The Thread of Chance

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 3, 20 January 1906, Page 49

The Thread of Chance

A Fantasy That Will Attract Those Who Feel the Necessity for Just One More Opportunity

By

C. WHITTIER TATE

W’ ■* * EU-, the jig’s ended,” nmtter■A I e<l Redene, as he paused at ■ the top of the steps to the f I palatial “Argus Club” to draw on his gloves before Starting down the avenue. “What a sensation it’ll make! Fancy the headlines of to-morrow’s papers announcing to startled New York—‘Suicide of Janies Atterbury Redene— Gilded Youth Mysteriously Shoots Himself!’ How their eyes’ll bulge, and then” —he Hung his eigaiette away -—"then they’ll forget!” With a eynical laugh, he descended the steps, and swung into an easy, athletic stride, walking rapidly southward. This Redene was a cleanly built, pa-trician-faeed fellow of some twentylive years, but his eyes betrayed a touch of daring. He was immaculately attired in informal evening clothes, and front the manner in which he carried himself one could readily deduce the assured society man. ‘Louis XVI. on the way to regieide was self-possessed, they say; and so let it be with Redene on the way to suicide,” he mused whimsically as he walked along. "After all, the game has been worth the tiddler's tax. Two hundred thousand at twenty-one—broke at twentyfive. Well, that’s not much to pay for four years of unalloyed pleasure, and —who cares?” He broke off, and before his eyes arose the face of a friend, a girl, only a friend, to be sure, but—had circumstances been different with him ? “Oh, the devil! Marge never cared for me, and—if she did—well, day after to-morrow she’ll forget it,” be continued, somewhat impatiently, as though angry with him-elf. “Wine, women, and tobacco,” he resumed, in a lighter tone; “a merry life, and rhe end is—suicide; in ray case, at anv rate.” He fell to thinking of the supper whieh he had given at the club that eveniim. The squaring of the account for that had taken his last cent. His “farewell supper,” he called it, to himself; to his guests it had been merely one of the many informal entertainments for which their host was famous. "And I fancy,” he remarked to the night wind, “that they envied me! Never have I been so brilliant as I was to night. Van Duzen, who’s worth ten millions, and is a good fellow—although he lacks the ability to show it —probably wished that he was in my shoes; and well he might, although I fear he’d cling to life, were it ever so bitter; and so with the rest.” He soon arrived at the door of the building where his handsome suite of rooms' was located. Disdaining the elements, lie bounded up the three Hights t<> his landing, much to the astonishment of the hall boys. He had sent John, his man, away for the night, so he fumbled some moments "inloeking the door, remembering, oddly, that though he had been unusually abstemious that evening, the wine of whieh he did partake was “good, old stuff.” The door from the hall led directly into bis sitting-room and library, and as he closed it behind him he switched on the electricity, flooding the room with light. As Redene raised his eyes he almost tottered back against the door, for he found himself staring directly at the muzzle of a small, though- just, then •wicked-looking six-shooter, behind •which he caught the gteam of his uninvited visitor’s black eyes. The intruder might have posed for a

Raffles —he was dressed in evening clothes, whieli set off his tall, wellproportioned figure to adantage. The hand which held the revolver was small and white, and the pearl stud in his shirt bosom betrayed « man of taste and breeding. He was some forty years of age; though, save for the gray at his temples, he might have passed for considerably younger. “Pardon the affront, my dear sir.” he said, in a low, musical voice, “but your entrance was slightly inopportune, Mr Redene.” Somehow the man’s calm words reassured the young fellow, for he straightened up. smiled slightly, and raised his hands above his head in mock terror. Then the incongruity of the situation appealed to his sen-e of humour, and he laughed aloud, the man behind the gun eyeing him in astonishment. “Put down your gun,” said Redene. when at length he succeeded in controlling his mirth. “You act like - well, you look like a gentleman. You've ‘got the drop,’ so to speak, so I'll disarm and surrender.” As the other promptly lowered his weapon Redene slipped one hand in his overcoat pocket and drew ot a small, pearl-handled pistol, which lie laid on the table. Then he removed If - ; overcoat and tossed it on a chai \ seating himself beside the table. from which h’s visitor had taken the gun, and was now engaged in examining tlie tiny weapon. “Your move, Sir Robber,’’ said Redene, nonchalant Iv. “The room is at your disposal, and its contents.” The man locked at him with a puzzled expression. He had placed his own revolver in his pocket, and he handed Redene the small weapon with a bow. “You have nerve, Mr Redone.” he commented, “The things you offer me, however, are practically usele s; they can be traced too readily.” “They will never be traced, my dear sir,” said Redone, with »i smile. ■’Money, I regret to say, I am unable to supply. However, my watch is unmarked, and of some value, I judge, considering it cost me a rather tidy sum. “But, pardon me, sir, 1 am neglecting my duty as host.” He arose and crossed the room. Opening a cabinet, he took out a bottle of wine and a box of cigars, while the hold-up man continued to stare at him in polite amazement. He poured out two glasses of the red fluid, offering one to his companion, who accepted it and raised it to his lips. “I drink, sir, to your good health,”

