A Cry for Help

It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and
the girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the
rooms alone and had some talk with him.

Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the
two men left the Villa des Fleurs together.

"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.

"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.

"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young
man, and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was
dying to put some questions about Wethermill's young friend of the
night before, but discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They
chatted for a few moments in the hall upon indifferent topics and
so separated for the night. Mr. Ricardo, however, was to learn
something more of Celia the next morning; for while he was fixing
his tie before the mirror Wethermill burst into his dressing-room.
Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the surge of his indignation.
Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage upon the gentle
tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette was
sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.
Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded
the door like the custodian of a chapel?

"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.
Ricardo, sternly.

But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.