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The Project Gutenberg eBook of THE CITY OF MASKS, by GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40146 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 436px;">
<img src="images/Image_0001.png" width="436" height="700" alt="The Head and Shoulders of a Man Rose Quickly Above the Ledge (Page 265)" title="The Head and Shoulders of a Man Rose Quickly Above the Ledge (Page 265)" />
</div>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 411px;">
<img src="images/002.png" width="411" height="700" alt="THE CITY
OF MASKS
By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
AUTHOR OF
"Mr. Bingle," "Jane Cable," "Black is White," Etc.
With Frontispiece
By MAY WILSON PRESTON
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company" title="THE CITY
OF MASKS
By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
AUTHOR OF
"Mr. Bingle," "Jane Cable," "Black is White," Etc.
With Frontispiece
By MAY WILSON PRESTON
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company" />
</div>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<p class="cnobmargin">Copyright, 1918</p>
<p class="cnotmargin"><span class="smcap">By</span> DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, <span class="smcap">Inc</span></p>
<p class="center">PRINTED IN U. S. A.</p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<p class="center">CONTENTS</p>
<p>CHAPTER <span class="ralign">PAGE</span></p>
<p> I <span class="smcap">Lady Jane Thorne Comes to Dinner</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page1">1</a></span></p>
<p> II <span class="smcap">Out of the Four Corners of the Earth</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page12">12</a></span></p>
<p> III <span class="smcap">The City of Masks</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page24">24</a></span></p>
<p> IV <span class="smcap">The Scion of a New York House</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page37">37</a></span></p>
<p> V <span class="smcap">Mr. Thomas Trotter Hears Something to His Advantage</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page50">50</a></span></p>
<p> VI <span class="smcap">The Unfailing Memory</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page67">67</a></span></p>
<p> VII <span class="smcap">The Foundation of the Plot</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page79">79</a></span></p>
<p> VIII <span class="smcap">Lady Jane Goes About It Promptly</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page94">94</a></span></p>
<p> IX <span class="smcap">Mr. Trotter Falls into a New Position</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page110">110</a></span></p>
<p> X <span class="smcap">Putting Their Heads—and Hearts—Together</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page121">121</a></span></p>
<p> XI <span class="smcap">Winning by a Nose</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page134">134</a></span></p>
<p> XII <span class="smcap">In the Fog</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page155">155</a></span></p>
<p> XIII <span class="smcap">Not Clouds Alone Have Linings</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page172">172</a></span></p>
<p> XIV <span class="smcap">Diplomacy</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page188">188</a></span></p>
<p> XV <span class="smcap">One Night at Spangler's</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page202">202</a></span></p>
<p> XVI <span class="smcap">Scotland Yard Takes a Hand</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page219">219</a></span></p>
<p> XVII <span class="smcap">Friday for Luck</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page233">233</a></span></p>
<p>XVIII <span class="smcap">Friday for Bad Luck</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page250">250</a></span></p>
<p> XIX <span class="smcap">From Darkness to Light</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page263">263</a></span></p>
<p> XX <span class="smcap">An Exchange of Courtesies</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page279">279</a></span></p>
<p> XXI <span class="smcap">The Bride-Elect</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page294">294</a></span></p>
<p> XXII <span class="smcap">The Beginning</span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#page307">307</a></span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>[pg 1]</span></p>
<h1>THE CITY OF MASKS</h1>
<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>LADY JANE THORNE COMES TO DINNER</h3>
<p class="indent">THE Marchioness carefully draped the dust-cloth
over the head of an andiron and, before putting
the question to the parlour-maid, consulted, with the intensity
of a near-sighted person, the ornate French
clock in the centre of the mantelpiece. Then she
brushed her fingers on the voluminous apron that almost
completely enveloped her slight person.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, who is it, Julia?"</p>
<p class="indent">"It's Lord Temple, ma'am, and he wants to know
if you're too busy to come to the 'phone. If you are,
I'm to ask you something."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness hesitated. "How do you know it
is Lord Eric? Did he mention his name?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He did, ma'am. He said 'this is Tom Trotter
speaking, Julia, and is your mistress disengaged?'
And so I knew it couldn't be any one else but his Lordship."</p>
<p class="indent">"And what are you to ask me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He wants to know if he may bring a friend around
tonight, ma'am. A gentleman from Constantinople,
ma'am."</p>
<p class="indent">"A Turk? He knows I do not like Turks," said the
Marchioness, more to herself than to Julia.</p>
<p class="indent">"He didn't say, ma'am. Just Constantinople."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>[pg 2]</span>
The Marchioness removed her apron and handed it to
Julia. You would have thought she expected to confront
Lord Temple in person, or at least that she would
be fully visible to him despite the distance and the intervening
buildings that lay between. Tucking a few
stray locks of her snow-white hair into place, she approached
the telephone in the hall. She had never quite
gotten over the impression that one could be seen
through as well as heard over the telephone. She always
smiled or frowned or gesticulated, as occasion demanded;
she was never languid, never bored, never listless.
A chat was a chat, at long range or short; it
didn't matter.</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you there? Good evening, Mr. Trotter. So
charmed to hear your voice." She had seated herself
at the little old Italian table.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter devoted a full two minutes to explanations.</p>
<p class="indent">"Do bring him with you," cried she. "Your word
is sufficient. He <i>must</i> be delightful. Of course, I
shuddered a little when you mentioned Constantinople.
I always do. One can't help thinking of the Armenians.
Eh? Oh, yes,—and the harems."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "By the way, are you expecting Lady
Jane tonight?"</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "She rarely fails us, Mr. Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "Right-o! Well, good-bye,—and
thank you. I'm sure you will like the baron. He is a
trifle seedy, as I said before,—sailing vessel, you know,
and all that sort of thing. By way of Cape Town,—pretty
well up against it for the past year or two besides,—but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>[pg 3]</span>
a regular fellow, as they say over here."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "Where did you say he is stopping?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "Can't for the life of me remember
whether it's the 'Sailors' Loft' or the 'Sailors' Bunk.'
He told me too. On the water-front somewhere. I
knew him in Hong Kong. He says he has cut it all out,
however."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "Cut it all out, Mr. Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter, laughing: "Drink, and all that sort
of thing, you know. Jolly good thing too. I give
you my personal guarantee that he—"</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "Say no more about it, Mr.
Trotter. I am sure we shall all be happy to receive
any friend of yours. By the way, where are you now—where
are you telephoning from?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "Drug store just around the corner."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "A booth, I suppose?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "Oh, yes. Tight as a sardine box."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness: "Good-bye."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter: "Oh—hello? I beg your pardon—are
you there? Ah, I—er—neglected to mention
that the baron may not appear at his best tonight.
You see, the poor chap is a shade large for my clothes.
Naturally, being a sailor-man, he hasn't—er—a very
extensive wardrobe. I am fixing him out in a—er—rather
abandoned evening suit of my own. That is to
say, I abandoned it a couple of seasons ago. Rather
nobby thing for a waiter, but not—er—what you
might call—"</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness, chuckling: "Quite good enough
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>[pg 4]</span>
for a sailor, eh? Please assure him that no matter
what he wears, or how he looks, he will not be conspicuous."</p>
<p class="indent">After this somewhat ambiguous remark, the Marchioness
hung up the receiver and returned to the drawing-room;
a prolonged search revealing the dust-cloth
on the "nub" of the andiron, just where she had left it,
she fell to work once more on the velvety surface of a
rare old Spanish cabinet that stood in the corner of the
room.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't you want your apron, ma'am?" inquired
Julia, sitting back on her heels and surveying with considerable
pride the leg of an enormous throne seat she
had been rubbing with all the strength of her stout
arms.</p>
<p class="indent">Her mistress ignored the question. She dabbed into
a tiny recess and wriggled her finger vigorously.</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't imagine where all the dust comes from,
Julia," she said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Some of it comes from Italy, and some of it from
Spain, and some from France," said Julia promptly.
"You could rub for a hundred years, ma'am, and
there'd still be dust that you couldn't find, not to save
your soul. And why not? I'd bet my last penny
there's dust on that cabinet this very minute that settled
before Napoleon was born, whenever that was."</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay," said the Marchioness absently.</p>
<p class="indent">More often than otherwise she failed to hear all that
Julia said to her, or in her presence rather, for Julia,
wise in association, had come to consider these lapses
of inattention as openings for prolonged and rarely
coherent soliloquies on topics of the moment. Julia,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>[pg 5]</span>
by virtue of long service and a most satisfying avoidance
of matrimony, was a privileged servant between
the hours of eight in the morning and eight in the evening.
After eight, or more strictly speaking, the
moment dinner was announced, Julia became a perfect
servant. She would no more have thought of addressing
the Marchioness as "ma'am" than she would have
called the King of England "mister." She had crossed
the Atlantic with her mistress eighteen years before; in
mid-ocean she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, and,
as she had been in the family for ten years prior to that
event, even a child may solve the problem that here presents
a momentary and totally unnecessary break in
the continuity of this narrative. Julia was English.
She spoke no other language. Beginning with the
soup, or the <i>hors d'œuvres</i> on occasion, French was
spoken in the house of the Marchioness. Physically
unable to speak French and psychologically unwilling
to betray her ignorance, Julia became a model servant.
She lapsed into perfect silence.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness seldom if ever dined alone. She always
dined in state. Her guests,—English, Italian,
Russian, Belgian, French, Spanish, Hungarian, Austrian,
German,—conversed solely in French. It was a
very agreeable way of symphonizing Babel.</p>
<p class="indent">The room in which she and the temporarily imperfect
though treasured servant were employed in the dusk
of this stormy day in March was at the top of an old-fashioned
building in the busiest section of the city, a
building that had, so far, escaped the fate of its immediate
neighbours and remained, a squat and insignificant
pygmy, elbowing with some arrogance the lofty
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>[pg 6]</span>
structures that had shot up on either side of it with
incredible swiftness.</p>
<p class="indent">It was a large room, at least thirty by fifty feet in
dimensions, with a vaulted ceiling that encroached upon
the space ordinarily devoted to what architects, builders
and the Board of Health describe as an air chamber,
next below the roof. There was no elevator in
the building. One had to climb four flights of stairs
to reach the apartment.</p>
<p class="indent">From its long, heavily curtained windows one looked
down upon a crowded cross-town thoroughfare, or up
to the summit of a stupendous hotel on the opposite side
of the street. There was a small foyer at the rear of
this lofty room, with an entrance from the narrow hall
outside. Suspended in the wide doorway between the
two rooms was a pair of blue velvet Italian portières
of great antiquity and, to a connoisseur, unrivaled quality.
Beyond the foyer and extending to the area
wall was the rather commodious dining-room, with its
long oaken English table, its high-back chairs, its
massive sideboard and the chandelier that is said to
have hung in the Doges' Palace when the Bridge of
Sighs was a new and thriving avenue of communication.</p>
<p class="indent">At least, so stated the dealer's tag tucked carelessly
among the crystal prisms, supplying the observer with
the information that, in case one was in need of a
chandelier, its price was five hundred guineas. The
same curious-minded observer would have discovered,
if he were not above getting down on his hands and
knees and peering under the table, a price tag; and by
exerting the strength necessary to pull the sideboard
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>[pg 7]</span>
away from the wall, a similar object would have been
exposed.</p>
<p class="indent">In other words, if one really wanted to purchase any
article of furniture or decoration in the singularly impressive
apartment of the Marchioness, all one had to
do was to signify the desire, produce a check or its
equivalent, and give an address to the competent-looking
young woman who would put in an appearance with
singular promptness in response to a couple of punches
at an electric button just outside the door, any time
between nine and five o'clock, Sundays included.</p>
<p class="indent">The drawing-room contained many priceless articles
of furniture, wholly antique—(and so guaranteed),
besides rugs, draperies, tapestries and stuffs of the
rarest quality. Bronzes, porcelains, pottery, things of
jade and alabaster, sconces, candlesticks and censers,
with here and there on the walls lovely little "primitives"
of untold value. The most exotic taste had ordered
the distribution and arrangement of all these objects.
There was no suggestion of crowding, nothing
haphazard or bizarre in the exposition of treasure,
nothing to indicate that a cheap intelligence revelled
in rich possessions.</p>
<p class="indent">You would have sat down upon the first chair that
offered repose and you would have said you had wandered
inadvertently into a palace. Then, emboldened
by an interest that scorned politeness, you would have
got up to inspect the riches at close range,—and you
would have found price-marks everywhere to overcome
the impression that Aladdin had been rubbing his lamp
all the way up the dingy, tortuous stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">You are not, however, in the shop of a dealer in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>[pg 8]</span>
antiques, price-marks to the contrary. You are in the
home of a Marchioness, and she is not a dealer in old
furniture, you may be quite sure of that. She does not
owe a penny on a single article in the apartment nor
does she, on the other hand, own a penny's worth of
anything that meets the eye,—unless, of course, one
excepts the dust-cloth and the can of polish that follows
Julia about the room. Nor is it a loan exhibit, nor the
setting for a bazaar.</p>
<p class="indent">The apartment being on the top floor of a five-story
building, it is necessary to account for the remaining
four. In the rear of the fourth floor there was a small
kitchen and pantry from which a dumb-waiter ascended
and descended with vehement enthusiasm. The remainder
of the floor was divided into four rather small
chambers, each opening into the outer hall, with two
bath-rooms inserted. Each of these rooms contained a
series of lockers, not unlike those in a club-house.
Otherwise they were unfurnished except for a few commonplace
cane bottom chairs in various stages of decrepitude.</p>
<p class="indent">The third floor represented a complete apartment
of five rooms, daintily furnished. This was where the
Marchioness really lived.</p>
<p class="indent">Commerce, after a fashion, occupied the two lower
floors. It stopped short at the bottom of the second
flight of stairs where it encountered an obstacle in the
shape of a grill-work gate that bore the laconic word
"Private," and while commerce may have peeped inquisitively
through and beyond the barrier it was never
permitted to trespass farther than an occasional sly,
surreptitious and unavailing twist of the knob.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>[pg 9]</span>
The entire second floor was devoted to work-rooms in
which many sewing machines buzzed during the day
and went to rest at six in the evening. Tables, chairs,
manikins, wall-hooks and hangers thrust forward a
bewildering assortment of fabrics in all stages of development,
from an original uncut piece to a practically
completed garment. In other words, here was the work-shop
of the most exclusive, most expensive <i>modiste</i> in
all the great city.</p>
<p class="indent">The ground floor, or rather the floor above the English
basement, contained the <i>salon</i> and fitting rooms of
an establishment known to every woman in the city
as</p>
<p class="center">DEBORAH'S.</p>
<p class="indent">To return to the Marchioness and Julia.</p>
<p class="indent">"Not that a little dust or even a great deal of dirt
will make any different to the Princess," the former was
saying, "but, just the same, I feel better, if I <i>know</i>
we've done our best."</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank the Lord, she don't come very often," was
Julia's frank remark. "It's the stairs, I fancy."</p>
<p class="indent">"And the car-fare," added her mistress. "Is it six
o'clock, Julia?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, ma'am, it is."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness groaned a little as she straightened
up and tossed the dust-cloth on the table. "It catches
me right across here," she remarked, putting her hand
to the small of her back and wrinkling her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"You shouldn't be doing my work," scolded Julia.