said he, bowing to Redene. “Drink rather, ‘my lord of the gumsoles,’ to my speedy and plea-ant death,” replied the other quizzically. The puzzled look dropped from the elder man’s face. “No money, carries a gun, toasts his death,” he murmured. “Pardon me. my boy, but you are a damned fool’.’’ he pronounced the words in a slow, steady tone, but looked, nevertheless, admiringly at the young man. Redene smiled. “How so?" he asked. “You have squandered your fortune, we will say?”-said the thief, throwing a questioning glance at Redene. who .nodded: “you are probably now at the even balance between debt and wealth .in other words, you are penniless.” .Again Redene nodded. “You contemplate suicide.” “You mistook your profession.*’ returned Redene; “you would have made an even better detective than you make a thief, 1 believe. Bui let us not say ‘contemplate suicide.’ sir. Lot us rather say that we have decided upon that course as the most befitting < nd of a wild career.” “Therefore 1 say you arc a fool.” said the other. “But you have not yet struck your balance; the things in this room are of no small vain *.” “But why dally with fate?” protested Redene. “The money I would receive for these things would ruujii.i: a little longer, I admit, but 1 would lose my prestige by selling these luxuries In fact, luxuries are necessary to my comfort, and without comfort life sinks to the level of mere existence.” “But there is still work.*' siiggr ted the thief, with a shade of a smile at the incongruity of his suggestion. “Work. yes. But that rs not in the list of my accomplishments” objected Redene. “Granted, then, if you will have if so,” pursued the other. “There is then one profession left my own. To live by one’s wits is 1 he ultimate result of a wasted patrimony ami incapacity for work. “It is not always pleasant, at first; but one soon becomes philosophical enough io. see that the Bowen ami Greenwich Avenue have charms which, though not as delicate, are quite as real, as those of Fifth Avenue, when that is pecuniarily' impossible. At any cost, all three are safer than the undiscovered country.' “Believe we, my boy, the vicissitudes of my caret*! have introduced me into bosom friendship with all kinds of life, from the Fifth-Avefiue-oppositc-the.-J’ark variety to that of Chatham Square. “Whv shako vour head? I. was born

and .nought up in a family that toidd bay .m l "<*’l \«uir lather and then toss him over a -.one wall. "Aly io!< » us wer» peers of the realm. !>••< when yours were still raiidlvmakcr* <»n Oxford str<*ct, J was once well, never mind," he ended. Redene looked at thv man curiously. “That yon wen* a gem Irman I have no doubt, -ir: but for me work is—well, I don't <-aro to think about it. Tn live by m\ wits is uninviting. “That I am and have, been a fool, 1 frankly admit ; in ounce of cold lead is the bt*st rem-- ly for a natural born fool that I know of, consequently I take my mo<ii’*ino.'* The eld»-*r man looked at him regretfully. “1 admire your nerve,' he said, finally. .‘ifting hi< glass. “Well, here's your <oa-t To your pleasant death.” Though the glass was at the man’s lips, which : rr moist with the liquor, be suddenly • hanged his mind and set it down. Redene pau-cd in the act of <h inking. and looked across thr table. “Stay,” commanded the other. “Among your catalogue of faults and vices, do you include gambling?” “Tin* lack of that vice is my one virtue.** replied Redene. “’Hiat virtue 1 practise from policy. You see, I have Ira veiled with men who oflrn leave as mm h on the ‘green baize’ as f ever possessed, and so. in order to make my lillh plunge last as long as possible, [ refrained from this very innocent plea’s u re.*’ “You would have done l.u l t< r to have expended your wisdom in some other direction. However., it may b<> your salvation," said the thief. “You suggest that 1 try my luck—banking on tin* theory that a fooTs luck is golden, eh?’’ Redene smiled at his companion. “But you have overlooked the fact that I lack tlie necessary funds to at-

