The Gates of Chance

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The Gates of Chance

by Van Tassel Sutphen

Contents

I THE GENTLEMAN'S VISITING-CARD
II THE RED DUCHESS
III HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCK
IV THE PRIVATE LETTER-BOX
V THE NlNETY-AND-NINE KlSSES
VI THE QUEEN OF SPADES
VII THE OPAL BUTTON
VIII THE TIP-TOP TIP
IX THE BRASS BAGGAGE-CHECK
X THE UPSET APPLE-CART
XI THE PHILADELPHIA QUIZZING-GLASS
XII THE ADJUSTER OF AVERAGES

The Gentleman's Visiting-Card

The card that had been thrust into my hand had pencilled upon it,
"Call at 4020 Madison Avenue at a quarter before eight this
evening." Below, in copper-plate, was engraved the name, Mr. Esper
Indiman.

It was one of those abnormally springlike days that New York
sometimes experiences at the latter end of March, days when
negligee shirts and last summer's straw hats make a sporadic
appearance, and bucolic weather prophets write letters to the
afternoon papers abusing the sun-spots. Really, it was hot, and I
was anxious to get out of the dust and glare; it would be cool at
the club, and I intended dining there. The time was half-past six,
the height of the homeward rush hours, and, as usual, there was a
jam of vehicles and pedestrians at the Fourth Avenue and Twenty-
third Street crossing. The subway contractors were still at work
here, and the available street space was choked with their stagings
and temporary footwalks. The inevitable consequent was congestion;
here were two of the principal thoroughfares of the city crossing
each other at right angles, and with hardly enough room, at the
point of intersection, for the traffic of one. The confusion grew
worse as the policemen and signalmen stationed at the crossing
occasionally lost their heads; every now and then a new block would
form, and several minutes would elapse before it could be broken.
In all directions long lines of yellow electric cars stood stalled,
the impatient passengers looking ahead to discover the cause of the
trouble. A familiar enough experience to the modern New-Yorker, yet
it never fails to exasperate him afresh.

The impasse looked hopeless when I reached the scene. A truck
loaded with bales of burlap was on the point of breaking down at
the crossing, and it was a question of how to get it out of the way
in the shortest possible time consistent with the avoidance of the
threatened catastrophe. Meanwhile, the jam of cars and trucks kept
piling up until there was hardly space for a newsboy to worm his
way from one curb to another, and the crowd on the street corners
began to grow restive. They do these things so much better in
London.

Now, I detest being in the mob, and I was about to back my way out
of the crowd and seek another route, even if a roundabout one. But
just then the blockade was partially raised, an opening presented
itself immediately in front of me, and I was forced forward willy-
nilly. Arrived at the other side of the street, I drew out of the
press as quickly as possible, and it was then that I discovered Mr.
Indiman's carte de visite tightly clutched in my left hand.
Impossible to conjecture how it had come there, and my own part in
the transaction had been purely involuntary; the muscles of the
palm had closed unconsciously upon the object presented to it, just
as does a baby's. "Mr. Esper Indiman--and who the deuce may he be?"

The club dining-room was full, but Jeckley hailed me and offered me
a seat at his table. I loathe Jeckley, and so I explained politely
that I was waiting for a friend, and should not dine until later.

"Well, then, have a cocktail while I am finishing my coffee,"
persisted the beast, and I was obliged to comply.

"I had to feed rather earlier than usual," explained Jeckley.

"Yes," I said, not caring in the least about Mr. Jeckley's hours
for meals.

"You see I'm doing the opening at the Globe to-night, and I must
get my Wall Street copy to the office before the theatre. And what
do you think of that by way of an extra assignment?" He took a card
from his pocket-book and tossed it over. It was another one of Mr.
Esper Indiman's calling-cards, and scrawled in pencil, "Call at
4020 Madison Avenue at eight o'clock this evening."

Jeckley was lighting his cigar, and so did not observe my start of
surprise. Have I said that Jeckley was a newspaper man? One of the
new school of journalism, a creature who would stick at nothing in
the manufacture of a sensation. The Scare-Head is his god, and he
holds nothing else sacred in heaven and earth. He would sacrifice--
but perhaps I'm unjust to Jeckley; maybe it's only his bounce and
flourish that I detest. Furthermore, I'm a little afraid of him; I
don't want to be written up.

"Esper Indiman," I read aloud. "Don't know him."

"Ever heard the name?" asked Jeckley.

I temporized. "It's unfamiliar, certainly."

Jeckley looked gloomy. "Nobody seems to know him," he said. "And
the name isn't to be found in the directory, telephone-book, or
social register."