"It's not for the likes of you to be—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall lie down for half an hour," said the Marchioness
calmly. "Come at half-past six, Julia."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>[pg 10]</span>
"Just Lady Jane, ma'am? No one else?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No one else," said the other, and preceded Julia
down the two flights of stairs to the charming little
apartment on the third floor. "She is a dear girl, and
I enjoy having her all to myself once in a while."</p>
<p class="indent">"She is so, ma'am," agreed Julia, and added. "The
oftener the better."</p>
<p class="indent">At half-past seven Julia ran down the stairs to open
the gate at the bottom. She admitted a slender young
woman, who said, "Thank you," and "Good evening,
Julia," in the softest, loveliest voice imaginable, and
hurried up, past the apartment of the Marchioness, to
the fourth floor. Julia, in cap and apron, wore a
pleased smile as she went in to put the finishing touches
on the coiffure of her mistress.</p>
<p class="indent">"Pity there isn't more like her," she said, at the end
of five minutes' reflection. Patting the silvery crown
of the Marchioness, she observed in a less detached manner:
"As I always says, the wonderful part is that it's
all your own, ma'am."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am beginning to dread the stairs as much as
any one," said the Marchioness, as she passed out into
the hall and looked up the dimly lighted steps. "That
is a bad sign, Julia."</p>
<p class="indent">A mass of coals crackled in the big fireplace on the
top floor, and a tall man in the resplendent livery of a
footman was engaged in poking them up when the Marchioness
entered.</p>
<p class="indent">"Bitterly cold, isn't it, Moody?" inquired she, approaching
with stately tread, her lorgnon lifted.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is, my lady,—extremely nawsty," replied
Moody. "The trams are a bit off, or I should 'ave
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>[pg 11]</span>
'ad the coals going 'alf an hour sooner than—Ahem!
They call it a blizzard, my lady."</p>
<p class="indent">"I know, thank you, Moody."</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank you, my lady," and he moved stiffly off in
the direction of the foyer.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness languidly selected a magazine from
the litter of periodicals on the table. It was <i>La
Figaro</i>, and of recent date. There were magazines
from every capital in Europe on that long and time-worn
table.</p>
<p class="indent">A warm, soft light filled the room, shed by antique
lanthorns and wall-lamps that gave forth no cruel
glare. Standing beside the table, the Marchioness was
a remarkable picture. The slight, drooping figure of
the woman with the dust-cloth and creaking knees had
been transformed, like Cinderella, into a fairly regal
creature attired in one of the most fetching costumes
ever turned out by the rapacious Deborah, of the first
floor front!</p>
<p class="indent">The foyer curtains parted, revealing the plump, venerable
figure of a butler who would have done credit
to the lordliest house in all England.</p>
<p class="indent">"Lady Jane Thorne," he announced, and a slim,
radiant young person entered the room, and swiftly approached
the smiling Marchioness.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>[pg 12]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>OUT OF THE FOUR CORNERS OF THE EARTH</h3>
<p class="indent">"AM I late?" she inquired, a trace of anxiety in
her smiling blue eyes. She was clasping the
hand of the taut little Marchioness, who looked up into
the lovely face with the frankest admiration.</p>
<p class="indent">"I have only this instant finished dressing," said
her hostess. "Moody informs me we're in for a blizzard.
Is it so bad as all that?"</p>
<p class="indent">"What a perfectly heavenly frock!" cried Lady
Jane Thorne, standing off to take in the effect. "Turn
around, do. Exquisite! Dear me, I wish I could—but
there! Wishing is a form of envy. We shouldn't
wish for anything, Marchioness. If we didn't, don't
you see how perfectly delighted we should be with what
we have? Oh, yes,—it is a horrid night. The trolley-cars
are blocked, the omnibuses are stalled, and walking
is almost impossible. How good the fire looks!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Cheerful, isn't it? Now you must let me have my
turn at wishing, my dear. If I could have my wish,
you would be disporting yourself in the best that Deborah
can turn out, and you would be worth millions
to her as an advertisement. You've got style, figure,
class, verve—everything. You carry your clothes as
if you were made for them and not the other way
round."</p>
<p class="indent">"This gown is so old I sometimes think I <i>was</i> made
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>[pg 13]</span>
for it," said the girl gaily. "I can't remember when
it was made for <i>me</i>."</p>
<p class="indent">Moody had drawn two chairs up to the fire.</p>
<p class="indent">"Rubbish!" said the Marchioness, sitting down.
"Toast your toes, my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane's gown was far from modish. In these
days of swift-changing fashions for women, it had become
passé long before its usefulness or its beauty had
passed. Any woman would have told you that it was
a "season before last model," which would be so distantly
removed from the present that its owner may be
forgiven the justifiable invention concerning her memory.</p>
<p class="indent">But Lady Jane's figure was not old, nor passé, nor
even a thing to be forgotten easily. She was straight,
and slim, and sound of body and limb. That is to say,
she stood well on her feet and suggested strength rather
than fragility. Her neck and shoulders were smooth
and white and firm; her arms shapely and capable, her
hands long and slender and aristocratic. Her dark
brown hair was abundant and wavy;—it had never experienced
the baleful caress of a curling-iron. Her
firm, red lips were of the smiling kind,—and she must
have known that her teeth were white and strong and
beautiful, for she smiled more often than not with
parted lips. There was character, intelligence and
breeding in her face.</p>
<p class="indent">She wore a simple black velvet gown, close-fitting,—please
remember that it was of an antiquity not even
surpassed, as things go, by the oldest rug in the apartment,—with
a short train. She was fully a head taller
than the Marchioness, which isn't saying much when
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>[pg 14]</span>
you are informed that the latter was at least half-a-head
shorter than a woman of medium height.</p>
<p class="indent">On the little finger of her right hand she wore a
heavy seal ring of gold. If you had known her well
enough to hold her hand—to the light, I mean,—you
would have been able to decipher the markings of a
crest, notwithstanding the fact that age had all but
obliterated the lines.</p>
<p class="indent">Dinner was formal only in the manner in which it was
served. Behind the chair of the Marchioness, Moody
posed loftily when not otherwise employed. A critical
observer would have taken note of the threadbare condition
of his coat, especially at the elbows, and the
somewhat snug way in which it adhered to him, fore and
aft. Indeed, there was an ever-present peril in its snugness.
He was painfully deliberate and detached.</p>
<p class="indent">From time to time, a second footman, addressed as
McFaddan, paused back of Lady Jane. His chin was
not quite so high in the air as Moody's; the higher he
raised it the less it looked like a chin. McFaddan,
you would remark, carried a great deal of weight above
the hips. The ancient butler, Cricklewick, decanted
the wine, lifted his right eyebrow for the benefit of
Moody, the left in directing McFaddan, and cringed
slightly with each trip upward of the dumb-waiter.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness and Lady Jane were in a gay mood
despite the studied solemnity of the three servants. As
dinner has no connection with this narrative except to
introduce an effect of opulence, we will hurry through
with it and allow Moody and McFaddan to draw back
the chairs on a signal transmitted by Cricklewick, and
return to the drawing-room with the two ladies.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>[pg 15]</span>
"A quarter of nine," said the Marchioness, peering at
the French clock through her lorgnon. "I am quite
sure the Princess will not venture out on such a night
as this."</p>
<p class="indent">"She's really quite an awful pill," said Lady Jane
calmly. "I for one sha'n't be broken-hearted if she
doesn't venture."</p>
<p class="indent">"For heaven's sake, don't let Cricklewick hear you
say such a thing," said the Marchioness in a furtive
undertone.</p>
<p class="indent">"I've heard Cricklewick say even worse," retorted
the girl. She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.
"No longer ago than yesterday he told me that
she made him tired, or something of the sort."</p>
<p class="indent">"Poor Cricklewick! I fear he is losing ambition,"
mused the Marchioness. "An ideal butler but a most
dreary creature the instant he attempts to be a human
being. It isn't possible. McFaddan is quite human.
That's why he is so fat. I am not sure that I ever told
you, but he was quite a slim, puny lad when Cricklewick
took him out of the stables and made a very decent
footman out of him. That was a great many years
ago, of course. Camelford left him a thousand pounds
in his will. I have always believed it was hush money.
McFaddan was a very wide-awake chap in those days."
The Marchioness lowered one eye-lid slowly.</p>
<p class="indent">"And, by all reports, the Marquis of Camelford was
very well worth watching," said Lady Jane.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hear the wind!" cried the Marchioness, with a
little shiver. "How it shrieks!"</p>
<p class="indent">"We were speaking of the Marquis," said Lady Jane.</p>
<p class="indent">"But one may always fall back on the weather," said
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>[pg 16]</span>
the Marchioness drily. "Even at its worst it is a
pleasanter thing to discuss than Camelford. You can't
get anything out of me, my dear. I was his next door
neighbour for twenty years, and I don't believe in talking
about one's neighbour."</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane stared for a moment. "But—how
quaint you are!—you were married to him almost
as long as that, were you not?"</p>
<p class="indent">"My clearest,—I may even say my dearest,—recollection
of him is as a neighbour, Lady Jane. He was
most agreeable next door."</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick appeared in the door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Count Antonio Fogazario," he announced.</p>
<p class="indent">A small, wizened man in black satin knee-breeches entered
the room and approached the Marchioness.
With courtly grace he lifted her fingers to his lips and,
in a voice that quavered slightly, declared in French
that his joy on seeing her again was only surpassed
by the hideous gloom he had experienced during the
week that had elapsed since their last meeting.</p>
<p class="indent">"But now the gloom is dispelled and I am basking
in sunshine so rare and soft and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear Count," broke in the Marchioness, "you
forget that we are enjoying the worst blizzard of the
year."</p>
<p class="indent">"Enjoying,—vastly enjoying it!" he cried. "It is
the most enchanting blizzard I have ever known. Ah,
my dear Lady Jane! This <i>is</i> delightful!"</p>
<p class="indent">His sharp little face beamed with pleasure. The
vast pleated shirt front extended itself to amazing proportions,
as if blown up by an invisible though prodigious
bellows, and his elbow described an angle of considerable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>[pg 17]</span>
elevation as he clasped the slim hand of the
tall young woman. The crown of his sleek black toupee
was on a line with her shoulder.</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless me," he added, in a somewhat astonished
manner, "this is most gratifying. I could not have
lifted it half that high yesterday without experiencing
the most excruciating agony." He worked his arm up
and down experimentally. "Quite all right, quite all
right. I feared I was in for another siege. I cannot
tell you how delighted I am. Ahem! Where was I?
Oh, yes—This is a pleasure, Lady Jane, a positive
delight. How charming you are look—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Save your compliments, Count, for the Princess,"
interrupted the girl, smiling. "She is coming, you
know."</p>
<p class="indent">"I doubt it," he said, fumbling for his snuff-box.
"I saw her this afternoon. Chilblains. Weather like
this, you see. Quite a distance from her place to the
street-cars. Frightful going. I doubt it very much.
Now, what was it she said to me this afternoon? Something
very important, I remember distinctly,—but it
seems to have slipped my mind completely. I am fearfully
annoyed with myself. I remember with great distinctness
that it was something I was determined to
remember, and here I am forgetting—Ah, let me
see! It comes to me like a flash. I have it! She said
she felt as though she had a cold coming on or something
like that. Yes, I am sure that was it. I remember
she blew her nose frequently, and she always
makes a dreadful noise when she blows her nose. A
really unforgettable noise, you know. Now, when I
blow my nose, I don't behave like an elephant. I—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>[pg 18]</span>
"You blow it like a gentleman," interrupted the
Marchioness, as he paused in some confusion.</p>
<p class="indent">"Indeed I do," he said gratefully. "In the most
polished manner possible, my dear lady."</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane put her handkerchief to her lips. There
was a period of silence. The Count appeared to be
thinking with great intensity. He had a harassed
expression about the corners of his nose. It was he
who broke the silence. He broke it with a most tremendous
sneeze.</p>
<p class="indent">"The beastly snuff," he said in apology.</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick's voice seemed to act as an echo to the
remark.</p>
<p class="indent">"The Right-Honourable Mrs. Priestly-Duff," he announced,
and an angular, middle-aged lady in a rose-coloured
gown entered the room. She had a very long
nose and prominent teeth; her neck was of amazing
length and appeared to be attached to her shoulders by
means of vertical, skin-covered ropes, running from
torso to points just behind her ears, where they were
lost in a matting of faded, straw-coloured hair. On
second thought, it may be simpler to remark that her
neck was amazingly scrawny. It will save confusion.
Her voice was a trifle strident and her French execrable.</p>
<p class="indent">"Isn't it awful?" she said as she joined the trio
at the fireplace. "I thought I'd never get here. Two
hours coming, my dear, and I must be starting home
at once if I want to get there before midnight."</p>
<p class="indent">"The Princess will be here," said the Marchioness.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'll wait fifteen minutes," said the new-comer
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>[pg 19]</span>
crisply, pulling up her gloves. "I've had a trying
day, Marchioness. Everything has gone wrong,—even
the drains. They're frozen as tight as a drum
and heaven knows when they'll get them thawed out!
Who ever heard of such weather in March?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, my dear Mrs. Priestly-Duff, you should not
forget the beautiful sunshine we had yesterday," said
the Count cheerily.</p>
<p class="indent">"Precious little good it does today," she retorted,
looking down upon him from a lofty height, and as if
she had not noticed his presence before. "When did
you come in, Count?"</p>
<p class="indent">"It is quite likely the Princess will not venture out
in such weather," interposed the Marchioness, sensing
squalls.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I'll stop a bit anyway and get my feet warm.
I hope she doesn't come. She is a good deal of a wet
blanket, you must admit."</p>
<p class="indent">"Wet blankets," began the Count argumentatively,
and then, catching a glance from the Marchioness,
cleared his throat, blew his nose, and mumbled something
about poor people who had no blankets at all,
God help them on such a night as this.</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane had turned away from the group and was
idly turning the leaves of the <i>Illustrated London News</i>.
The smallest intelligence would have grasped the fact
that Mrs. Priestly-Duff was not a genial soul.</p>
<p class="indent">"Who else is coming?" she demanded, fixing the
little hostess with the stare that had just been removed
from the back of Lady Jane's head.</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick answered from the doorway.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>[pg 20]</span>
"Lord Temple. Baron—ahem!—Whiskers—eh?
Baron Wissmer. Prince Waldemar de Bosky.
Count Wilhelm Frederick Von Blitzen."</p>
<p class="indent">Four young men advanced upon the Marchioness,
Lord Temple in the van. He was a tall, good-looking
chap, with light brown hair that curled slightly above
the ears, and eyes that danced.</p>
<p class="indent">"This, my dear Marchioness, is my friend, Baron
Wissmer," he said, after bending low over her hand.</p>
<p class="indent">The Baron, whose broad hands were encased in immaculate
white gloves that failed by a wide margin to
button across his powerful wrists, smiled sheepishly as
he enveloped her fingers in his huge palm.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is good of you to let me come, Marchioness," he
said awkwardly, a deep flush spreading over his sea-tanned
face. "If I manage to deport myself like the
bull in the china shop, pray lay it to clumsiness and
not to ignorance. It has been a very long time since
I touched the hand of a Marchioness."</p>
<p class="indent">"Small people, like myself, may well afford to be
kind and forgiving to giants," said she, smiling.
"Dear me, how huge you are."</p>
<p class="indent">"I was once in the Emperor's Guard," said he,
straightening his figure to its full six feet and a half.