tempt to break some bank. T have scaled down to the last cent.*’ “You can borrow,” suggested the other. “True,” replied Redone; ‘‘but for my part 1 prefer the cold lead. 1 do not wish to carry debt to uiy grave; instead, 1 will end with a dean financial sheetliabilities, nil; assets, nil.” “A good sentiment, my boy,” said tho older man gravely. “Romeo, in his hot haste, cut the rope of life to precipitately—beware lest you do the same! “You have a watch, a diamond ring, and the furnishings of this room, which are worth altogether at least two thousand dollars.” ’.(•vine, I will give you five hundred for them. It. is a thief's bargain. Take this moiiej”—he drew a wallet from his pocket and counted off some bills—“l will give you a note which will admit you to a certain house where there is as straight a game as can be found in the city; and I will write, you instructions as to how to place the money. “You will go out, for it is not yet midnight, and 1 will wait until you return —until two o’clock. If you win, you are to buy back your securities for two thousand dollars; if you lose, 1 will keep them, and you can end it. It is your last chance, but it is worth trying.” Without another word he sat down at Redene’s desk and wrote for several minutes. Then he handed the young man two envelopes, one of which was addressed, the other blank. “You will present the addressed envelope when you arrive at the house” — he mentioned the number—“and they will admit you.” “'The name I have used is not the one which I was born to, but it is, nevertheless, an entree to a certain type of gilded society. The blank envelope contains instructions which you are to follow to the letter.” With a graceful how he raised his glass. “Hoping that the silver thread of chance may favour you,” he murmured as lie sipped it. •' His voice and manner were so compelling that Redone put on his overcoat without a protest, and departed. A little over an hour the robber waited, absorbed in the perusal of an ancient and valuable volume’ which he found in Redene’s choice library. Then the door burst open, and a white-faced young man stumbled in, hastily crossed the room and filled a glass with brandy. After he had tossed it oil* he dropped

into a chair and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. The older man watched him quietly, impress I by the other’s emotion. At length Reden e'a rose and fa ced "his c'cVnipa nion. "1 won!” bo said, simply. “I won money and life! “Your instructions were to place the money on the red, and leave it on the turn if successful. The wheel spun around and came red; 1 had doubled my money. “The following stop was to play the rod on Hie next turn. Again it came red again I doubled. And then, on the next turn, 1 was to play ‘l3,’ and when the disk spun around the ball fell on —‘l3.’ “That was the last time, and I left ■the house with twenty-six thousand dollars! "You can imagine my feelings. I had won both money and life, and when I reached the street and was in the «00l night air again 1 resolved to be—a man! ’’ It was a supreme moment, and he who bore all the marks of a man and a gentleman. except that which is greatest—honour bowed his head. “You are a strange man,” continued Redone, after a long pause. “You, who have snatched me from the jaws of selfdestruction and given me the wherewithal to start an upright, career—you are a knight of the road!” The burglar smiled sadly. “Redone,” he said calmly, “you are right—l am a strange man. I have saved others—myself I cannot save. “You have money enough to start anew. (let work; be the servant of some worthy cause, or you will be the. slave of a bad one. Providence has pointed you the way to life: obey, and you will charm the silver thread. •’All things will come to you then—honour, wealth, friends who are worthy of the name. If you turn away, you will follow my path, and the end is—either what you contemplated to-night, or something worse.” Redone sat a moment, and then pulled out a roll of bills from his pocket. These lie counted and separated into equal parts, one of which he pushed toward the older man. The thief shook his head. “Two thousand was our bargain’ my boy,” lie said gravely. “You will have, need for the*rest, and my share is a good haul for me. In addition, I would like your revolver; it is a pretty instrument, and an interesting souvenir. Besides, you h ive no further use for it now.’’ He laid Redene’s valuables on the table, shook his head as the young man pleaded for an equal division, and pocketed the revolver together with his part of the winnings, Thon hi* lifted his glass and filled it ■with wine once more, saying jauntily: “l»e ware of the gaming-table, my boy; it has served its purpose. Hereafter the silver thread of chance can only he wooed by honest toil. And now I toast Iler whose picture is on the tabic there. Her face is a good incentive, Redone!” He emptied the glass, and while Redene looked in astonishment at the picture of the girl whom he had called Al urge, who had been but a friend, to he sure—but who might, now that circumstances were di fie rent with him When Redone turned to respond to the toast, his strange companion was gone!