Wonderful fellows, these newspaper men; I never should have thought
of going for Mr. Indiman like that.

"But why and wherefore?" I asked, cautiously.

"A mystery, my son. The card was shoved into my hand not half an
hour ago."

"Where?"

"At Twenty-third and Fourth. There were a lot of people around, and
I haven't the most distant notion of the guilty party."

"What does it mean?"

Jeckley shook his head. "What will you do about it?"

"I will make the call, of course."

"Of course!"

"There maybe a story there--who knows. Besides, it's directly on my
way to the Globe, and the curtain is not until eight-thirty. Tell
you what, old man; come along with me and see the thing to a
finish. Fate leads a card--Mr. Esper Indiman's--and we'll play the
second hand; what do you say?"

I declined firmly. God forbid that I should be featured, along with
the other exhibits in the case, on the first page of to-morrow's
Planet.

"So," he assented, indifferently, and pushed his chair back. "Well,
I must push along--Lord! there's that copy--the old man will have
it in for me good and plenty if I don't get it down in time.
Adios!" He disappeared, and I let him depart willingly enough.
Later on I went up to the library for a smoke--no fear of
encountering any Jeckleys there, and, in fact, the room was
entirely deserted. I looked at my watch; it was ten minutes after
seven, and that gave me a quarter of an hour in which to think it
over. Should I accept Mr. Indiman's invitation to call?

I looked around for an ash-tray, and, seeing one on the big
writing-table in the centre of the room, I walked over to it.

There were some bits of white lying in the otherwise empty tray--
the fragments of a torn-up visiting-card. A portion of the engraved
script caught my eye, "Indi--"

It was not difficult to piece together the bits of pasteboard, for
I knew pretty well what I should find. Completed, the puzzle read,
"Mr. Esper Indiman," and in pencil, "Call at 4020 Madison Avenue at
half-past seven this evening."

So there were three of us--if not more. Rather absurd this
assignment of a separate quarter of an hour to each interview--
quite as though Mr. Indiman desired to engage a valet and we were
candidates for the position. Evidently, an eccentric person, but
it's a queer world anyhow, as most of us know. There's my own case,
for example. I'm supposed to be a gentleman of leisure and means.
Leisure, certainly, but the means are slender enough, and
proceeding in a diminishing ratio. That's the penalty of having
been born a rich man's son and educated chiefly in the arts of
riding off at polo and thrashing a single-sticker to windward in a
Cape Cod squall. But I sha'n't say a word against the governor, God
bless him! He gave me what I thought I wanted, and it wasn't his
fault that an insignificant blood-clot should beat him out on that
day of days--the corner in "R. P." It was never the Chicago crowd
that could have downed him--I'm glad to remember that.

Well, there being only the two of us, it didn't matter so much; it
wasn't as though there were a lot of helpless womenfolk to
consider. After the funeral and the settlement with the creditors
there was left--I'm ashamed to say how little, and, anyway, it's no
one's business; the debts were paid. What is a man to do, at
thirty-odd, who has never turned his hand to anything of use? The
governor's friends? Well, they didn't know how bad things were, and
I couldn't go to them with the truth and make them a present of my
helpless, incompetent self.

And so for the last two years I've been sticking it out in a hall
bedroom, just west of the dead-line. I have a life membership in
the club--what a Christmas present that has turned out to be!--and
twice in the week I dine there. As for the rest of it, never mind--
there are things which a man can do but of which he doesn't care to
speak.

The future? Ah, you can answer that question quite as well as I.
Now I had calculated that, at my present rate of expenditure, I
could hold out until Easter, but there have been contingencies. To
illustrate, I had my pocket picked yesterday morning. Amusing--
isn't it?--that it should have been my pocket--my pocket!

Fortunately I have stacks of clothes and some good pearl shirt-
studs, and I continue to present a respectable appearance. I shall
always do that, I think. I don't like the idea of the pawn-shop and
the dropping down one degree at a time. If, in the end, it shall be
shown clearly that the line is to be crossed, I shall walk over it
quietly and as a man should; I object to the indecency of being
dragged or carried across. What line do I mean? I don't know that I
could tell you clearly. What is in your own mind? There IS a line.

At half after seven I left the club, and exactly a quarter of an
hour later I stood opposite the doorway of No. 4020 Madison Avenue.
A tall man was descending the steps; I recognized Bingham, a member
of my club, and recalled the torn-up visiting-card that I had found
in the library. So Bingham was one of us.