"The Blue Hussars. I may add with pride that I
was not so horribly clumsy in regimentals. After all,
it is the clothes that makes the man." He smiled as
he looked himself over. "I shall not be at all offended
or even embarrassed if you say 'goodness, how
you have grown!'"</p>
<p class="indent">"The best tailor in London made that suit of
clothes," said Lord Temple, surveying his friend with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>[pg 21]</span>
an appraising eye. Out of the corner of the same eye
he explored the region beyond the group that now
clustered about the hostess. Evidently he discovered
what he was looking for. Leaving the Baron high
and dry, he skirted the edge of the group and, with
beaming face, came to Lady Jane.</p>
<p class="indent">"My family is of Vienna," the Baron was saying to
the Marchioness, "but of late years I have called
Constantinople my home."</p>
<p class="indent">"I understand," said she gently. She asked no
other question, but, favouring him with a kindly smile,
turned her attention to the men who lurked insignificantly
in the shadow of his vast bulk.</p>
<p class="indent">The Prince was a pale, dreamy young man with
flowing black hair that must have been a constant
menace to his vision, judging by the frequent and
graceful sweep of his long, slender hand in brushing the
encroaching forelock from his eyes, over which it spread
briefly in the nature of a veil. He had the fingers of a
musician, the bearing of a violinist. His head drooped
slightly toward his left shoulder, which was always
raised a trifle above the level of the right. And there
was in his soft brown eyes the faraway look of the detached.
The insignia of his house hung suspended by
a red ribbon in the centre of his white shirt front, while
on the lapel of his coat reposed the emblem of the Order
of the Golden Star. He was a Pole.</p>
<p class="indent">Count Von Blitzen, a fair-haired, pink-skinned German,
urged himself forward with typical, not-to-be-denied
arrogance, and crushed the fingers of the Marchioness
in his fat hand. His broad face beamed with
an all-enveloping smile.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>[pg 22]</span>
"Only patriots and lovers venture forth on such
nights as this," he said, in a guttural voice that rendered
his French almost laughable.</p>
<p class="indent">"With an occasional thief or varlet," supplemented
the Marchioness.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ach, Dieu," murmured the Count.</p>
<p class="indent">Fresh arrivals were announced by Cricklewick. For
the next ten or fifteen minutes they came thick and
fast, men and women of all ages, nationality and condition,
and not one of them without a high-sounding title.
They disposed themselves about the vast room, and a
subdued vocal hubbub ensued. If here and there elderly
guests, with gnarled and painfully scrubbed hands,
preferred isolation and the pictorial contents of a magazine
from the land of their nativity, it was not with
snobbish intentions. They were absorbing the news
from "home," in the regular weekly doses.</p>
<p class="indent">The regal, resplendent Countess du Bara, of the
Opera, held court in one corner of the room. Another
was glorified by a petite baroness from the Artists' Colony
far down-town, while a rather dowdy lady with a
coronet monopolized the attention of a small group in
the centre of the room.</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane Thorne and Lord Temple sat together
in a dim recess beyond the great chair of state, and conversed
in low and far from impersonal tones.</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick appeared in the doorway and in his most
impressive manner announced Her Royal Highness, the
Princess Mariana Theresa Sebastano Michelini Celestine
di Pavesi.</p>
<p class="indent">And with the entrance of royalty, kind reader, you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>[pg 23]</span>
may consider yourself introduced, after a fashion, to
the real aristocracy of the City of New York, United
States of America,—the titled riff-raff of the world's
cosmopolis.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>[pg 24]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>THE CITY OF MASKS</h3>
<p class="indent">NEW YORK is not merely a melting pot for the
poor and the humble of the lands of the earth.
In its capacious depths, unknown and unsuspected, float
atoms of an entirely different sort: human beings with
the blood of the high-born and lofty in their veins, derelicts
swept up by the varying winds of adversity, adventure,
injustice, lawlessness, fear and independence.</p>
<p class="indent">Lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, counts and
countesses, swarm to the Metropolis in the course of the
speeding year, heralded by every newspaper in the land,
fêted and feasted and glorified by a capricious and easily
impressed public; they pass with pomp and panoply
and we let them go with reluctance and a vociferous
invitation to come again. They come and they go, and
we are informed each morning and evening of every
move they have made during the day and night. We
are told what they eat for breakfast, luncheon and dinner;
what they wear and what they do not wear; where
they are entertained and by whom; who they are and
why; what they think of New York and—but why go
on? We deny them privacy, and they think we are a
wonderful, considerate and hospitable people. They
go back to their homes in far-off lands,—and that is
the end of them so far as we are concerned.</p>
<p class="indent">They merely pause on the lip of the melting pot,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>[pg 25]</span>
briefly peer into its simmering depths, and then,—pass
on.</p>
<p class="indent">It is not with such as they that this narrative has to
deal. It is not of the heralded, the glorified and the
toasted that we tell, but of those who slip into the pot
with the coarser ingredients, and who never, by any
chance, become actually absorbed by the processes of
integration but remain for ever as they were in the
beginning: distinct foreign substances.</p>
<p class="indent">From all quarters of the globe the drift comes to our
shores. New York swallows the good with the bad,
and thrives, like the cannibal, on the man-food it gulps
down with ravenous disregard for consequences or
effect. It rarely disgorges.</p>
<p class="indent">It eats all flesh, foul or fair, and it drinks good red
blood out of the same cup that offers a black and nauseous
bile. It conceals its inward revulsion behind a
bland, disdainful smile, and holds out its hands for
more of the meat and poison that comes up from the
sea in ships.</p>
<p class="indent">It is the City of Masks.</p>
<p class="indent">Its men and women hide behind a million masks; no
man looks beneath the mask his neighbour wears, for he
is interested only in that which he sees with the least
possible effort: the surface. He sees his neighbour but
he knows him not. He keeps his own mask in place
and wanders among the millions, secure in the thought
that all other men are as casual as he,—and as charitable.</p>
<p class="indent">From time to time the newspapers come forward with
stories that amaze and interest those of us who remain,
and always will remain, romantic and impressionable.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>[pg 26]</span>
They tell of the royal princess living in squalor on the
lower east side; of the heir to a baronetcy dying in
poverty in a hospital somewhere up-town; of the countess
who defies the wolf by dancing in the roof-gardens;
of the lost arch-duke who has been recognized in a gang
of stevedores; of the earl who lands in jail as an ordinary
hobo; of the baroness who supports a shiftless
husband and their offspring by giving music-lessons;
of the retiring scholar who scorns a life of idleness and a
coronet besides; of shifty ne'er-do-wells with titles at
homes and aliases elsewhere; of fugitive lords and forgotten
ladies; of thieves and bauds and wastrels who
stand revealed in their extremity as the sons and daughters
of noble houses.</p>
<p class="indent">In this City of Masks there are hundreds of men and
women in whose veins the blood of a sound aristocracy
flows. By choice or necessity they have donned the
mask of obscurity. They tread the paths of oblivion.
They toil, beg or steal to keep pace with circumstance.
But the blood will not be denied. In the breast of
each of these drifters throbs the pride of birth, in the
soul of each flickers the unquenchable flame of caste.
The mask is for the man outside, not for the man inside.</p>
<p class="indent">Recently there died in one of the municipal hospitals
an old flower-woman, familiar for three decades to the
thousands who thread their way through the maze of
streets in the lower end of Manhattan. To them she
was known as Old Peg. To herself she was the Princess
Feododric, born to the purple, daughter of one of
the greatest families in Russia. She was never anything
but the Princess to herself, despite the squalor in
which she lived. Her epitaph was written in the bold,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>[pg 27]</span>
black head-lines of the newspapers; but her history was
laid away with her mask in a graveyard far from palaces—and
flower-stands. Her headstone revealed the
uncompromising pride that survived her after death.
By her direction it bore the name of Feododric, eldest
daughter of His Highness, Prince Michael Androvodski;
born in St. Petersburgh, September 12, 1841; died
Jan. 7, 1912; wife of James Lumley, of County Cork,
Ireland.</p>
<p class="indent">It is of the high-born who dwell in low places that
this tale is told. It is of an aristocracy that serves and
smiles and rarely sneers behind its mask.</p>
<p class="indent">When Cricklewick announced the Princess Mariana
Theresa the hush of deference fell upon the assembled
company. In the presence of royalty no one remained
seated.</p>
<p class="indent">She advanced slowly, ponderously into the room, bowing
right and left as she crossed to the great chair at
the upper end. One by one the others presented themselves
and kissed the coarse, unlovely hand she held out
to them. It was not "make-believe." It was her due.
The blood of a king and a queen coursed through her
veins; she had been born a Princess Royal.</p>
<p class="indent">She was sixty, but her hair was as black as the coat of
the raven. Time, tribulation, and a harsh destiny had
put each its own stamp upon her dark, almost sinister,
face. The black eyes were sharp and calculating, and
they did not smile with her thin lips. She wore a great
amount of jewellery and a gown of blue velvet, lavishly
bespangled and generously embellished with laces of
many periods, values and, you could say, nativity.</p>
<p class="indent">The Honourable Mrs. Priestly-Duff having been a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>[pg 28]</span>
militant suffragette before a sudden and enforced departure
from England, was the only person there with
the hardihood to proclaim, not altogether <i>sotto voce</i>,
that the "get-up" was a fright.</p>
<p class="indent">Restraint vanished the instant the last kiss of tribute
fell upon her knuckles. The Princess put her hand to
her side, caught her breath sharply, and remarked to
the Marchioness, who stood near by, that it was dreadful
the way she was putting on weight. She was afraid
of splitting something if she took a long, natural breath.</p>
<p class="indent">"I haven't weighed myself lately," she said, "but the
last time I had this dress on it felt like a kimono. Look
at it now! You could not stuff a piece of tissue paper
between it and me to save your soul. I shall have to
let it out a couple of—What were you about to say,
Count Fogazario?"</p>
<p class="indent">The little Count, at the Marchioness's elbow, repeated
something he had already said, and added:</p>
<p class="indent">"And if it continues there will not be a trolley-car
running by midnight."</p>
<p class="indent">The Princess eyed him coldly. "That is just like a
man," she said. "Not the faintest idea of what we
were talking about, Marchioness."</p>
<p class="indent">The Count bowed. "You were speaking of tissue
paper, Princess," said he, stiffly. "I understood perfectly."</p>
<p class="indent">Once a week the Marchioness held her amazing salon.
Strictly speaking, it was a co-operative affair. The so-called
guests were in reality contributors to and supporters
of an enterprise that had been going on for the
matter of five years in the heart of unsuspecting New
York. According to his or her means, each of these
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>[pg 29]</span>
exiles paid the tithe or tax necessary, and became in
fact a member of the inner circle.</p>
<p class="indent">From nearly every walk in life they came to this
common, converging point, and sat them down with their
equals, for the moment laying aside the mask to take up
a long-discarded and perhaps despised reality. They
became lords and ladies all over again, and not for a
single instant was there the slightest deviation from
dignity or form.</p>
<p class="indent">Moral integrity was the only requirement, and that,
for obvious reasons, was sometimes overlooked,—as for
example in the case of the Countess who eloped with the
young artist and lived in complacent shame and happiness
with him in a three-room flat in East Nineteenth
street. The artist himself was barred from the salon,
not because of his ignoble action, but for the sufficient
reason that he was of ignoble birth. Outside the
charmed conclave he was looked upon as a most engaging
chap. And there was also the case of the appallingly
amiable baron who had fired four shots at a Russian
Grand-Duke and got away with his life in spite of
the vaunted secret service. It was of no moment whatsoever
that one of his bullets accidentally put an end
to the life of a guardsman. That was merely proof of
his earnestness and in no way reflected on his standing
as a nobleman. Nor was it adequate cause for rejection
that certain of these men and women were being
sought by Imperial Governments because they were
political fugitives, with prices on their heads.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness, more prosperous than any of her
associates, assumed the greater part of the burden attending
this singular reversion to form. It was she
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>[pg 30]</span>
who held the lease on the building, from cellar to roof,
and it was she who paid that important item of expense:
the rent. The Marchioness was no other than the celebrated
Deborah, whose gowns issuing from the lower
floors at prodigious prices, gave her a standing in New
York that not even the plutocrats and parvenus could
dispute. In private life she may have been a Marchioness,
but to all New York she was known as the queen of
dressmakers.</p>
<p class="indent">If you desired to consult Deborah in person you inquired
for Mrs. Sparflight, or if you happened to be a
new customer and ignorant, you were set straight by an
attendant (with a slight uplifting of the eyebrows)
when you asked for Madame "Deborah."</p>
<p class="indent">The ownership of the rare pieces of antique furniture,
rugs, tapestries and paintings was vested in two
members of the circle, one occupying a position in the
centre of the ring, the other on the outer rim: Count
Antonio Fogazario and Moody, the footman. For be
it known that while Moody reverted once a week to a
remote order of existence he was for the balance of the
time an exceedingly prosperous, astute and highly respected
dealer in antiques, with a shop in Madison Avenue
and a clientele that considered it the grossest
impertinence to dispute the prices he demanded. He
always looked forward to these "drawing-rooms," so to
speak. It was rather a joy to disregard the aspirates.
He dropped enough hs on a single evening to make up
for a whole week of deliberate speech.</p>
<p class="indent">As for Count Antonio, he was the purveyor of Italian
antiques and primitive paintings, "authenticity guaranteed,"
doing business under the name of "Juneo &
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>[pg 31]</span>
Co., Ltd. London, Paris, Rome, New York." He was
known in the trade and at his bank as Mr. Juneo.</p>
<p class="indent">Occasionally the exigencies of commerce necessitated
the substitution of an article from stock for one temporarily
loaned to the fifth-floor drawing-room.</p>
<p class="indent">During the seven days in the week, Mr. Moody and
Mr. Juneo observed a strained but common equality.
Mr. Moody contemptuously referred to Mr. Juneo as
a second-hand dealer, while Mr. Juneo, with commercial
bitterness, informed his patrons that Pickett, Inc.,
needed a lot of watching. But on these Wednesday
nights a vast abyss stretched between them. They were
no longer rivals in business. Mr. Juneo, without the
slightest sign of arrogance, put Mr. Moody in his place,
and Mr. Moody, with perfect equanimity, quite properly
stayed there.</p>
<p class="indent">"A chair over here, Moody," the Count would say
(to Pickett, Inc.,) and Moody, with all the top-lofty
obsequiousness of the perfect footman, would place a
chair in the designated spot, and say:</p>
<p class="indent">"H'anythink else, my lord? Thank you, sir."</p>
<p class="indent">On this particular Wednesday night two topics of
paramount interest engaged the attention of the company.
The newspapers of that day had printed the
story of the apprehension and seizure of one Peter Jolinski,
wanted in Warsaw on the charge of assassination.</p>
<p class="indent">As Count Andreas Verdray he was known to this exclusive
circle of Europeans, and to them he was a persecuted,
unjustly accused fugitive from the land of his
nativity. Russian secret service men had run him to
earth after five years of relentless pursuit. As a respectable,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>[pg 32]</span>
industrious window-washer he had managed
for years to evade arrest for a crime he had not committed,
and now he was in jail awaiting extradition and
almost certain death at the hands of his intriguing enemies.
A cultured scholar, a true gentleman, he was,
despite his vocation, one of the most distinguished
units in this little world of theirs. The authorities in
Warsaw charged him with instigating the plot to assassinate
a powerful and autocratic officer of the Crown.
In more or less hushed voices, the assemblage discussed
the unhappy event.</p>
<p class="indent">The other topic was the need of immediate relief for
the family of the Baroness de Flamme, who was on her
death-bed in Harlem and whose three small children,
deprived of the support of a hard-working music-teacher
and deserted by an unconscionably plebeian
father, were in a pitiable state of destitution. Acting
on the suggestion of Lord Temple, who as Thomas
Trotter earned a weekly stipend of thirty dollars as
chauffeur for a prominent Park Avenue gentleman,
a collection was taken, each person giving according to
his means. The largest contribution was from Count
Fogazario, who headed the list with twenty-five dollars.
The Marchioness was down for twenty. The smallest
donation was from Prince Waldemar. Producing a
solitary coin, he made change, and after saving out ten
cents for carfare, donated forty cents.</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick, Moody and McFaddan were not invited
to contribute. No one would have dreamed of asking
them to join in such a movement. And yet, of all those
present, the three men-servants were in a better position
than any one else to give handsomely. They were,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>[pg 33]</span>
in fact, the richest men there. The next morning, however,
would certainly bring checks from their offices to
the custodian of the fund, the Hon. Mrs. Priestly-Duff.
