ON

CHAPTER VII

THE INVITATION

N a new Thames flowing past a new Cambridge through a new London to a Newhaven, Axel Forsberg had once pulled seven in a crew which had won an historic race. In search of a royal road to success in an art too difficult, the rival boat had that year adopted a stroke which they, or journalistic traducers, had named the "get-there." Once in their short acquaintance he and Anthony Le Dane had talked of rowing, Forsberg as one descending in idleness to memories of the nursery, but the Englishman with reverence for the historic continuity of a great sport. And Anthony had told his friend that the "get-there," as described to him, was a stroke good only for a scratch crew.

In Coventry Street, the morning after Forsberg had spoken to Anthony of Randolph Bethune, some words on a newsplacard reminded the Harvard man of the Cambridge man's dictum; and in that very moment he collided not too gently with a stout, goodnatured-looking person, who at once began to justify his appearance by a kindly apology. This, however, he himself interrupted with an exclamation.

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Good Gad! Funny, isn't it? We met last night—no, the night before-at The Wanderers'."

"Did we?" asked Forsberg aloud; "oh, yes." But inwardly he said: "The Yale stroke! Never mind your form, but bucket all you know."

"I stood next you while we listened to Bethune," said the stranger.

"Of course I remember," replied Forsberg.

One doesn't forget Randolph Bethune," said the other, with a little smile which made Forsberg uneasy for the success of his ambiguity

Then he bucketed.

"I wish you'd tell me where he lives," he blurted out. “I most particularly want to know; and perhaps, as my speech bewrays me for a stranger, you'll take pity on me."

The stout man looked at Forsberg dubiously. What he

saw seemed to please him, for the smile came back to his face.

"You're not connected with the press, are you?" he

asked.

"If I were," replied Forsberg, "I wouldn't need to ask you where Bethune hides his fame. Lord Ingestow brought me to The Wanderers' that night. This is my card."

It's only a chance that I know myself," said the other, when he had read it. And then he gave Forsberg the name of a modest hotel in one of the narrow streets which run between the Strand and the river; and went away wondering why he had been so easily persuaded into a kindness of doubtful discretion.

Forsberg, however, was troubled by no scruples, and found his way through Trafalgar Square to the address so unscrupulously obtained.

The porter of whom he asked admission to Mr Bethune's presence was not of encouraging demeanour; but Forsberg volunteered his innocence of press-contamination, and the man mounted the stairs with his card. Two minutes later he returned and asked Forsberg to follow him.

Close at the heels of his guide, he entered a large, dingy, low-ceiled room. The door was closed silently behind him, and Forsberg looked round for the man upon whom he intended forcing his acquaintance.

It was a wet morning, but not what a Londoner would call cold. Yet in the grate burned a small, clear fire, though one of the windows-that which overlooked the river-was wide open. And on a seat near this fire was coiled the figure of a man, wrapped in a dark dressing-gown. The high back of the deep chair cast the figure into shadow, and all that the visitor could distinguish was a gleam of dark eyes.

Randolph Bethune did not rise when his visitor entered. He looked up keenly at the great form that towered before him, and remembered he had seen it before.

"Sit down, Mr Forsberg," he said, "and excuse me if I keep my chair. These wet days I have a good deal of pain in my right leg. It is an active reminder of some friends in Thibet and their pretty hospitality to the stranger within their gates."

Forsberg sat.

"We've seen each other before, somewhere," said Bethune.

"That's why I came. But

"Yes," replied Forsberg. you surely didn't remember my name? "No," said the other. "To be honest-nothing but your

size."

"Which wasn't specified on my visiting-card," said the American. So I just wonder why you let me come up." "You told the man you were not a journalist," began Bethune-ard stopped.

"That's so," said Forsberg, with encouragement in his

tone.

Bethune smiled.

I'm rather dull here this morning," he said, making a fresh start.

"And so you thought you'd like to see the American that said he hadn't an axe to grind?"

Yes," said Bethune.

"I'll

"But I have-I always have," Forsberg went on. tell you first who I am." Which he proceeded to do, following up his brief autobiography with an account of the interest his host had aroused in him at The Wanderers'. "And I've come

this morning to ask you to dine with me to-night," he said in conclusion.

Bethune was amused.

"Why should I?" he asked, smiling.

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"For as many reasons as you like. I mean there's no end to the reasons I can give you," answered Forsberg. Firstbecause the dinner will be a good one. Second-because I shall have only one other guest; and thirdly, because the dinner will be eaten in a private room at any decent place you choose to select."

"If I choose the restaurant," objected Bethune, “how can you guarantee the quality of the dinner?

Because I shall order it," said the American, without a smile. 'If you haven't made up your mind, I have more

reasons."

All the same," said

Don't spoil three good ones. Bethune, "I should like to ask a question." "Yes?" asked Forsberg politely.

"My fellow-guest-?" said Bethune.

"He, at least, has no dull axe-not even a pen-knife. Everything about him is keen-except his curiosity to meet you."

"Did he also need persuasion?"

"Well," said the American, "it wasn't exactly that. But he didn't believe I'd get you to come, you see."

66 And didn't care whether you succeeded or not?" Forsberg had the wit to admit that his friend had not seemed to care.

"I'll come, then, Mr Forsberg. Will you tell me who the gentleman is?" asked Bethune, now thoroughly amused. "" One sometimes fails to catch a name on introduction."

"A man I met three weeks ago in business, and froze to for better reasons," replied Forsberg. "His name is Le Dane. He's an engineer. I'm an engineer, as I told you." Yes," said Bethune; and nursed his leg once more. For the last few minutes he had almost forgotten it. But that was not the fault of the leg.

""

"After hearing you and seeing you the other night,” added Forsberg, "I made up my mind that you two were men that ought to meet. And when my mind is made up-"

Other men have to make up theirs? "suggested Bethune. They're apt to find it save trouble," admitted Forsberg, rising. "Now I'll go-before you change yours."

Bethune wished the man would stay, but only asked, rising also, where and at what hour the dinner would be.

Eight o'clock, if that suits you," said Forsberg. Where, I don't yet know. But it'll be a good one, and I'll send something comfortable to fetch you along."

Left alone, Bethune walked, limping slightly, to the window, and looked out over the leaden-grey river, wishing things.

He wished he were back in the little Italian town where he had finished the writing of his book. He wished that the book were yet to write; for he had upon him the slackness that comes after a long task accomplished. He thought of the great success he had reached; and it seemed a success far off, and belonging to someone else. He thought of his life, like a flat map seen in a glance; and wished it other than it had been. With a laugh of doubtful mirth, he almost wished he had been given the impossible option of living it, or not living it.

"I shouldn't have had the sense to say no," he thought. Even now, with all his width of experience, how much there was of which the intimate knowledge was denied him-how much of the things that are large and considered universal! This thought fetched his eyes downward to the Embankment.

"I should have been up here," he mused, "when They asked me to decide, without ever having been down there."

His eye was unconsciously following a child that ran. The child tripped and fell; and, before the small, outspread hands struck the flagstones with the smack that he felt though he could not hear it, the man's whole body started with the violent instinctive desire to prevent the impact. Bethune watched while a passer-by raised the boy and stilled his cries with copper. Then he limped back to his fire, jingling loose money in a pocket.

"After all," he muttered, "I don't believe, for all I've seen and done, that I've ever been down there at all."

They were horribly grey, both sky and river; and even his clear, small fire had languished while his back was turned. Yet somewhere-where, for a moment, he could not tellthere was a gleam of light; something shone or seemed, at least, to promise shining.

He searched a little, and found that he was looking forward to the dinner with two boys whom he did not know.