The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER VI WARREN FINDS FRIENDSHIP

THAT evening, after dinner, Warren Barringer performed his next duty as a member of the Delthern family. He went to a telephone in the hotel lobby, and called Delthern Manor. A solemn voice answered him.

“I would like to speak with Mr. Winstead Delthern,” announced Warren. “Is he at home?”

“Mr. Winstead Delthern is engaged,” came the response. “Is there any message, sir?”

“Yes,” said Warren. “Tell him that his cousin — Warren Barringer — is calling.”

“Yes, sir. Hold the line, please.”

A few minutes later, the same voice came over the telephone. Warren, by this time, had decided that a servant must be speaking.

“I am sorry, Mr. Barringer” — the speaker seemed to express regret — “but Mr. Winstead Delthern says that he will he unable to converse with you at present. However, sir, he states that it is your privilege to come to this house at any time that you may choose. He will meet you if you make such a visit.”

Indignation filled Warren Barringer. He saw the motive behind this message. Winstead Delthern was making it plain — through a servant — that he did not care to make the acquaintance of his returned cousin. At the same time, Winstead was abiding by the duty imposed upon him as the new master of Delthern Manor. The door was open, should Warren choose to come.

The first impulse on Warren’s part was to deliver a sharp return message; to tell the servant at the other end that Winstead Delthern need never expect a visit from his cousin. But as he began to speak, Warren realized that this would be the very answer that Winstead wanted. Curbing his indignation, Warren made a different statement.

“Tell Mr. Delthern,” he said, “that I shall accept his invitation. He may expect a personal call from me tomorrow evening.”

Despite the friendliness of his disposition, Warren Barringer was inclined to anger when treated unjustly. His natural temper was a fault which he ordinarily managed to control. He expressed it now when he banged down the telephone receiver, and strode, scowling, into the lobby. A man arose from a chair and blocked his path.

“Warren Barringer?” questioned the fellow.

“Yes,” responded Warren, cooling quickly. He did not like the face of this man whom he had encountered. He wondered what the stranger wanted.

“I’m Jasper Delthern,” came the greeting. “Old Farman told me you were in town. Glad to meet you.”

WARREN accepted Jasper’s handshake. His first impulse was one of distinct antagonism. Jasper Delthern’s countenance was an unpleasant one. Shifty eyes, puffy lips, and a leering expression, made a bad impression. Jasper’s handshake, though firm, was of a crunching type, that betokened boastful strength rather than sincerity.

One factor, however, caused Warren Barringer to accept Jasper’s presence. That was the rebuff which had just come from Winstead. Anger toward one cousin caused Warren to soften toward the younger man, who had voluntarily come to greet him.

“Hello, Cousin Jasper,” said Warren. “I’m glad to find one relative who isn’t sorry that I’m back in Newbury.”

An ugly smile wreathed Jasper’s lips.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” he questioned. “My brother Winstead?”

“To his servant,” stated Warren. “Winstead apparently refused to talk to me.”

“He put Wellington on the wire, eh?” laughed Jasper. “Well, that’s Winstead for you. A dried-up fossil, that brother of mine. Looks twenty years older than he is. Humphrey’s just as bad. What did Wellington tell you. Doors open, and all that?”

“Yes.”

“Open for me, too. Fat chance of my going up to live in that mausoleum. The club’s the place for me. Come on along with me — down to the City Club.”

Warren consented. He fancied that he would continue to dislike Jasper Delthern the more he saw of the man. Nevertheless, his cousin’s invitation seemed a fair one. Warren accompanied Jasper to the street, and they walked a block to a large building which bore the title “City Club” above the door.

It became quite evident to Warren that Jasper had been drinking. The man’s steps seemed wabbly as they entered a small grillroom. Jasper plopped into a chair beside a table, and waved his hand around the room.

“Like the City Club?” he questioned. “Not a bad place, what?”

“Very nice,” commented Warren.

Jasper Delthern spied a man at the other side of the room and beckoned. Warren saw the stranger hesitate; at last he arose and came over to the table where the cousins were seated.

“Meet Clark Brosset,” volunteered Jasper. “Big fellow in this club. Big fellow in Newbury. Howdy, Clark. Meet my cousin, Warren Barringer.”

Warren arose to shake hands with the newcomer.

CLARK BROSSET was a man of about forty years. His face was both stern and handsome. It showed the capability that marked a successful man.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barringer,” said Brosset. “It may interest you to know that I knew your father when he lived in Newbury. I remember seeing you when you were a very small child. I am glad to welcome you back to the city of your birth.”

“Big guy, Clark is,” commented Jasper. “Knew your father, Warren. Hear that?”

Jasper pulled a bottle from his hip pocket. He uncorked it, and held it out toward the others as they sat down.

“Have a swig,” he offered. “Good stuff, this is—”

Clark Brosset’s eyes flashed. He interrupted Jasper with a stern tone.

“Liquor is not permitted in the City Club,” he declared. “You know the rule, Jasper. You have violated it too often.”

Jasper Delthern grinned. He placed the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. He corked the bottle and put it back into his pocket, with a derisive sneer.

Clark Brosset turned to Warren Barringer and resumed his conversation.