They knew their places on Wednesday night, however.</p>
<p class="indent">The Countess du Bara, from the Opera, sang later
on in the evening; Prince Waldemar got out his violin
and played; the gay young baroness from the Artists'
Colony played accompaniments very badly on the baby
grand piano; Cricklewick and the footmen served coffee
and sandwiches, and every one smoked in the dining-room.</p>
<p class="indent">At eleven o'clock the Princess departed. She complained
a good deal of her feet.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's the weather," she explained to the Marchioness,
wincing a little as she made her way to the door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Too bad," said the Marchioness. "Are we to be
honoured on next Wednesday night, your highness?
You do not often grace our gatherings, you know.
I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"It will depend entirely on circumstances," said the
Princess, graciously.</p>
<p class="indent">Circumstances, it may be mentioned,—though they
never were mentioned on Wednesday nights,—had a
great deal to do with the Princess's actions. She conducted
a pawn-shop in Baxter street. As the widow
and sole legatee of Moses Jacobs, she was quite a figure
in the street. Customers came from all corners of the
town, and without previous appointment. Report had
it that Mrs. Jacobs was rolling in money. People slunk
in and out of the front door of her place of business,
penniless on entering, affluent on leaving,—if you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>[pg 34]</span>
would call the possession of a dollar or two affluence,—and
always with the resolve in their souls to some day
get even with the leech who stood behind the counter
and doled out nickels where dollars were expected.</p>
<p class="indent">It was an open secret that more than one of those
who kissed the Princess's hand in the Marchioness's
drawing-room carried pawnchecks issued by Mrs. Jacobs.
Business was business. Sentiment entered the
soul of the Princess only on such nights as she found it
convenient and expedient to present herself at the
Salon. It vanished the instant she put on her street
clothes on the floor below and passed out into the night.
Avarice stepped in as sentiment stepped out, and one
should not expect too much of avarice.</p>
<p class="indent">For one, the dreamy, half-starved Prince Waldemar
was rarely without pawnchecks from her delectable establishment.
Indeed it had been impossible for him to
entertain the company on this stormy evening except
for her grudging consent to substitute his overcoat for
the Stradivarius he had been obliged to leave the day
before.</p>
<p class="indent">Without going too deeply into her history, it is only
necessary to say that she was one of those wayward,
wilful princesses royal who occasionally violate all tradition
and marry good-looking young Americans or
Englishmen, and disappear promptly and automatically
from court circles.</p>
<p class="indent">She ran away when she was nineteen with a young
attaché in the British legation. It was the worst thing
that could have happened to the poor chap. For years
they drifted through many lands, finally ending in New
York, where, their resources having been exhausted,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>[pg 35]</span>
she was forced to pawn her jewellery. The pawn-broker
was one Abraham Jacobs, of Baxter street.</p>
<p class="indent">The young English husband, disheartened and thoroughly
disillusioned, shot himself one fine day. By a
single coincidence, a few weeks afterward, old Abraham
went to his fathers in the most agreeable fashion known
to nature, leaving his business, including the princess's
jewels, to his son Moses.</p>
<p class="indent">With rare foresight and acumen, Mrs. Brinsley (the
Princess, in other words), after several months of contemplative
mourning, redeemed her treasure by marrying
Moses. And when Moses, after begetting Solomon,
David and Hannah, passed on at the age of twoscore
years and ten, she continued the business with even
greater success than he. She did not alter the name
that flourished in large gold letters on the two show
windows and above the hospitable doorway. For
twenty years it had read: The Royal Exchange: M.
Jacobs, Proprietor. And now you know all that is
necessary to know about Mariana, to this day a true
princess of the blood.</p>
<p class="indent">Inasmuch as a large share of her business came
through customers who preferred to visit her after the
fall of night, there is no further need to explain her
reply to the Marchioness.</p>
<p class="indent">When midnight came the Marchioness was alone in
the deserted drawing-room. The company had dispersed
to the four corners of the storm-swept city, going
by devious means and routes.</p>
<p class="indent">They fared forth into the night <i>sans</i> ceremony, <i>sans</i>
regalia. In the locker-rooms on the floor below each
of these noble wights divested himself and herself of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>[pg 36]</span>
raiment donned for the occasion. With the turning of
a key in the locker door, barons became ordinary men,
countesses became mere women, and all of them stole
regretfully out of the passage at the foot of the first
flight of stairs and shivered in the wind that blew
through the City of Masks.</p>
<p class="indent">"I've got more money than I know what to do with,
Miss Emsdale," said Tom Trotter, as they went together
out into the bitter wind. "I'll blow you off to
a taxi."</p>
<p class="indent">"I couldn't think of it," said the erstwhile Lady
Jane, drawing her small stole close about her neck.</p>
<p class="indent">"But it's on my way home," said he. "I'll drop
you at your front door. Please do."</p>
<p class="indent">"If I may stand half," she said resolutely.</p>
<p class="indent">"We'll see," said he. "Wait here in the doorway
till I fetch a taxi from the hotel over there. Oh, I say,
Herman, would you mind asking one of those drivers
over there to pick us up here?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure," said Herman, one time Count Wilhelm Frederick
Von Blitzen, who had followed them to the side-walk.
"Fierce night, ain'd it? Py chiminy, ain'd
it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Where is your friend, Mr. Trotter," inquired Miss
Emsdale, as the stalwart figure of one of the most noted
head-waiters in New York struggled off against the
wind.</p>
<p class="indent">"He beat it quite a while ago," said he, with an enlightening
grin.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh?" said she, and met his glance in the darkness.
A sudden warmth swept over her.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>[pg 37]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>THE SCION OF A NEW YORK HOUSE</h3>
<p class="indent">AS Miss Emsdale and Thomas Trotter got down
from the taxi, into a huge unbroken snowdrift in
front of a house in one of the cross-town streets just
off upper Fifth Avenue, a second taxi drew up behind
them and barked a raucous command to pull up out of
the way. But the first taxi was unable to do anything
of the sort, being temporarily though explosively
stalled in the drift along the curb. Whereupon the
fare in the second taxi threw open the door and, with
an audible imprecation, plunged into the drift, just in
time to witness the interesting spectacle of a lady being
borne across the snow-piled sidewalk in the arms of a
stalwart man; and, as he gazed in amazement, the man
and his burden ascended the half-dozen steps leading to
the storm-vestibule of the very house to which he himself
was bound.</p>
<p class="indent">His first shock of apprehension was dissipated almost
instantly. The man's burden giggled quite audibly as
he set her down inside the storm doors. That giggle
was proof positive that she was neither dead nor injured.
She was very much alive, there could be no
doubt about it. But who was she?</p>
<p class="indent">The newcomer swore softly as he fumbled in his trousers'
pocket for a coin for the driver who had run him
up from the club. After an exasperating but seemingly
necessary delay he hurried up the steps. He met the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>[pg 38]</span>
stalwart burden-bearer coming down. A servant had
opened the door and the late burden was passing into
the hall.</p>
<p class="indent">He peered sharply into the face of the man who was
leaving, and recognized him.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hello," he said. "Some one ill, Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, Mr. Smith-Parvis," replied Trotter in some
confusion. "Disagreeable night, isn't it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"In some respects," said young Mr. Smith-Parvis,
and dashed into the vestibule before the footman could
close the door.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale turned at the foot of the broad stairway
as she heard the servant greet the young master.
A swift flush mounted to her cheeks. Her heart beat a
little faster, notwithstanding the fact that it had been
beating with unusual rapidity ever since Thomas Trotter
disregarded her protests and picked her up in his
strong arms.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hello," he said, lowering his voice.</p>
<p class="indent">There was a light in the library beyond. His father
was there, taking advantage, no doubt, of the midnight
lull to read the evening newspapers. The social activities
of the Smith-Parvises gave him but little opportunity
to read the evening papers prior to the appearance
of the morning papers.</p>
<p class="indent">"What is the bally rush?" went on the young man,
slipping out of his fur-lined overcoat and leaving it
pendant in the hands of the footman. Miss Emsdale,
after responding to his hushed "hello" in an equally
subdued tone, had started up the stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is very late, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Good night."</p>
<p class="indent">"Never too late to mend," he said, and was supremely
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>[pg 39]</span>
well-satisfied with what a superior intelligence
might have recorded as a cryptic remark but what, to
him, was an awfully clever "come-back." He had spent
three years at Oxford. No beastly American college
for him, by Jove!</p>
<p class="indent">Overcoming a cultivated antipathy to haste,—which
he considered the lowest form of ignorance,—he
bounded up the steps, three at a time, and overtook her
midway to the top.</p>
<p class="indent">"I say, Miss Emsdale, I saw you come in, don't you
know. I couldn't believe my eyes. What the deuce
were you doing out with that common—er—chauffeur?
D'you mean to say that you are running about
with a chap of that sort, and letting him—"</p>
<p class="indent">"If you <i>please</i>, Mr. Smith-Parvis!" interrupted
Miss Emsdale coldly. "Good night!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't mean to say you haven't the <i>right</i> to go
about with any one you please," he persisted, planting
himself in front of her at the top of the steps. "But a
common chauffeur—Well, now, 'pon my word, Miss
Emsdale, really you might just as well be seen with
Peasley down there."</p>
<p class="indent">"Peasley is out of the question," said she, affecting
a wry little smile, as of self-pity. "He is tooken, as
you say in America. He walks out with Bessie, the
parlour-maid."</p>
<p class="indent">"Walks out? Good Lord, you don't mean to say
you'd—but, of course, you're spoofing me. One never
knows how to take you English, no matter how long
one may have lived in England. But I am serious.
You cannot afford to be seen running around nights
with fellows of that stripe. Rotten bounders, that's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>[pg 40]</span>
what I call 'em. Ever been out with him before?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Often, Mr. Smith-Parvis," she replied calmly. "I
am sure you would like him if you knew him better. He
is really a very—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Nonsense! He is a good chauffeur, I've no doubt,—Lawrie
Carpenter says he's a treasure, but I've no
desire to know him any better. And I don't like to
think of you knowing him quite as well as you do, Miss
Emsdale. See what I mean?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Perfectly. You mean that you will go to your
mother with the report that I am not a fit person to be
with the children. Isn't that what you mean?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all. I'm not thinking of the kids. I'm
thinking of myself. I'm pretty keen about you,
and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Aren't you forgetting yourself, Mr. Smith-Parvis?"
she demanded curtly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I know there'd be a devil of a row if the mater
ever dreamed that I—Oh, I say! Don't rush off in
a huff. Wait a—"</p>
<p class="indent">But she had brushed past him and was swiftly ascending
the second flight of stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">He stared after her in astonishment. He couldn't
understand such stupidity, not even in a governess.
There wasn't another girl in New York City, so far as
he knew, who wouldn't have been pleased out of her
boots to receive the significant mark of interest he was
bestowing upon this lowly governess,—and here was
she turning her back upon,—Why, what was the matter
with her? He passed his hand over his brow and
blinked a couple of times. And she only a paid governess!
It was incredible.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>[pg 41]</span>
He went slowly downstairs and, still in a sort of daze,
found himself a few minutes later pouring out a large
drink of whiskey in the dining-room. It was his habit
to take a bottle of soda with his whiskey, but on this
occasion he overcame it and gulped the liquor "neat."
It appeared to be rather uplifting, so he had another.
Then he went up to his own room and sulked for an
hour before even preparing for bed. The more he
thought of it, the graver her unseemly affront became.</p>
<p class="indent">"And to have her insult <i>me</i> like that," he said to
himself over and over again, "when not three minutes
before she had let that bally bounder carry her up—By
gad, I'll give her something to think about in the
morning. She sha'n't do that sort of thing to me.
She'll find herself out of a job and with a damned poor
reference in her pocket if she gets gay with me. She'll
come down from her high horse, all right, all right.
Positions like this one don't grow in the park. She's
got to understand that. She can't go running around
with chauffeurs and all—My God, to think that he
had her in his arms! The one girl in all the world who
has ever really made me sit up and take notice! Gad,
I—I can't stand it—I can't bear to think of her
cuddling up to that—The damned bounder!"</p>
<p class="indent">He sprang to his feet and bolted out into the hall.
He was a spoiled young man with an aversion: an aversion
to being denied anything that he wanted.</p>
<p class="indent">In the brief history of the Smith-Parvis family he
occupied many full and far from prosaic pages.
Smith-Parvis, Senior, was not a prodigal sort of person,
and yet he had squandered a great many thousands
of dollars in his time on Smith-Parvis, Junior. It costs
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>[pg 42]</span>
money to bring up young men like Smith-Parvis, Junior;
and by the same token it costs money to hold them
down. The family history, if truthfully written, would
contain passages in which the unbridled ambitions of
Smith-Parvis, Junior, overwhelmed everything else.
There would be the chapters excoriating the two chorus-girls
who, in not widely separated instances, consented
to release the young man from matrimonial pledges in
return for so much cash; and there would be numerous
paragraphs pertaining to auction-bridge, and others
devoted entirely to tailors; to say nothing of uncompromising
café and restaurant keepers who preferred
the Smith-Parvis money to the Smith-Parvis trade.</p>
<p class="indent">The young man, having come to the conclusion that
he wanted Miss Emsdale, ruthlessly decided to settle
the matter at once. He would not wait till morning.
He would go up to her room and tell her that if she
knew what was good for her she'd listen to what he had
to say. She was too nice a girl to throw herself away
on a rotter like Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">Then, as he came to the foot of the steps, he remembered
the expression in her eyes as she swept past him
an hour earlier. It suddenly occurred to him to pause
and reflect. The look she gave him, now that he
thought of it, was not that of a timid, frightened menial.
Far from it! There was something imperious about it;
he recalled the subtle, fleeting and hitherto unfamiliar
chill it gave him.</p>
<p class="indent">Somewhat to his own amazement, he returned to his
room and closed the door with surprising care. He
usually slammed it.</p>
<p class="indent">"Dammit all," he said, half aloud, scowling at his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>[pg 43]</span>
reflection in the mirror across the room, "I—I wonder
if she thinks she can put on airs with me." Later on he
regained his self-assurance sufficiently to utter an ultimatum
to the invisible offender: "You'll be eating out
of my hand before you're two days older, my fine lady,
or I'll know the reason why."</p>
<p class="indent">Smith-Parvis, Junior, wore the mask of a gentleman.
As a matter-of-fact, the entire Smith-Parvis family
went about masked by a similar air of gentility.</p>
<p class="indent">The hyphen had a good deal to do with it.</p>
<p class="indent">The head of the family, up to the time he came of age,
was William Philander Smith, commonly called Bill by
the young fellows in Yonkers. A maternal uncle, name
of Parvis, being without wife or child at the age of
seventy-eight, indicated a desire to perpetuate his name
by hitching it to the sturdiest patronymic in the English
language, and forthwith made a will, leaving all that
he possessed to his only nephew, on condition that the
said nephew and all his descendants should bear, henceforth
and for ever, the name of Smith-Parvis.</p>
<p class="indent">That is how it all came about. William Philander,
shortly after the fusion of names, fell heir to a great
deal of money and in due time forsook Yonkers for
Manhattan, where he took unto himself a wife in the
person of Miss Angela Potts, only child of the late
Simeon Potts, Esq., and Mrs. Potts, neither of whom, it
would seem, had the slightest desire to perpetuate the
family name. Indeed, as Angela was getting along
pretty well toward thirty, they rather made a point of
abolishing it before it was too late.</p>
<p class="indent">The first-born of William Philander and Angela was
christened Stuyvesant Van Sturdevant Smith-Parvis,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>[pg 44]</span>
after one of the Pottses who came over at a time when
the very best families in Holland, according to the infant's
grandparents, were engaged in establishing an
aristocracy at the foot of Manhattan Island.</p>
<p class="indent">After Stuyvesant,—ten years after, in fact,—came
Regina Angela, who languished a while in the laps of
the Pottses and the Smith-Parvis nurses, and died expectedly.