Now I don't know Bingham, except by sight, and I shouldn't have
cared to stop and question him, anyway. But I caught one glimpse of
his face as he hurried away, and it looked gray under the
electrics. Call it the effect of the arc light, if you like; he was
hurrying, certainly, and it struck me that it was because he was
anxious to get away.

Many are the motives that send men into adventurous situations, but
there is at least one among them that is compelling--hunger. I have
said that I had gone to the club for dinner; I did not say that I
got it. To be honest, I had hoped for an invitation--charity, if
you insist upon it. But I had been unfortunate. None of my
particular friends had chanced to be around, and Jeckley's cocktail
had been the only hospitality proffered me. You remember that my
pocket had been picked yesterday morning, and since then--well, I
had eaten nothing. I might have signed the dinner check, you say.
Quite true, but I shall probably be as penniless on the first of
the month as I am to-day, and then what? Too much like helping
one's self from a friend's pocket.

So it was just a blind, primeval impulse that urged me on. This Mr.
Indiman had chosen to fish in muddy waters, and his rashness but
matched my necessity. A host must expect to entertain his guests. I
walked up the steps and rang the bell.

Instantly the door opened, and a most respectable looking serving-
man confronted me.

"Mr. Indiman will see you presently," he said, before I had a
chance to get out a word. "This way, sir."

The house was of the modern American basement type, and I was
ushered into a small reception-room on the right of the entrance
hall. "Will you have the Post, sir? Or any of the illustrated
papers? Just as you please, sir; thank you."

The man withdrew, and I sat looking listlessly about me, for the
room, while handsomely furnished, had an appearance entirely
commonplace.

Five and ten minutes passed, and I began to grow impatient. I
remembered that Jeckley's appointment had been for eight o'clock,
and for obvious considerations I did not wish that he should find
me waiting here. It was eight o'clock now, and I would abide Mr.
Indiman's lordly pleasure no longer. I rose to go; the electric
bell sounded.

I could hear Jeckley's high-pitched voice distinctly; he seemed to
be put out about something; he spoke impatiently, even angrily.

"But this is 4020 Madison Avenue, isn't it? Mr. Indiman--I was
asked to call--Mr. Jeckley, of the Planet."

"Must be some mistake, sir," came the answer. "This is No. 4020,
but there's no Mr. Inkerman--"

"Indiman, not Inkerman--Mr. Esper Indiman. Look at the card."

"Never heard the name, sir."

"What! Well, then, who does live here?"

"Mr. Snell, sir. Mr. Ambrose Johnson Snell. But he's at dinner, and
I couldn't disturb him."

"Humph!" I fancy that Jeckley swore under his breath as he turned
to go. Then the outer door was closed upon him.

It was a relief, of course, to be spared the infliction of Mr.
Jeckley's society, but I could not but admit that the situation was
developing some peculiarities. Eliminating the doubtful personality
of Mr. Ambrose Johnson Snell, who was this Mr. Esper Indiman, whose
identity had been so freely admitted to me and so explicitly denied
to Jeckley? The inference was obvious that Jeckley had failed to
pass the first inspection test, and so had been turned down without
further ceremony. This reflection rather amused me; I forgot about
the incivility to which I was being subjected in the long wait, and
began to be curious about the game itself. What next?

At a quarter after eight, and then again at half after, there were
inquiries at the door for Mr. Indiman. To each caller the answer
was returned that no Mr. Indiman was known at No. 4020 Madison
Avenue, and that Mr. Ambrose Johnson Snell could not be disturbed
at his dinner.

There was no caller at the next quarter, and none again at nine
o'clock. The series had, therefore, come to an end, and I remained
the sole survivor--of and for what?

I dare say that my nerves had been somewhat weakened by my two
days' fast, or else it was the effect of Jeckley's cocktail on an
otherwise empty stomach. Whatever the cause, I suddenly became
conscious that I was passing into a state of high mental tension; I
wanted to scream, to beat impotently upon the air; Jeckley would
have put it that I was within an ace of flying off the handle.

A deafening clash of clanging metal smote my ears. It should have
been the finishing touch, and it was, but not after the fashion
that might have been expected. As though by magic, the horrible
tension relaxed; my nerves again took command of the situation; I
felt as cool and collected as at any previous moment in my life.

In the centre of the room stood a heavy table of some East-Indian
wood--teak, I think, they call it. I could have sworn that there
was nothing whatever upon this table when I entered the room; now I
saw three objects lying there. I walked up and examined them. As
they lay towards me, the first was a ten- thousand-dollar bill, the
second a loaded revolver, caliber .44, the third an envelope of
heavy white paper directed to me, Winston Thorp. The letter was
brief and formal; it read:

"Mr. Indiman presents his compliments to Mr. Thorp and requests the
honor of his company at dinner, Tuesday, March the thirtieth, at
nine o'clock.