Like Farman, Brosset seemed to see unusual merit in this Delthern descendant. Ignoring Jasper Delthern’s occasional remarks, Clark Brosset continued to further his acquaintance with Warren.

While the two men conversed, Jasper Delthern slouched in his chair, and stole occasional drinks from the bottle. His jocularity was decreasing. At last he took advantage of a lull in the conversation to insert a sneering remark.

“Big guy, Clark Brosset,” he said. “Thinks he owns the City Club. Owns a lot of real estate around town, but he don’t own this club. You’ll find that out, Warren!”

Jasper again drew the bottle from his pocket, and placed it to his lips. Clark Brosset, stern, but calm, reached over and plucked away the flask. Jasper made a clutch for it; the bottle fell and crashed upon the stone floor.

With an angry snort, Jasper Delthern leaped to his feet and lunged at Clark Brosset. The other man was too quick for him. Rising, he warded off Jasper’s blow and sent his antagonist spinning across the floor. Jasper sprawled beside the wall, muttering oaths.

OTHER club members were on their feet, coming to Clark Brosset’s aid. This was unnecessary. Jasper Delthern, despite his big size, was too intoxicated to even rise from the floor.

“Good work, Clark,” came a commending voice.

“Suspend Delthern’s membership!” was another comment. “We’ve had too much of him!”

Clark Brosset held up his hand. Silence followed. Facing Jasper Delthern, Brosset delivered a cold, unmistakable ultimatum.

“Jasper Delthern,” he said, “as president of the City Club, I give you final warning. One more display of this sort — immediate expulsion will be the answer. We place no proviso upon your habits. You may be as intemperate as you choose. But do your drinking elsewhere, and behave yourself when here. This is final!”

A buzz of approval came from the listeners. Warren Barringer gave silent agreement. He felt ill at ease, having been brought to this place by a member in such bad standing. Jasper Delthern was still muttering, but his oaths were now inaudible. He managed to gain his feet; then toppled unsteadily.

“Take him to his room,” ordered Clark Brosset.

Two uniformed attendants sprang forward and caught Jasper just before he fell. Warren Barringer watched his slouching cousin go, half carried, from the room.

In embarrassment, Warren turned toward Clark Brosset. He was greeted with a friendly smile. Placing his hand upon Warren’s shoulder, Brosset spoke to the dozen men who were present.

“Gentlemen,” announced Brosset, “this is Warren Barringer. He is a grandson of our old departed friend, Caleb Delthern. Warren’s father was a man whom I knew and admired. Warren has just returned to Newbury after an absence of many years. I have given him my welcome; I hope that you will join me.”

The request met with an enthusiastic response. The other men crowded up to make Warren’s acquaintance. Clark Brosset’s recommendation completely counteracted the bad impression that Warren Barringer had dreaded.

HALF an hour later, Warren Barringer and Clark Brosset were seated together in the upstairs lounge of the City Club. The unfortunate incident in the grillroom had served to produce an immediate friendship.

In their talk together, these men had found mutual interests. Clark Brosset, successful real-estate operator, was a man whose family, like the Deltherns, had long lived in Newbury.

“I shall arrange a membership for you,” remarked Brosset. “You will like the City Club. You will find it an agreeable place to spend your time. Particularly so, now that we are friends.

“Jasper Delthern, I am sorry to say, is a nonentity. He has a penchant for making himself unpopular; his heavy drinking, which has increased abnormally within the past week, has added to the bad impression which he naturally creates.”

“He met me in the hotel,” remarked Warren. “Walked up to me and said hello. Since he was my cousin—”

“I understand,” interposed Brosset quietly. “Relatives are often unfortunate possessions. Have you met either of Jasper’s brothers?”

“No,” said Warren grimly. “But I am going to see Winstead Delthern tomorrow night.”

Brosset noted Warren’s expression, and raised his eyebrows quizzically. Warren saw this and hastened to explain by telling Brosset the details of the telephone call which he had held with Wellington.

“That sounds like Winstead Delthern,” decided Brosset. “My advice to you, Warren, is to ignore the man entirely. Why bother to go and see him?”

“I’m going — once,” responded Warren. “That will be tomorrow night. I’ll give Winstead a fair chance to make friends. After that, I am through.”

“You will be through with him,” smiled Brosset. “One interview will convince you of his crabbiness. After you leave him, Warren, drop down here. You’ll be glad to talk with someone human — myself, for instance — after you have spent a half hour with your crabby cousin.”

“All right,” agreed Warren, as he arose to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Clark.”

BACK at the Century Hotel, Warren Barringer breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad to be freed of Jasper Delthern’s obnoxious presence; even better, he was pleased to have gained the friendship of so influential a man as Clark Brosset.

Yes, Warren decided, he had a definite friendship. He would be able to rely upon Clark Brosset, he was sure. That surmise was almost prophetic.

During the days to come, strange events were to happen — events that were already in the making. Those occurrences were destined to bring new reliance upon this new-found friend; and Warren Barringer was to find in Clark Brosset a man who could give careful and precise advice.

The Shadow had not foreseen the fact that Warren Barringer was to gain so influential a friend in Newbury.