When Stuyvie was fourteen the twins, Lucille
and Eudora, came, and at that the Smith-Parvises
packed up and went to England to live. Stuyvie managed
in some way to make his way through Eton and
part of the way through Oxford. He was sent down
in his third year. It wasn't so easy to have his own
way there. Moreover, he did not like Oxford because
the rest of the boys persisted in calling him an American.
He didn't mind being called a New Yorker, but
they were rather obstinate about it.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale was the new governess. The redoubtable
Mrs. Sparflight had recommended her to Mrs.
Smith-Parvis. Since her advent into the home in Fifth
Avenue, some three or four months prior to the opening
of this narrative, a marked change had come over Stuyvesant
Van Sturdevant. It was principally noticeable
in a recently formed habit of getting down to breakfast
early. The twins and the governess had breakfast at
half-past eight. Up to this time he had detested the
twins. Of late, however, he appeared to have discovered
that they were his sisters and rather interesting
little beggars at that.</p>
<p class="indent">They were very much surprised by his altered behaviour.
To the new governess they confided the
somewhat startling suspicion that Stuyvie must be having
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>[pg 45]</span>
softening of the brain, just as "grandpa" had when
"papa" discovered that he was giving diamond rings
to the servants and smiling at strangers in the street.
It must be that, said they, for never before had Stuyvie
kissed them or brought them expensive candies or smiled
at them as he was doing in these wonderful days.</p>
<p class="indent">Stranger still, he never had been polite or agreeable
to governesses—before. He always had called them
frumps, or cats, or freaks, or something like that.
Surely something must be the matter with him, or he
wouldn't be so nice to Miss Emsdale. Up to now he
positively had refused to look at her predecessors, much
less to sit at the same table with them. He said they
took away his appetite.</p>
<p class="indent">The twins adored Miss Emsdale.</p>
<p class="indent">"We love you because you are so awfuly good," they
were wont to say. "And so beautiful," they invariably
added, as if it were not quite the proper thing to
say.</p>
<p class="indent">It was obvious to Miss Emsdale that Stuyvesant endorsed
the supplemental tribute of the twins. He made
it very plain to the new governess that he thought more
of her beauty than he did of her goodness. He ogled
her in a manner which, for want of a better expression,
may be described as possessive. Instead of being complimented
by his surreptitious admiration, she was distinctly
annoyed. She disliked him intensely.</p>
<p class="indent">He was twenty-five. There were bags under his eyes.
More than this need not be said in describing him, unless
one is interested in the tiny black moustache that looked
as though it might have been pasted, with great precision,
in the centre of his long upper lip,—directly beneath
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>[pg 46]</span>
the spreading nostrils of a broad and far from
aristocratic nose. His lips were thick and coarse, his
chin a trifle undershot. Physically, he was a well set-up
fellow, tall and powerful.</p>
<p class="indent">For reasons best known to himself, and approved by
his parents, he affected a distinctly English manner of
speech. In that particular, he frequently out-Englished
the English themselves.</p>
<p class="indent">As for Miss Emsdale, she was a long time going to
sleep. The encounter with the scion of the house had
left her in a disturbed frame of mind. She laid awake
for hours wondering what the morrow would produce
for her. Dismissal, no doubt, and with it a stinging
rebuke for what Mrs. Smith-Parvis would consider herself
justified in characterizing as unpardonable misconduct
in one employed to teach innocent and impressionable
young girls. Mingled with these dire thoughts
were occasional thrills of delight. They were, however,
of short duration and had to do with a pair of
strong arms and a gentle, laughing voice.</p>
<p class="indent">In addition to these shifting fears and thrills, there
were even more disquieting sensations growing out of
the unwelcome attentions of Smith-Parvis, Junior.
They were, so to speak, getting on her nerves. And
now he had not only expressed himself in words, but
had actually threatened her. There could be no mistake
about that.</p>
<p class="indent">Her heart was heavy. She did not want to lose her
position. The monthly checks she received from Mrs.
Smith-Parvis meant a great deal to her. At least half
of her pay went to England, and sometimes more than
half. A friendly solicitor in London obtained the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>[pg 47]</span>
money on these drafts and forwarded it, without fee, to
the sick young brother who would never walk again, the
adored young brother who had fallen prey to the most
cruel of all enemies: infantile paralysis.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane Thorne was the only daughter of the Earl of
Wexham, who shot himself in London when the girl was
but twelve years old. He left a penniless widow and
two children. Wexham Manor, with all its fields and
forests, had been sacrificed beforehand by the reckless,
ill-advised nobleman. The police found a half-crown in
his pocket when they took charge of the body. It was
the last of a once imposing fortune. The widow and
children subsisted on the charity of a niggardly relative.
With the death of the former, after ten unhappy
years as a dependent, Jane resolutely refused to accept
help from the obnoxious relative. She set out to earn
a living for herself and the crippled boy. We find her,
after two years of struggle and privation, installed as
Miss Emsdale in the Smith-Parvis mansion, earning one
hundred dollars a month.</p>
<p class="indent">It is safe to say that if the Smith-Parvises had known
that she was the daughter of an Earl, and that her
brother was an Earl, there would have been great rejoicing
among them; for it isn't everybody who can
boast an Earl's daughter as governess.</p>
<p class="indent">One night in each week she was free to do as she
pleased. It was, in plain words, her night out. She
invariably spent it with the Marchioness and the coterie
of unmasked spirits from lands across the seas.</p>
<p class="indent">What was she to say to Mrs. Smith-Parvis if called
upon to account for her unconventional return of the
night before? How could she explain? Her lips were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>[pg 48]</span>
closed by the seal of honour so far as the meetings
above "Deborah's" were concerned. A law unwritten
but steadfastly observed by every member of that
remarkable, heterogeneous court, made it impossible for
her to divulge her whereabouts or actions on this and
other agreeable "nights out." No man or woman in
that company would have violated, even under the
gravest pressure, the compact under which so many
well-preserved secrets were rendered secure from exposure.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant, in his rancour, would draw an ugly picture
of her midnight adventure. He would, no doubt,
feel inspired to add a few conclusions of his own. Her
word, opposed to his, would have no effect on the verdict
of the indulgent mother. She would stand accused
and convicted of conduct unbecoming a governess!
For, after all, Thomas Trotter was a chauffeur,
and she couldn't make anything nobler out of him
without saying that he wasn't Thomas Trotter at all.</p>
<p class="indent">She arose the next morning with a splitting headache,
and the fear of Stuyvesant in her soul.</p>
<p class="indent">He was waiting for her in the hall below. The twins
were accorded an unusually affectionate greeting by
their big brother. He went so far as to implant a random
kiss on the features of each of the "brats," as he
called them in secret. Then he roughly shoved them
ahead into the breakfast-room.</p>
<p class="indent">Fastening his gaze upon the pale, unsmiling face of
Miss Emsdale, he whispered:</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't worry, my dear. Mum's the word."</p>
<p class="indent">He winked significantly. Revolted, she drew herself
up and hurried after the children, unpleasantly conscious
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>[pg 49]</span>
of the leer of admiration that rested upon her
from behind.</p>
<p class="indent">He was very gay at breakfast.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mum's the word," he repeated in an undertone, as
he drew back her chair at the conclusion of the meal.
His lips were close to her ear, his hot breath on her
cheek, as he bent forward to utter this reassuring
remark.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>[pg 50]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>MR. THOMAS TROTTER HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE</h3>
<p class="indent">TWO days later Thomas Trotter turned up at the
old book shop of J. Bramble, in Lexington
Avenue.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well," he said, as he took his pipe out of his pocket
and began to stuff tobacco into it, "I've got the sack."</p>
<p class="indent">"Got the sack?" exclaimed Mr. Bramble, blinking
through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "You can't be
serious."</p>
<p class="indent">"It's the gospel truth," affirmed Mr. Trotter, depositing
his long, graceful body in a rocking chair facing
the sheet-iron stove at the back of the shop. "Got my
walking papers last night, Bramby."</p>
<p class="indent">"What's wrong? I thought you were a fixture on
the job. What have you been up to?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm blessed if I know," said the young man, shaking
his head slowly. "Kicked out without notice, that's
all I know about it. Two weeks' pay handed me; and a
simple statement that he was putting some one on in my
place today."</p>
<p class="indent">"Not even a reference?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He offered me a good one," said Trotter ironically.
"Said he would give me the best send-off a chauffeur
ever had. I told him I couldn't accept a reference
and a discharge from the same employer."</p>
<p class="indent">"Rather foolish, don't you think?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>[pg 51]</span>
"That's just what he said. I said I'd rather have
an explanation than a reference, under the circumstances."</p>
<p class="indent">"Um! What did he say to that?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Said I'd better take what he was willing to give."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble drew up a chair and sat down. He
was a small, sharp-featured man of sixty, bookish from
head to foot.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, well," he mused sympathetically. "Too
bad, too bad, my boy. Still, you ought to thank goodness
it comes at a time when the streets are in the shape
they're in now. Almost impossible to get about with
an automobile in all this snow, isn't it? Rather a good
time to be discharged, I should say."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I say, that <i>is</i> optimism. 'Pon my soul, I believe
you'd find something cheerful about going to hell,"
broke in Trotter, grinning.</p>
<p class="indent">"Best way I know of to escape blizzards and snow-drifts,"
said Mr. Bramble, brightly.</p>
<p class="indent">The front door opened. A cold wind blew the
length of the book-littered room.</p>
<p class="indent">"This Bramble's?" piped a thin voice.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes. Come in and shut the door."</p>
<p class="indent">An even smaller and older man than himself obeyed
the command. He wore the cap of a district messenger
boy.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mr. J. Bramble here?" he quaked, advancing.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes. What is it? A telegram?" demanded the
owner of the shop, in some excitement.</p>
<p class="indent">"I should say not. Wires down everywheres.
Gee, that fire looks good. I gotta letter for you, Mr.
Bramble." He drew off his red mittens and produced
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>[pg 52]</span>
from the pocket of his thin overcoat, an envelope and
receipt book. "Sign here," he said, pointing.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble signed and then studied the handwriting
on the envelope, his lips pursed, one eye speculatively
cocked.</p>
<p class="indent">"I've never seen the writing before. Must be a new
one," he reflected aloud, and sighed. "Poor things!"</p>
<p class="indent">"That establishes the writer as a woman," said
Trotter, removing his pipe. "Otherwise you would
have said 'poor devils.' Now what do you mean by
trifling with the women, you old rogue?" The loss of
his position did not appear to have affected the nonchalant
disposition of the good-looking Mr. Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, staring hard
at the envelope, "I don't believe it is from one of them,
after all. By 'one of them,' my lad, I mean the poor
gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to sell their
books in order to obtain food and clothing. They always
write before they call, you see. Saves 'em not
only trouble but humiliation. The other kind simply
burst in with a parcel of rubbish and ask how much I'll
give for the lot. But this,—Well, well, I wonder
who it can be from? Doesn't seem like the sort of
writing—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Why don't you open it and see?" suggested his
visitor.</p>
<p class="indent">"A good idea," said Mr. Bramble; "a very clever
thought. There <i>is</i> a way to find out, isn't there?"
His gaze fell upon the aged messenger, who warmed his
bony hands at the stove. He paused, the tip of his
forefinger inserted under the flap. "Sit down and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>[pg 53]</span>
warm yourself, my friend," he said. "Get your long
legs out of the way, Tom, and make room for him.
That's right! Must be pretty rough going outside for
an old codger like you."</p>
<p class="indent">The messenger "boy" sat down. "Yes, sir, it sure
is. Takes 'em forever in this 'ere town to clean the
snow off'n the streets. 'Twasn't that way in my day."</p>
<p class="indent">"What do you mean by your 'day'?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Haven't you ever heard about me?" demanded
the old man, eyeing Mr. Bramble with interest.</p>
<p class="indent">"Can't say that I have."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, can you beat that? There's a big, long
street named after me way down town. My name is
Canal, Jotham W. Canal." He winked and showed his
toothless gums in an amiable grin. "I used to be purty
close to old Boss Tweed; kind of a lieutenant, you might
say. Things were so hot in the old town in those days
that we used to charge a nickel apiece for snowballs.
Five cents apiece, right off the griddle. That's how
hot it was in my day."</p>
<p class="indent">"My word!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble.</p>
<p class="indent">"He's spoofing you," said young Mr. Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"My God," groaned the messenger, "if I'd only
knowed you was English I'd have saved my breath.
Well, I guess I'll be on my way. Is there an answer,
Mr. Bramble?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Um—aw—I quite forgot the—" He tore open
the envelope and held the missive to the light. "'Pon
my soul!" he cried, after reading the first few lines and
then jumping ahead to the signature. "This is most
extraordinary." He was plainly agitated as he felt in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>[pg 54]</span>
his pocket for a coin. "No answer,—that is to say,—none
at present. Ahem! That's all, boy. Goodbye."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Canal shuffled out of the shop,—and out of this
narrative as well.</p>
<p class="indent">"This will interest you," said Mr. Bramble, lowering
his voice as he edged his chair closer to the young man.
"It is from Lady Jane Thorne—I should say, Miss
Emsdale. Bless my soul!"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Trotter's British complacency was disturbed.
He abandoned his careless sprawl in the chair and sat
up very abruptly.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's that? From Lady Jane? Don't tell me
it's anything serious. One would think she was on her
deathbed, judging by the face you're—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Read it for yourself," said the other, thrusting the
letter into Trotter's hand. "It explains everything,—the
whole blooming business. Read it aloud.
Don't be uneasy," he added, noting the young man's
glance toward the door. "No customers on a day like
this. Some one may drop in to get warm, but—aha,
I see you are interested."</p>
<p class="indent">An angry flush darkened Trotter's face as his eyes
ran down the page.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="indent">"'Dear Mr. Bramble: (she wrote) I am sending this
to you by special messenger, hoping it may reach you
before Mr. Trotter drops in. He has told me that he
spends a good deal of his spare time in your dear old
shop, browsing among the books. In the light of what
may already have happened, I am quite sure you will
see him today. I feel that I may write freely to you,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>[pg 55]</span>
for you are his friend and mine, and you will understand.
I am greatly distressed. Yesterday I was informed
that he is to be summarily dismissed by Mr.
Carpenter. I prefer not to reveal the source of information.
All I may say is that I am, in a way,
responsible for his misfortune. If the blow has fallen,
he is doubtless perplexed and puzzled, and, I fear, very
unhappy. Influence has been brought to bear upon
Mr. Carpenter, who, you may not be by way of knowing,
is a close personal friend of the people in whose
home I am employed. Indeed, notwithstanding the
difference in their ages, I may say that he is especially
the friend of young Mr. S-P. Mr. Trotter probably
knows something about the nature of this friendship,
having been kept out till all hours of the morning in his
capacity as chauffeur. My object in writing to you is
two-fold: first, to ask you to prevail upon him to act
with discretion for the present, at least, as I have reason
to believe that there may be an attempt to carry out
a threat to "run him out of town"; secondly, to advise
him that I shall stop at your place at five o'clock this
afternoon in quest of a little book that now is out
of print. Please explain to him also that my uncertainty
as to where a letter would reach him under these
new conditions accounts for this message to you. Sincerely
your friend,</p>
<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Jane Emsdale</span>.'"</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="indent">"Read it again, slowly," said Mr. Bramble, blinking
harder than ever.</p>
<p class="indent">"What time is it now?" demanded Trotter, thrusting
the letter into his own pocket. A quick glance at
the watch on his wrist brought a groan of dismay from
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>[pg 56]</span>
his lips. "Good Lord! A few minutes past ten.