"4020 Madison Avenue."

Dishonor, death, and dinner--a curious trio to choose between. Yet
to a man in my present position each of them appealed in its own
way, and I'm not ashamed to confess it. Perhaps the choice I made
may seem inevitable, but what if you had seen Bingham's face as I
did, with the arc light full upon it? It was the remembrance of
that which made me hesitate; twice I drew my hand away and looked
at the money and the pistol.

Through the open door came a ravishing odor, that of a filet a la
Chateaubriand; the purely animal instincts reasserted themselves,
and I picked up the gardenia blossom that lay beside the letter and
stuck it into the button-hole of my dinner-jacket. I looked down at
the table, and it seemed to me that the ten-thousand-dollar note
and the pistol had disappeared. But what of that, what did anything
matter now; I was going to dine--to dine!

I walked up-stairs, guided by that delicious, that heavenly odor,
and entered the dining-room in the rear, without the smallest
hesitation. At one end of the table sat a man of perhaps forty
years of age. An agreeable face, for all of the tired droop about
the mouth and the deep lines in the forehead; it could light up,
too, upon occasion, as I was soon to discover. For the present I
did not bother myself with profitless conjectures; that entrancing
filet, displayed in a massive silver cover, stood before him; I
could not take my eyes from it.

My host, for such he evidently was, rose and bowed with great
politeness.

"You must pardon me," he said, "for sitting down; but, as my note
said, I dine at nine. I will have the shell-fish and soup brought
on."

"I should prefer to begin with the filet," I said, decidedly.

A servant brought me a plate; my hand trembled, but I succeeded in
helping myself without spilling the precious sauce; I ate.

"There are three conditions of men who might be expected to accept
the kind of invitation which has brought me the honor of your
company," remarked my host as we lit our cigarettes over the Roman
punch. "To particularize, there is the curious impertinent, the
merely foolish person, and the man in extremis rerum. Now I have no
liking for the dog-faced breed, as Homer would put it, and neither
do I suffer fools gladly. At least, one of the latter is not likely
to bother me again." He smiled grimly, and I thought of Bingham's
face of terror.

"I found my desperate man in you, my dear Mr. Thorp, shall we drink
to our better acquaintance?" I bowed, and we drank.

"The precise nature of your misfortune does not concern me," he
continued, airily. "It is sufficient that we are of the same mind
in our attitude towards the world--'to shake with Destiny for
beers,' is it not?

"One may meet with many things on the highway of life--poverty,
disease, sorrow, treacheries. These are disagreeable, I admit, but
they are positive; one may overcome or, at least, forget them. But
suppose you stand confronting the negative of existence; the
highway is clear, indeed, but how interminable its vista, its
straight, smooth, and intolerably level stretch. That road is mine.

"Yes; I have tried the by-paths. Once I was shanghaied; twice I
have been marooned and by my own men. That last amused me--a
little. I was the second man to arrive at Bordeaux in the Paris-
Madrid race of 1903; during the Spanish-American war I acted as a
spy for the United States government in Barcelona.

"I made the common mistake of confounding the unusual with the
interesting. Romance is a shy bird, and not to be hunted with a
brass band. Where is the heart of life, if not at one's elbow? At
the farthest, one has only to turn the corner of the street. It is
useless to look for prodigies in the abyss, but every stream has
its straws that float; I have determined to watch and follow them.

"I want a companion, and so I advertised after my own fashion. I
selected you, tentatively, from the mob; later on I made the test
more complete. But you have no boutonniere; allow me."

He took a spray of orchid from the silver bowl in the centre of the
table and handed it to me.

I protested: "I have my gardenia--" I looked at my button-hole and
it was gone.

Mr. Indiman smiled. "Let me confess," he said. "You recall the
abnormal tension of your nerves as you sat waiting in my reception-
room. Merely the effect produced by a mixture of certain chemical
gases turned on from a tap under my hand. Then the crash of a
brazen gong; it is what the scientists call 'massive stimulation,'
resolving super-excitation into partial hypnosis.

"Once I had you in the hypnotic condition, the rest was simple
enough. I had only to suggest to your mind the three objects on the
table, and you saw them. The bank-note, the revolver--they were as
immaterial as the gardenia that no longer adorns your button-hole.

"I did not attempt to influence your choice among the three, as
that would have destroyed the value of the test to me. But, as I
had hoped, you accepted my invitation to dinner. Frankly, now, I am
curious--why?"

