. "Mr. Cowper knows all about him. He owns the rest of the beans, you know." Mr. Bunsome was at once interested. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Waddington!" he declared, holding out his hand. "Indirectly, you are connected with one of the most marvelous discoveries of modern days." "I should like to make it 'directly,'" Mr. Waddington said. "Do you think my three beans would get me in on the ground floor?" Mr. Bunsome was a little surprised. "I understood from the professor," he remarked, "that your friend was not likely to care about entering into this?" Burton, for a moment, half closed his eyes. "I remember," he said. "Last night I didn't think he would care about it. I find I was mistaken." Mr. Bunsome looked at his watch. "I am meeting Mr. Cowper this afternoon," he said, "and Mr. Bomford. I know that the greatest difficulty that we have to face at present is the very minute specimens of this wonderful—er—vegetable, from which we have to prepare the food. I should think it very likely that we might be able to offer you an interest in return for your beans. Will you call at my office, Mr. Waddington, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning—number 17, Norfolk Street?" "With pleasure," Mr. Waddington assented. "Have a drink?" Mr. Bunsome did not hesitate—it was not his custom to refuse any offer of the sort! He sat down at their table and ordered a sherry and bitters. Mr. Waddington seemed to have expanded. He did not mention the subject of architecture. More than once Mr. Bunsome glanced with some surprise at Burton. The young man completely puzzled him. They talked about Menatogen and its possibilities, and Burton kept harking back to the subject of profits. Mr. Bunsome at last could contain his curiosity no longer. "Say," he remarked, "you had a headache or something the other night, I think? Seemed as quiet as they make 'em down at the old professor's. I tell you I shouldn't have known you again." Burton was suddenly white. Mr. Waddington plunged in. "Dry old stick, the professor, anyway, from what I've heard," he said. "Now don't you forget, Mr. Bunsome. I shall be round at your office at ten o'clock sharp to-morrow, and I expect to be let into the company. Three beans I've got, and remember they're worth something. They took that old Egyptian Johnny—him and his family, of course—a matter of a thousand years to grow, and there's no one else on to them. Why, they're unique, and they do the trick, too—that I can speak for. Paid the bill, Burton?" Burton nodded. The two men shook hands with Mr. Bunsome and prepared to leave. They walked out into the Strand. "Got anything to do this afternoon particular?" Mr. Waddington asked, after a moment's hesitation. "Not a thing," Burton replied, puffing at his cigar and unconsciously altering slightly the angle of his hat. "Wouldn't care about a game of billiards at the Golden Lion, I suppose?" Mr. Waddington suggested. "Rather!" Burton assented. "Let's buy the girls some flowers and take a taxi down. Go down in style, eh? I'll pay." Mr. Waddington looked at his companion—watched him, indeed, hail the taxi—and groaned. A sudden wave of half-ashamed regret swept through him. It was gone, then, this brief peep into a wonderful world! His own fall was imminent. The click of the balls was in his ears, the taste of strong drink was inviting him. The hard laugh and playful familiarities of the buxom young lady were calling to him. He sighed and took his place by his companion's side. <h3 id="id01787" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXVII</h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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