Seven hours! Hold on! I can almost see the words on
your lips. I'll be discreet, so don't begin prevailing,
there's a good chap. There's nothing to be said or
done till I see her. But,—seven hours!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Stop here and have a bite of lunch with me," said
Mr. Bramble, soothingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing could be more discreet than that," said
Trotter, getting up to pace the floor. He was frowning.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's quite cosy in our little dining-room upstairs.
If you prefer, I'll ask Mirabeau to clear out and let us
have the place to ourselves while—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all. I'll stop with you, but I will not have
poor old Mirabeau evicted. We will show the letter to
him. He is a Frenchman and he can read between the
lines far better than either of us."</p>
<p class="indent">At twelve-thirty, Mr. Bramble stuck a long-used card
in the front door and locked it from the inside. The
world was informed, in bold type, that he had gone to
lunch and would not return until one-thirty.</p>
<p class="indent">In the rear of the floor above the book-shop were the
meagrely furnished bedrooms and kitchen shared by J.
Bramble and Pierre Mirabeau, clock-maker and repairer.
The kitchen was more than a kitchen. It was
also a dining-room, a sitting-room and a scullery, and
it was as clean and as neat as the proverbial pin. At
the front was the work-shop of M. Mirabeau, filled with
clocks of all sizes, shapes and ages. Back of this, as a
sort of buffer between the quiet bedrooms and the busy
resting-place of a hundred sleepless chimes, was located
the combination store-room, utilized by both merchants:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>[pg 57]</span>
a musty, dingy place crowded with intellectual rubbish
and a lapse of Time.</p>
<p class="indent">Mirabeau, in response to a shout from the fat Irishwoman
who came in by the day to cook, wash and clean
up for the tenants, strode briskly into the kitchen, drying
his hands on a towel. He was a tall, spare old man
with uncommonly bright eyes and a long grey beard.</p>
<p class="indent">His joy on beholding the young guest at their board
was surpassed only by the dejection communicated to
his sensitive understanding by the dismal expression on
the faces of J. Bramble and Thomas Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">He broke off in the middle of a sentence, and, still
grasping the hand of the guest, allowed his gaze to dart
from one to the other.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mon dieu!" he exclaimed, swiftly altering his tone
to one of the deepest concern. "What has happened?
Has some one died? Don't tell me it is your grandfather,
my boy. Don't tell me that the old villain has
died at last and you will have to go back and step into
his misguided boots. Nothing else can—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Worse than that," interrupted Trotter, smiling.
"I've lost my situation."</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau heaved a sigh of relief. "Ah! My
heart beats again. Still," with a vastly different sigh,
"he cannot go on living for ever. The time is bound
to come when you—"</p>
<p class="indent">An admonitory cough from Mr. Bramble, and a significant
jerk of the head in the direction of the kitchen-range,
which was almost completely obscured by the
person of Mrs. O'Leary, caused M. Mirabeau to bring
his remarks to an abrupt close.</p>
<p class="indent">When he was twenty-five years younger, Monsieur
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>[pg 58]</span>
Mirabeau, known to every one of consequence in Paris
by his true and lawful name, Count André Drouillard,
as handsome and as high-bred a gentleman as there was
in all France, shot and killed, with all the necessary
ceremony, a prominent though bourgeoise general in
the French Army, satisfactorily ending a liaison in
which the Countess and the aforesaid general were the
principal characters. Notwithstanding the fact that
the duel had been fought in the most approved French
fashion, which almost invariably (except, in case of accident)
provides for a few well-scattered shots and subsequent
embraces on the part of the uninjured adversaries,
the general fell with a bullet through his
heart.</p>
<p class="indent">So great was the consternation of the Republic, and
so unpardonable the accuracy of the Count, that the
authorities deemed it advisable to make an example of
the unfortunate nobleman. He was court-martialled
by the army and sentenced to be shot. On the eve of
the execution he escaped and, with the aid of friends,
made his way into Switzerland, where he found refuge
in the home of a sequestered citizen who made antique
clocks for a living. A price was put upon his head, and
so relentless were the efforts to apprehend him that for
months he did not dare show it outside the house of his
protector.</p>
<p class="indent">He repaid the clockmaker with honest toil. In
course of time he became an expert repairer. With
the confiscation of his estates in France, he resigned
himself to the inevitable. He became a man without
a country. One morning the newspapers in Paris
announced the death, by suicide, of the long-sought
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>[pg 59]</span>
pariah. A few days later he was on his way to the
United States. His widow promptly re-married and,
sad to relate, from all reports lived happily ever afterwards.</p>
<p class="indent">The bourgeoise general, in his tomb in France, was
not more completely dead to the world than Count
André Drouillard; on the other hand, no livelier,
sprightlier person ever lived than Pierre Mirabeau, repairer
of clocks in Lexington Avenue.</p>
<p class="indent">And so if you will look at it in quite the proper spirit,
there is but one really morbid note in the story of M.
Mirabeau: the melancholy snuffing-out of the poor general,—and
even that was brightened to some extent by
the most sumptuous military funeral in years.</p>
<p class="indent">"What do you make of it?" demanded Mr. Trotter,
half-an-hour later in the crowded work-shop of the
clockmaker.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau held Miss Emsdale's letter off at arm's
length, and squinted at it with great intensity, as if
actually trying to read between the lines.</p>
<p class="indent">"I have an opinion," said M. Mirabeau, frowning.
Whereupon he rendered his deductions into words, and
of his two listeners Thomas Trotter was the most dumbfounded.</p>
<p class="indent">"But I don't know the blooming bounder," he exclaimed,—"except
by sight and reputation. And I
have reason to know that Lady Jane loathes and detests
him."</p>
<p class="indent">"Aha! There we have it! Why does she loathe
and detest him?" cried M. Mirabeau. "Because, my
stupid friend, he has been annoying her with his attentions.
It is not an uncommon thing for rich young men
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>[pg 60]</span>
to lose their heads over pretty young maids and nurses,
and even governesses."</p>
<p class="indent">"'Gad, if I thought he was annoying her I'd—I'd—"</p>
<p class="indent">"There you go!" cried Mr. Bramble, nervously.
"Just as she feared. She knew what she was about
when she asked me to see that you did not do anything—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Hang it all, Bramble, I'm not <i>doing</i> anything, am
I? I'm only <i>saying</i> things. Wait till I begin to do
things before you preach."</p>
<p class="indent">"That's just it!" cried Mr. Bramble. "You invariably
do things when you get that look in your eyes.
I knew you long before you knew yourself. You looked
like that when you were five years old and wanted to
thump Bobby Morgan, who was thirteen. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau interrupted. He had not been following
the discussion. Leaning forward, he eyed the
young man keenly, even disconcertingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"What is back of all this? Admitting that young
Mr. S.-P. is enamoured of our lovely friend, what cause
have you given him for jealousy? Have you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Great Scot!" exclaimed Trotter, fairly bouncing
off the work-bench on which he sat with his long legs
dangling. "Why,—why, if <i>that's</i> the way he feels
toward her he must have had a horrible jolt the other
night. Good Lord!" A low whistle followed the exclamation.</p>
<p class="indent">"Aha! Now we are getting at the cause. We already
have the effect. Out with it," cried M. Mirabeau,
eager as a boy. His fine eyes danced with excitement.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>[pg 61]</span>
"Now that I think of it, he saw me carry her up the
steps the other night after we'd all been to the Marchioness's.
The night of the blizzard, you know. Oh,
I say! It's worse than I thought." He looked blankly
from one to the other of the two old men.</p>
<p class="indent">"Carried her up the steps, eh? In your good strong
arms, eh? And you say '<i>now</i> that I think of it.'
Bless your heart, you scalawag, you've been thinking
of nothing else since it happened. Ah!" sighed M.
Mirabeau, "how wonderful it must have been! The
feel of her in your arms, and the breath of her on your
cheek, and—Ah! It is a sad thing not to grow old.
I am not growing old despite my seventy years. If I
could but grow old, and deaf, and feeble, perhaps I
should then be able to command the blood that thrills
now with the thought of—But, alas! I shall never
be so old as that! You say he witnessed this remarkable—ah—exhibition
of strength on your part?"
He spoke briskly again.</p>
<p class="indent">"The snow was a couple of feet deep, you see," explained
Trotter, who had turned a bright crimson.
"Dreadful night, wasn't it, Bramble?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I know what kind of a night it was," said the old
Frenchman, delightedly. "My warmest congratulations,
my friend. She is the loveliest, the noblest, the
truest—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg your pardon," interrupted Trotter, stiffly.
"It hasn't gone as far as all that."</p>
<p class="indent">"It has gone farther than you think," said M. Mirabeau
shrewdly. "And that is why you were discharged
without—"</p>
<p class="indent">"By gad! The worst of it all is, she will probably
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>[pg 62]</span>
get her walking papers too,—if she hasn't already got
them," groaned the young man. "Don't you see what
has happened? The rotter has kicked up a rumpus
about that innocent,—and if I do say it,—gallant act
of mine the other night. They've had her on the carpet
to explain. It looks bad for her. They're the sort
of people you can't explain things to. What rotten
luck! She needs the money and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing of the kind has happened," said M. Mirabeau
with conviction. "It isn't in young Mr. S.-P.'s
plans to have her dismissed. That would be—ah,
what is it you say?—spilling the beans, eh? The instant
she relinquishes her place in that household all
hope is lost, so far as he is concerned. He is shrewd
enough to realize that, my friend. You are the fly in
his ointment. It is necessary to the success of his enterprise
to be well rid of you. He doesn't want to
lose sight of her, however. He—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Run me out of town, eh?" grated Trotter, his
thoughts leaping back to the passage in Lady Jane's
letter. "Easier said than done, he'll find."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble coughed. "Are we not going it rather
blindly? All this is pure speculation. The young man
may not have a hand in the business at all."</p>
<p class="indent">"He'll discover he's put his foot in it if he tries any
game on me," said Mr. Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau beamed. "There is always a way to
checkmate the villain in the story. You see it exemplified
in every melodrama on the stage and in every shilling
shocker. The hero,—and you are our hero,—puts
him to rout by marrying the heroine and living
happily to a hale old age. What could be more beautiful
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>[pg 63]</span>
than the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne and Lord
Eric Carruthers Ethelbert Temple? Mon dieu! It
is—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Rubbish!" exclaimed Mr. Trotter, suddenly looking
down at his foot, which was employed in the laudable
but unnecessary act of removing a tiny shaving
from a crack in the floor. "Besides," he went on an
instant later, acknowledging an interval of mental
consideration, "she wouldn't have me."</p>
<p class="indent">"It is my time to say 'rubbish,'" said the old
Frenchman. "Why wouldn't she have you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Because she doesn't care for me in that way, if
you must know," blurted out the young man.</p>
<p class="indent">"Has she said so?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Of course not. She wouldn't be likely to volunteer
the information, would she?" with fine irony.</p>
<p class="indent">"Then how do you know she doesn't care for you in
that way?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I—I just simply know it, that's all."</p>
<p class="indent">"I see. You are the smartest man of all time if
you know a woman's heart without probing into it, or
her mind without tricking it. She permitted you to
carry her up the steps, didn't she?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She had to," said Trotter forcibly. "That doesn't
prove anything. And what's more, she objected to being
carried."</p>
<p class="indent">"Um! What did she say?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Said she didn't in the least mind getting her feet
wet. She'd have her boots off as soon as she got into
the house."</p>
<p class="indent">"Is that all?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She said she was awfully heavy, and—Oh, there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>[pg 64]</span>
is no use talking to me. I know how to take a hint.
She just didn't want me to—er—carry her, that's
the long and the short of it."</p>
<p class="indent">"Did she struggle violently?"</p>
<p class="indent">"What?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You heard me. Did she?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly not. She gave in when I insisted. What
else could she do?" He whirled suddenly upon Mr.
Bramble. "What are you grinning about, Bramby?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Who's grinning?" demanded Mr. Bramble indignantly,
after the lapse of thirty or forty seconds.</p>
<p class="indent">"You <i>were</i>, confound you. I don't see anything
to laugh at in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My advice to you," broke in M. Mirabeau, still
detached, "is to ask her."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ask her? Ask her what?"</p>
<p class="indent">"To marry you. As I was saying—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My God!" gasped Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"That is my advice also," put in Mr. Bramble, fumbling
with his glasses and trying to suppress a smile,—for
fear it would be misinterpreted. "I can't think of
anything more admirable than the union of the Temple
and Wexham families in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, good Lord," cried Trotter, "even if she'd
have me, how on earth could I take care of her on a
chauffeur's pay? And I'm not getting that now. I
wish to call your attention to the fact that your little
hero has less than fifty pounds,—a good deal less than
fifty,—laid by for a rainy day."</p>
<p class="indent">"I've known a great many people who were married
on rainy days," said M. Mirabeau brightly, "and nothing
unlucky came of it."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>[pg 65]</span>
"Moreover, when your grandfather passes away,"
urged Mr. Bramble, "you will be a very rich man,—provided,
of course, he doesn't remain obstinate and
leave his money to some one else. In any event, you
would come in for sufficient to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You forget," began Trotter, gravely and with a
dignity that chilled the eager old man, "that I will not
go back to England, nor will I claim anything that is <i>in</i>
England, until a certain injustice is rectified and I am
set straight in the eyes of the unbelievers."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble cleared his throat. "Time will clear
up everything, my lad. God knows you never did
the—"</p>
<p class="indent">"God knows it all right enough, but God isn't a member
of the Brunswick Club, and His voice is never heard
there in counsel. He may lend a helping hand to those
who are trying to clear my name, because they believe
in me, but the whole business is beginning to look
pretty dark to me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ahem! What does Miss—ah, Lady Jane think
about the—ah, unfortunate affair?" stammered Mr.
Bramble.</p>
<p class="indent">"She doesn't believe a damn' word of it," exploded
Trotter, his face lighting up.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good!" cried M. Mirabeau. "Proof that she
pities you, and what more could you ask for a beginning?
She believes you were unjustly accused of cheating
at cards, that there was a plot to ruin you and to
drive you out of the Army, and that your grandfather
ought to be hung to a lamp post for believing what
she doesn't believe. Good! Now we are on solid, substantial
ground. What time is it, Bramble?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>[pg 66]</span>
Mr. Bramble looked at a half-dozen clocks in succession.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm blessed if I know," he said. "They range from
ten o'clock to half-past six."</p>
<p class="indent">"Just three hours and twenty-two minutes to wait,"
said Thomas Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>[pg 67]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>THE UNFAILING MEMORY</h3>
<p class="indent">PRINCE WALDEMAR DE BOSKY, confronted
by the prospect of continued cold weather, decided
to make an appeal to Mrs. Moses Jacobs, sometime
Princess Mariana di Pavesi. She had his overcoat,
the precious one with the fur collar and the leather
lining,—the one, indeed, that the friendly safe-blower
who lodged across the hall from him had left behind at
the outset of a journey up-state.</p>
<p class="indent">"More than likely," said the safe-blower, who was
not only surprised but gratified when the "little dago"
came to visit him in the Tombs, "more than likely I
sha'n't be needin' an overcoat for the next twelve or
fourteen year, kid, so you ain't robbin' me,—no, sir,
not a bit of it. I make you a present of it, with my
compliments. Winter is comin' on an' I can't seem to
think of anybody it would fit better'n it does you. You
don't need to mention as havin' received it from me.
The feller who owned it before I did might accidentally
hear of it and—but I guess it ain't likely, come to
think of it. To the best of my recollection, he lives 'way
out West somewhere,—Toledo, I think, or maybe
Omaha,—and he's probably got a new one by this time.