"That is very simple," I answered. "I had not eaten anything for
two days, and I detected the odor of that exquisite filet. Not the
slightest ethical significance in the choice, as you see."

Esper Indiman laughed. "I should have kept my pantry door closed.
But it does not matter; I am satisfied. Shall we go into the
library for coffee?"

Directly opposite the door of the latter apartment stood an easel
holding an unframed canvas. A remarkable portrait--little as I know
about pictures, I could see that clearly enough. A three-quarter
length of a woman wearing a ducal coronet and dressed in a
magnificent costume of red velvet.

"Lely's 'Red Duchess,'" remarks my host, carelessly. "You may have
seen it in the Hermitage at Petersburg."

I looked at the picture again. Why should this masterpiece not have
been properly mounted and glazed? The edges of the canvas were
jagged and uneven, as though it had been cut from its frame with a
not oversharp knife. We sat down to our coffee and liqueurs.

As I awake in the narrow quarters of my hall bedroom I am inclined
to believe that the occurrences of the preceding night were only
the phantasms of a disordered digestion; where had I eaten that
Welsh rabbit? The morning paper had been thrown over the transom,
and, following my usual custom, I reached for it and began reading.
Among the foreign despatches I note this paragraph dated St.
Petersburg:

"The famous portrait of the Duchess of Lackshire, by Sir Peter
Lely, better known as the 'Red Duchess,' has disappeared from the
gallery of the Hermitage. It is now admitted that it must have been
stolen, cut bodily from its frame and carried away. The theft took
place several months ago, but the secret has just become public
property. The absence of the picture from its accustomed place had,
of course, been noted, but it was understood that it had been
removed for cleaning. An enormous reward is to be offered for
information leading to its recovery."

There is also a letter for me which I had not noticed until now. It
was from Indiman, and it read:

"Dear Thorp,--Dine with me to-night at half after eight. I noticed
that you were rather taken with my 'Red Duchess'; we will ask the
lady to preside over our modest repast, and you can then gaze your
fill upon her. Faithfully, E. I."

Of course, I intend to accept the invitation.

II

The Red Duchess

At half after eight we sat down to dinner. Indiman, of course, took
the head of the table, and opposite him, propped up on the arms of
an enormous "bishop's chair" of Flemish oak, was Lely's portrait of
the "Red Duchess." What a glorious picture it was, in the masterly
sweep of its lines, in the splendor of its incomparable coloring!
The jagged edges of the canvas showed plainly where the vandal
knife had passed, separating the painting from its frame. But the
really big thing is always independent of its cadre; one hardly
noticed the mutilation, and then immediately forgot about it.

I had been honored with a seat at the lady's right hand, and
opposite me a fourth cover had been laid. Indiman noticed my look
of inquiry.

"Only one of my fancies," he explained, smiling. "I always make
provision for the unexpected guest. Who knows what supperless
angels may be hovering around?"

We were hardly at the soup before a servant brought in a card.

"Roger W. Blake," read Indiman, aloud. "An honest-enough-sounding
name. Is the gentleman in evening dress, Bolder?"

"No, sir; I don't think so, sir."

"Hym! That is unfortunate. Still, if Madame la Duchesse will
permit, and you, Thorp, have no objection--Good! Ask Mr. Blake to
do me the favor of joining us at dinner."

A few minutes later Mr. Roger Blake appeared at the door of the
dining-room. He was a young man with a profusion of fair hair and a
good deal of color, the latter heightened considerably by the
somewhat embarrassing circumstances attending his introduction. But
Indiman relieved the situation immediately, going forward and
greeting the new guest with unaffected cordiality.

"Mr. Blake, is it? You are very heartily welcome, I assure you. Let
Bolder take your hat and stick; indeed, I insist upon it. Allow me
now to present you: Her Grace the Duchess of Lackshire, more
generally known as Lely's 'Red Duchess'--Mr. Roger W. Blake. My
friend, Mr. Thorp--Mr. Blake."

Evidently the young man was not overclear in his own mind as to how
it had all happened, but there he was, sitting bolt upright in the
vacant chair and drinking two glasses of wine in rapid succession
to cover his confusion. A comedy, apparently, but to what purpose?
Mr. Blake blushed painfully, and made no reply to the polite
commonplaces that I ventured; Indiman smiled benevolently upon both
of us, and in the most natural possible manner led the conversation
to the subject of portrait-painting. There was his text before him-
-the famous "Red Duchess"--and he talked well. I found myself
listening with absorbed attention, and even the shy Mr. Blake
became oblivious of the keener agonies of self-consciousness. So we
went on until the game course had been removed.

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