Much obliged fer droppin' in here to see me, kid. So
long,—and cut it out. Don't try to come any of that
thanks guff on me. You might as well be usin' that
coat as the moths. Besides, I owe you something for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>[pg 68]</span>
storage, don't forget that. I was in such a hurry the
last time I left town I didn't have a chance to explain.
You didn't know it then,—and I guess if you had
knowed it you wouldn't have been so nice about lookin'
out for my coat durin' the summer,—but I was makin'
a mighty quick getaway. Thanks fer stoppin' in to remind
me I left the coat in your room that night. I
clean forgot it, I was in such a hurry. But lemme tell
you one thing, kid, I'll never ferget the way you c'n
make that fiddle talk. I don't know as you'd 'a' played
fer me as you used to once in awhile if you'd knowed I
was what I am, but it makes no difference now. I just
loved hearin' you play. I used to have a hard time
holdin' in the tears. And say, kid, keep straight.
Keep on fiddlin'! So long! I may see you along about
1926 or 8. And say, you needn't be ashamed to wear
that coat. I didn't steal it. It was a clean case of
mistaken identity, if there ever was one. It happened
in a restaurant." He winked.</p>
<p class="indent">And that is how the little violinist came to be the
possessor of an overcoat with a sable collar and a soft
leather lining.</p>
<p class="indent">He needed it now, not only when he ventured upon the
chilly streets but when he remained indoors. In truth,
he found it much warmer walking the streets than sitting
in his fireless room, or even in going to bed.</p>
<p class="indent">It was a far cry from the dapper, dreamy-eyed courtier
who kissed the chapped knuckles of the Princess
Mariana on Wednesday night to the shrinking, pinched
individual who threaded his way on Friday through the
cramped lanes that led to the rear of the pawn-shop
presided over by Mrs. Jacobs.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>[pg 69]</span>
And an incredibly vast gulf lay between the Princess
Mariana and the female Shylock who peered at him over
a glass show-case filled with material pledges in the
shape of watches, chains, rings, bracelets, and other
gaudy tributes left by a shifting constituency.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well?" she demanded, fixing him with a cold,
offensive stare. "What do you want?"</p>
<p class="indent">He turned down the collar of his thin coat, and
straightened his slight figure in response to this unfriendly
greeting.</p>
<p class="indent">"I came to see if you would allow me to take my
overcoat for a few days,—until this cold spell is over,—with
the understanding—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing doing," said she curtly. "Six dollars due
on it."</p>
<p class="indent">"But I have not the six dollars, madam. Surely
you may trust me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Why didn't you bring your fiddle along? You
could leave it in place of the coat. Go and get it
and I'll see what I can do."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am to play tonight at the house of a Mr. Carpenter.
He has heard of me through our friend Mr.
Trotter, his chauffeur. You know Mr. Trotter, of
course."</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure I know him, and I don't like him. He insulted
me once."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, but you do not understand him, madam. He is
an Englishman and he may have tried to be facetious or
even pleasant in the way the English—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Say, don't you suppose I know when I'm insulted?
When a cheap guy like that comes in here with a customer
of mine and tells me I'm so damned mean they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>[pg 70]</span>
won't even let me into hell when I die,—well, if you
don't call that an insult, I'd like to know what it is.
Don't talk to me about that bum!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Is <i>that</i> all he said?" involuntarily fell from the
lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, Mr.
Trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment.
"Surely you have no desire to go to hell when you
die."</p>
<p class="indent">"No, I haven't, but I don't want anybody coming in
here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution
down there if I <i>tried</i> to get in. I've got as much right
there as anybody, I'd have him know. Cough up six or
get out. That's all I've got to say to you, my little
man."</p>
<p class="indent">"It is freezing cold in my room. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't blame me for that. I don't make the
weather. And say, I'm busy. Cough up or—clear
out."</p>
<p class="indent">"You will not let me have it for a few days if
I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Say, do you think I'm in business for my health?
I haven't that much use—" she snapped her fingers—"for
a fiddler anyhow. It's not a man's job. That's
what I think of long-haired guys like—Beat it! I'm
busy."</p>
<p class="indent">With head erect the little violinist turned away.
He was half way to the door when she called out to
him.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hey! Come back here! Now, see here, you little
squirt, you needn't go turning up your nose at me and
acting like that. I've got the goods on you and a lot
more of those rummies up there. I looked 'em over the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>[pg 71]</span>
other night and I said to myself, says I: 'Gee whiz,
couldn't I start something if I let out what I know
about this gang!' Talk about earthquakes! They'd—Here!
What are you doing? Get out from behind
this counter! I'll call a cop if you—"</p>
<p class="indent">The pallid, impassioned face of Prince Waldemar de
Bosky was close to hers; his dark eyes were blazing
not a foot from her nose.</p>
<p class="indent">"If I thought you were that kind of a snake I'd kill
you," he said quietly, levelly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Are—are you threatening me?" sputtered Mrs.
Jacobs, trying in vain to look away from those compelling
eyes. She could not believe her senses.</p>
<p class="indent">"No. I am merely telling you what I would do if
you were that kind of a snake."</p>
<p class="indent">"See here, don't you get gay! Don't you forget who
you are addressing, young man. I am—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I am addressing a second-hand junk dealer, madam.
You are at home now, not sitting in the big chair up
at—at—you know where. Please bear that in
mind."</p>
<p class="indent">"I'll call some one from out front and have you
chucked into—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Do you even <i>think</i> of violating the confidence we
repose in you?" he demanded. "The thought must
have been in your mind or you would not have uttered
that remark a moment ago. You are one of us, and
we've treated you as a—a queen. I want to know just
where you stand, Mrs. Jacobs."</p>
<p class="indent">"You can't come in here and bawl me out like this,
you little shrimp! I'll—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Keep still! Now, listen to me. If I should go to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>[pg 72]</span>
our friends and repeat what you have just said, you
would never see the inside of that room again. You
would never have the opportunity to exchange a word
with a single person you have met there. You would
be stripped of the last vestige of glory that clings to
you. Oh, you may sneer! But down in your heart you
love that bit of glory,—and you would curse yourself
if you lost it."</p>
<p class="indent">"It's—it's all poppy-cock, the whole silly business,"
she blurted out. But it was not anger that caused her
voice to tremble.</p>
<p class="indent">"You know better than that," said he, coldly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't care a rap about all that foolishness up
there. It makes me sick," she muttered.</p>
<p class="indent">"You may lie to me but you cannot lie to yourself,
madam. Under that filthy, greasy skin of yours runs
the blood that will not be denied. Pawn-broker,
miser,—whatever you may be to the world, to yourself
you are a princess royal. God knows we all
despise you. You have not a friend among us. But we
can no more overlook the fact that you are a princess
of the blood than we can ignore the light of day. The
blood that is in you demands its tribute. You have
no control over the mysterious spark that fires your
blood. It burns in spite of all you may do to quench
it. It is there to stay. We despise you, even as you
would despise us. Am I to carry your words to those
who exalt you despite your calling, despite your meanness,
despite all that is base and sordid in this rotten
business of yours? Am I to let them know that you are
the only—the only—what is the name of the animal
I've heard Trotter mention?—ah, I have it,—the only
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>[pg 73]</span>
skunk in our precious little circle? Tell me, madam,
are you a skunk?"</p>
<p class="indent">Her face was brick red; she was having difficulty with
her breathing. The pale, white face of the little musician
dazzled her in a most inexplicable way. Never
before had she felt just like this.</p>
<p class="indent">"Am I a—what?" she gasped, her eyes popping.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is an animal that has an odour which—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Good God, you don't have to tell me what it is,"
she cried, but in suppressed tones. Her gaze swept the
rear part of the shop. "It's a good thing for you,
young fellow, that nobody heard you call me that name.
Thank the good Lord, it isn't a busy day here. If
anybody <i>had</i> heard you, I'd have you skinned alive."</p>
<p class="indent">"A profitless undertaking," he said, smiling without
mirth, "but quite in your line, if reports are true. You
are an expert at skinning people, alive or dead. But
we are digressing. Are you going to turn against us?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I haven't said I was going to, have I?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not in so many words."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, then, what's all the fuss about? You come
in here and shoot off your mouth as if—And say,
who are you, anyhow? Tell me that! No, wait a
minute. Don't tell me. I'll tell myself. When a man
is kicked out of his own family because he'd sooner play
a fiddle than carry a sword, I don't think he's got any
right to come blatting to me about—"</p>
<p class="indent">"The cruelest monster the world has ever known,
madam," he interrupted, stiffening, "fiddled while Rome
was burning. Fiddlers are not always gentle. You
may not have heard of one very small and unimportant
incident in my own life. It was I who fiddled,—badly,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>[pg 74]</span>
I must confess,—while the Opera House in Poltna was
burning. A panic was averted. Not a life was lost.
And when it was all over some one remembered the fiddler
who remained upon the stage and finished the aria
he was playing when the cry of fire went up from the
audience. Brave men,—far braver men than he,—rushed
back through the smoke and found him lying at
the footlights, unconscious. But why waste words?
Good morning, madam. I shall not trouble you again
about the overcoat. Be good enough to remember that
I have kissed your hand only because you are a princess
and not because you have lent me five dollars on the
wretched thing."</p>
<p class="indent">The angry light in his brown eyes gave way to the
dreamy look once more. He bowed stiffly and edged
his way out from behind the counter into the clogged
area that lay between him and the distant doorway.
Towering above him on all sides were heaps of nondescript
objects, classified under the generic name of furniture.
The proprietress of this sordid, ill-smelling
crib stared after him as he strode away, and into her
eyes there stole a look of apprehension.</p>
<p class="indent">She followed him to the front door, overtaking him
as his hand was on the latch.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hold on," she said, nervously glancing at the
shifty-eyed, cringing assistant who toiled not in vain,—no
one ever toiled in vain in the establishment of M.
Jacobs, Inc.,—behind a clump of chairs;—"hold on a
second. I don't want you to say a word to—to them
about—about all this. You are right, de Bosky. I—I
have not lost all that once was mine. You understand,
don't you?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>[pg 75]</span>
He smiled. "Perfectly. You can never lose it, no
matter how low you may sink."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well," she went on, hesitatingly, "suppose we forget
it."</p>
<p class="indent">He eyed her for a moment in silence, shaking his
head reflectively. "It is most astonishing," he said
at last.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's astonishing?" she demanded sharply.</p>
<p class="indent">"I was merely thinking of your perfect, your exquisite
French, madam!"</p>
<p class="indent">"French? Are you nutty? I've been talkin' to you
in English all the time."</p>
<p class="indent">He nodded his head slowly. "Perhaps that is why
your French is so astonishing," he said, and let it go
at that.</p>
<p class="indent">"Look at me," she exclaimed, suddenly breaking into
French as she spread out her thick arms and surveyed
with disgust as much of her ample person as came within
range of an obstructed vision, "just look at me. No
one on earth would take <i>me</i> for a princess, would he?
And yet that is just what I am. I <i>think</i> of myself
as a princess, and always will, de Bosky. I think of
myself,—of my most unlovely, unregal self,—as the
superior of every other woman who treads the streets
of New York, all of these base born women. I cannot
help it. I cannot think of them as equals, not even the
richest and the most arrogant of them. You say it is
the blood, but you are wrong. Some of these women
have a strain of royal blood in them—a far-off, remote
strain, of course,—but they do not <i>know</i> it. That's
the point, my friend. It is the <i>knowing</i> that makes us
what we are. It isn't the blood itself. If we were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>[pg 76]</span>
deprived of the power to <i>think</i>, we could have the blood
of every royal family in Europe in our veins, and that
is all the good it would do us. We <i>think</i> we are nobler,
better than all the rest of creation, and we would keep
on thinking it if we slept in the gutter and begged for
a crust of bread. And the proof of all this is to be
found in the fact that the rest of creation will not
allow us to forget. They think as we do, in spite of
themselves, and there you have the secret of the supremacy
we feel, in spite of everything."</p>
<p class="indent">Her brilliant, black eyes were flashing with something
more than excitement. The joy, the realization
of power glowed in their depths, welling up from fires
that would never die. Waldemar de Bosky nodded his
head in the most matter-of-fact way. He was not enthralled.
All this was very simple and quite undebatable
to him.</p>
<p class="indent">"I take it, therefore, that you retract all that you
said about its being poppycock," he said, turning up his
coat collar and fastening it close to his throat with a
long and formidable looking safety pin.</p>
<p class="indent">"It may be poppycock," she said, "but we can't
help liking it—not to save our lives."</p>
<p class="indent">"And I shall not have to kill you as if you were a
snake, eh?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not on your life," said Mrs. Moses Jacobs in
English, opening the door for him.</p>
<p class="indent">He passed out into the cold and windy street and
she went back to her dingy nook at the end of the store,
pausing on the way to inform an assistant that she was
not to be disturbed, no matter who came in to see her.</p>
<p class="indent">While she sat behind her glittering show-case and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>[pg 77]</span>
gazed pensively at the ceiling of her ugly storehouse,
Waldemar de Bosky went shivering through the streets
to his cold little backroom many blocks away. While
she was for the moment living in the dim but unforgotten
past, a kindly memory leading her out of the maze
of other people's poverty and her own avarice into
broad marble halls and vaulted rooms, he was thinking
only of the bitter present with its foodless noon and of
pockets that were empty. While maudlin tears ran
down her oily cheeks and spilled aimlessly upon a
greasy sweater with the spur of memory behind them,
tears wrought by the sharp winds of the street glistened
in his squinting eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">Memory carried him back no farther than the week
before and he was distressed only by its exceeding
frailty. He could not, for the life of him, remember
the address of J. Bramble, bookseller,—a most exasperating
lapse in view of the fact that J. Bramble
himself had urged him to come up some evening soon
and have dinner with him, and to bring his Stradivarius
along if he didn't mind. Mind? Why, he would have
played his heart out for a good square meal. The more
he tried to remember J. Bramble's address, the less he
thought of the overcoat with the fur collar and the soft
leather lining. He couldn't eat that, you know.</p>
<p class="indent">In his bleak little room in the hall of the whistling
winds, he took from its case with cold-benumbed fingers
the cherished violin. Presently, as he played, the
shivering flesh of him grew warm with the heat of an inward
fire; the stiff, red fingers became limp and pliable;
the misty eyes grew bright and feverish. Fire,—the
fires of love and genius and hope combined,—burnt
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>[pg 78]</span>
away the chill of despair; he was as warm as toast!</p>
<p class="indent">And hours after the foodless noon had passed, he put
the treasure back into its case and wiped the sweat
from his marble brow. Something flashed across his
mind. He shouted aloud as he caught at what the flash
of memory revealed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Lexington Avenue! Three hundred and something,
Lexington Avenue! J. Bramble, bookseller! Ha!
Come! Come! Let us be off!"</p>
<p class="indent">He spoke to the violin as if it were a living companion.
Grabbing up his hat and mittens, he dashed out
of the room and went clattering down the hall with
the black leather case clasped tightly under his arm.</p>
<p class="indent">It was a long, long walk to three hundred and something
Lexington Avenue, but in due time he arrived
there and read the sign above the door. Ah, what a
great thing it is to have a good, unfailing memory!</p>
<p class="indent">And so it came to pass that Prince Waldemar de
Bosky and Lady Jane Thorne met at the door of J.
Bramble, bookseller, at five of the clock, and entered the
shop together.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>[pg 79]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>THE FOUNDATION OF THE PLOT</h3>
<p class="indent">MR. BRAMBLE had never been quite able to
resign himself to a definitely impersonal attitude
toward Lord Eric Temple. He seemed to cling,
despite himself, to a privilege long since outlawed by
time and circumstance and the inevitable outgrowing
of knickerbockers by the aforesaid Lord Eric. Back
in the good old days it had been his pleasant,—and
sometimes unpleasant,—duty to direct a very small
Eric in matters not merely educational but of deportment
as well. In short, Eric, at the age of five, fell
into the capable, kindly and more or less resolute hands
of a well-recommended tutor, and that tutor was no
other than J. Bramble.</p>
<p class="indent">At the age of twelve, the boy went off to school in a
little high hat and an Eton suit, and J. Bramble was
at once, you might say, out of the frying pan into the
fire. In other words, he was promoted by his lordship,
the boy's grandfather, to the honourable though somewhat
onerous positions of secretary, librarian and cataloguer,
all in one. He had been able to teach Eric a
great many things he didn't know, but there was nothing
he could impart to his lordship.</p>
<p class="indent">That irascible old gentleman knew everything. After
thrice informing his lordship that Sir Walter Scott was
the author of <i>Guy Mannering</i>, and being thrice informed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>[pg 80]</span>
that he was nothing of the sort, the desolate
Mr. Bramble realized that he was no longer a tutor,—and
that he ought to be rather thankful for it. It exasperated
him considerably, however, to have the
authorship of <i>Guy Mannering</i> arbitrarily ascribed to
three different writers, on three separate occasions,
when any schoolboy could have told the old gentleman
that Fielding and Sterne and Addison had no more
to do with the book than William Shakespeare himself.
His lordship maintained that no one could tell
<i>him</i> anything about Scott; he had him on his shelves
and he had read him from A to Izzard. And he was
rather severe with Mr. Bramble for accepting a position
as librarian when he didn't know any more than
that about books.</p>
<p class="indent">And from this you may be able to derive some sort
of an opinion concerning the cantankerous, bull-headed
old party (Bramble's appellation behind the hand) who
ruled Fenlew Hall, the place where Tom Trotter was
reared and afterwards disowned.</p>
<p class="indent">Also you may be able to account in a measure for Mr.
J. Bramble's attitude toward the tall young man, an
attitude brought on no doubt by the revival, or more
properly speaking the survival, of an authority exercised
with rare futility but great satisfaction at a time
when Eric was being trained in the way he should go.
If at times Mr. Bramble appears to be mildly dictatorial,
or gently critical, or sadly reproachful, you will
understand that it is habit with him, and not the captiousness
of old age. It was his custom to shake his
head reprovingly, or to frown in a pained sort of way,
or to purse his lips, or even to verbally take Mr. Trotter
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>[pg 81]</span>
to task when that young man deviated,—not always
accidentally,—from certain rules of deportment laid
down for him to follow in his earliest efforts to be a
"little gentleman."</p>
<p class="indent">For example, when the two of them, after a rather
impatient half-hour, observed Miss Emsdale step down
from the trolley car at the corner above and head for
the doorway through which they were peering, Mr.
Bramble peremptorily said to Mr. Trotter:</p>
<p class="indent">"Go and brush your hair. You will find a brush at
the back of the shop. Look sharp, now. She will be
here in a jiffy."</p>
<p class="indent">And you will perhaps understand why Mr. Trotter
paid absolutely no attention to him.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale and the little violinist came in together.
The latter's teeth were chattering, his cheeks
were blue with the cold.</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Bramble, blinking
at de Bosky. Here was an unforeseen complication.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale was resourceful. "I stopped in to inquire,
Mr. Bramble,—this is Mr. Bramble, isn't it?—if
you have a copy of—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Please close the door, Trotter, there's a good fellow,"
interrupted Mr. Bramble, frowning significantly
at the young man.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is closed," said Mr. Trotter, tactlessly. He
was looking intently, inquiringly into the blue eyes
of Miss Emsdale.</p>
<p class="indent">"I closed it as I came in," chattered de Bosky.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, did you?" said Mr. Bramble. "People always
leave it open. I am so in the habit of having
people leave the door open that I never notice when they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>[pg 82]</span>
close it. I—ahem! Step right this way, please, Miss
Ems—ahem! I think we have just the book you
want."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am not in any haste, Mr. Bramble," said she, regarding
de Bosky with pitying eyes. "Let us all go
back to the stove and—and—" She hesitated, biting
her lip. The poor chap undoubtedly was sensitive.
They always are.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good!" said Mr. Bramble eagerly. "And we'll
have some tea. Bless my soul, how fortunate! I always
have it at five o'clock. Trotter and I were just
on the point of—so glad you happened in just at the
right moment, Miss Emsdale. Ahem! And you too,
de Bosky. Most extraordinary. You may leave your
pipe on that shelf, Trotter. It smells dreadfully. No,
no,—I wouldn't even put it in my pocket if I were you.
Er—ahem! You have met Mr. Trotter, haven't you,
Miss Emsdale?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You poor old boob," said Trotter, laying his arm
over Bramble's shoulder in the most affectionate way.
"Isn't he a boob, Miss Emsdale?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all," said she severely. "He is a dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Bramble, doing
as well as could be expected. He blessed it again before
he could catch himself up.</p>
<p class="indent">"Sit here by the stove, Mr. de Bosky," said Miss
Emsdale, a moment later. "Just as close as you can
get to it."</p>
<p class="indent">"I have but a moment to stay," said de Bosky, a
wistful look in his dark eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"You'll have tea, de Bosky," said Mr. Bramble
firmly. "Is the water boiling, Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>[pg 83]</span>
A few minutes later, warmed by the cup of tea and
a second slice of toast, de Bosky turned to Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"Thanks again, my dear fellow, for speaking to
your employer about my playing. This little affair
tonight may be the beginning of an era of good fortune
for me. I shall never forget your interest—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, that's off," said Trotter carelessly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Off? You mean?" cried de Bosky.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm fired, and he has gone to Atlantic City for the
week-end."</p>
<p class="indent">"He—he isn't going to have his party in the private
dining-room at,—you said it was to be a private dining-room,
didn't you, with a few choice spirits—"</p>
<p class="indent">"He has gone to Atlantic City with a few choice
spirits," said Trotter, and then stared hard at the musician's
face. "Oh, by Jove! I'm sorry," he cried,
struck by the look of dismay, almost of desperation, in
de Bosky's eyes. "I didn't realize it meant so much
to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"It is really of no consequence," said de Bosky, lifting
his chin once more and straightening his back.
The tea-cup rattled ominously in the saucer he was
clutching with tense fingers.</p>
<p class="indent">"Never mind," said Mr. Bramble, anticipating a
crash and inspired by the kindliest of motives; "between
us we've smashed half a dozen of them, so don't
feel the least bit uncomfortable if you <i>do</i> drop—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What are you talking about, Bramby?" demanded
Trotter, scowling at the unfortunate bookseller.
"Have some more tea, de Bosky. Hand up your cup.
Little hot water, eh?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble was perspiring. Any one with half an
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>[pg 84]</span>
eye could see that it <i>was</i> of consequence to de Bosky.
The old bookseller's heart was very tender.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't drink too much of it," he warned, his face
suddenly beaming. "You'll spoil your appetite for
dinner." To the others: "Mr. de Bosky honours my
humble board with his presence this evening. The
finest porterhouse steak in New York—Eh, what?"</p>
<p class="indent">"It is I," came a crisp voice from the bottom of the
narrow stairway that led up to the living-quarters
above. Monsieur Mirabeau, his whiskers neatly
brushed and twisted to a point, his velvet lounging
jacket adorned with a smart little boutonnière, his
shoes polished till they glistened, approached the circle
and, bending his gaunt frame with gallant disdain for
the crick in his back, kissed the hand of the young lady.
"I observed your approach, my dear Miss Emsdale.
We have been expecting you for ages. Indeed, it has
been the longest afternoon that any of us has ever experienced."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble frowned. "Ahem!" he coughed.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sorry if I have intruded," began de Bosky,
starting to arise.</p>
<p class="indent">"Sit still," said Thomas Trotter. He glanced at
Miss Emsdale. "You're not in the way, old chap."</p>
<p class="indent">"You mentioned a book, Miss Emsdale," murmured
Mr. Bramble. "When you came in, you'll remember."</p>
<p class="indent">She looked searchingly into Trotter's eyes, and finding
her answer there, remarked:</p>
<p class="indent">"Ample time for that, Mr. Bramble. Mr. de Bosky
is my good friend. And as for dear M. Mirabeau,—ah,
what shall I say of him?" She smiled divinely
upon the grey old Frenchman.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>[pg 85]</span>
"I commend your modesty," said M. Mirabeau. "It
prevents your saying what every one knows,—that I
am your adorer!"</p>
<p class="indent">Tom Trotter was pacing the floor. He stopped in
front of her, a scowl on his handsome face.</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, tell us just what the infernal dog said to
you," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">She started. "You—you have already heard
something?" she cried, wonderingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, what did I tell you?" cried M. Mirabeau
triumphantly, glancing first at Trotter and then at
Bramble. "He <i>is</i> in love with her, and this is what
comes of it. He resorts to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Is this magic?" she exclaimed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Not a bit of it," said Trotter. "We've been putting
two and two together, the three of us. Begin at
the beginning," he went on, encouragingly. "Don't
hold back a syllable of it."</p>
<p class="indent">"You must promise to be governed by my advice,"
she warned him. "You must be careful,—oh, so very
careful."</p>
<p class="indent">"He will be good at any rate," said Mr. Bramble,
fixing the young man with a look. Trotter's face
went crimson.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ahem!" came guardedly from M. Mirabeau.
"Proceed, my dear. We are most impatient."</p>
<p class="indent">The old Frenchman's deductions were not far from
right. Young Mr. Smith-Parvis, unaccustomed to opposition
and believing himself to be entitled to everything
he set his heart on having, being by nature predatory,
sustained an incredible shock when the pretty
and desirable governess failed utterly to come up to expectations.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>[pg 86]</span>
Not only did she fail to come up to expectations
but she took the wind completely out of his sails,
leaving him adrift in a void so strange and unusual that
it was hours before he got his bearings again. Some
of the things she said to him got under a skin so thick
and unsensitive that nothing had ever been sharp
enough to penetrate it before.</p>
<p class="indent">The smartting of the pain from these surprising jabs
at his egotism put him into a state of fury that knew
no bounds. He went so far as to accuse her of deliberately
trying to be a lady,—a most ridiculous
assumption that didn't fool him for an instant. She
couldn't come that sort of thing with him! The sooner
she got off her high-horse the better off she'd be. It
had never entered the head of Smith-Parvis Jr. that a
wage-earning woman could be a lady, any more than
a wage-earning man could be a gentleman.</p>
<p class="indent">The spirited encounter took place on the afternoon
following her midnight adventure with Thomas Trotter.
Stuyvesant lay in wait for her when she went out
at five o'clock for her daily walk in the Park. Overtaking
her in one of the narrow, remote little paths,
he suggested that they cross over to Bustanoby's and
have tea and a bite of something sweet. He was
quite out of breath. She had given him a long
chase, this long-limbed girl with her free English
stride.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's a nice quiet place," he said, "and we won't
see a soul we know."</p>
<p class="indent">Primed by assurance, he had the hardihood to grasp
her arm with a sort of possessive familiarity. Whereupon,
according to the narrator, he sustained his first
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>[pg 87]</span>
disheartening shock. She jerked her arm away and
faced him with blazing eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't do that!" she said. "What do you mean
by following me like this?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, come now," he exclaimed blankly; "don't be so
damned uppish. I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking
about you. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Nor did I sleep a wink, Mr. Smith-Parvis, thinking
about you," she retorted, looking straight into his eyes.
"I am afraid you don't know me as well as you think
you do. Will you be good enough to permit me to continue
my walk unmolested?"</p>
<p class="indent">He laughed in her face. "Out here to meet the
pretty chauffeur, are you? I thought so. Well, I'll
stick around and make the crowd. Is he likely to
pop up out of the bushes and try to bite me, my dear?
Better give him the signal to lay low, unless you want
to see him nicely booted."</p>
<p class="indent">("My God!" fell from Thomas Trotter's compressed
lips.)</p>
<p class="indent">"Then I made a grievous mistake," she explained
to the quartette. "It is all my fault, Mr. Trotter.
I brought disaster upon you when I only intended to
sound your praises. I told him that nothing could
suit me better than to have you pop up out of the
bushes, just for the pleasure it would give me to see
him run for home as fast as he could go. It made
him furious."</p>
<p class="indent">Smith-Parvis Jr. proceeded to give her "what for,"
to use his own words. In sheer amazement, she listened
to his vile insinuations. She was speechless.</p>
<p class="indent">"And here am I," he had said, toward the end of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>[pg 88]</span>
the indictment, "a gentleman, born and bred, offering
you what this scurvy bounder cannot possibly give you,
and you pretend to turn up your nose at me. I am
gentleman enough to overlook all that has transpired
between you and that loafer, and I am gentleman
enough to keep my mouth shut at home, where a word
from me would pack you off in two seconds. And I'd
like to see you get another fat job in New York after
that. You ought to be jolly grateful to me."</p>
<p class="indent">"If I am the sort of person you say I am," she had
replied, trembling with fury, "how can you justify
your conscience in letting me remain for a second
longer in charge of your little sisters?"</p>
<p class="indent">"What the devil do I care about them? I'm only
thinking of you. I'm mad about you, can't you understand?
And I'd like to know what conscience has
to do with <i>that</i>."</p>
<p class="indent">Then he had coolly, deliberately, announced his plan
of action to her.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are to stay on at the house as long as you
like, getting your nice little pay check every month,
and something from me besides. Ah, I'm no piker!
Leave it all to me. As for this friend of yours, he has
to go. He'll be out of a job tomorrow. I know Carpenter.
He will do anything I ask. He'll have to, confound
him. I've got him where he can't even squeak.
And what's more, if this Trotter is not out of New
York inside of three days, I'll land him in jail. Oh,
don't think I can't do it, my dear. There's a way to
get these renegade foreigners,—every one of 'em,—so
you'd better keep clear of him if you don't want to be
mixed up in the business. I am doing all this for your
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>[pg 89]</span>
own good. Some day you'll thank me. You are the
first girl I've ever really loved, and—I—I just can't
stand by and let you go to the devil with my eyes shut.
I am going to save you, whether you like it or not. I
am going to do the right thing by you, and you will
never regret chucking this rotter for me. We will have
to be a little careful at home, that's all. It would
never do to let the old folks see that I am more than
ordinarily interested in you, or you in me. Once, when
I was a good deal younger and didn't have much sense,
I spoiled a—but you wouldn't care to hear about it."</p>
<p class="indent">She declared to them that she would never forget the
significant grin he permitted himself in addition to the
wink.</p>
<p class="indent">"The dog!" grated Thomas Trotter, his knuckles
white.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau straightened himself to his full height,—and
a fine figure of a man was he!</p>
<p class="indent">"Mr. Trotter," he said, with grave dignity, "it will
afford me the greatest pleasure and honour to represent
you in this crisis. Pray command me. No doubt the
scoundrel will refuse to meet you, but at any rate a
challenge may be—"</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale broke in quickly. "Don't,—for
heaven's sake, dear M. Mirabeau,—don't put such
notions into his head! It is bad enough as it is. I
beg of you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Besides," said Mr. Bramble, "one doesn't fight
duels in this country, any more than one does in England.
It's quite against the law."</p>
<p class="indent">"I sha'n't need any one to represent me when it comes
to punching his head," said Mr. Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>[pg 90]</span>
"It's against the law, strictly speaking, to punch a
person's head," began Mr. Bramble nervously.</p>
<p class="indent">"But it's not against the law, confound you, Bramby,
to provide a legal excuse for going to jail, is it? He
says he's going to put me there. Well, I intend to
make it legal and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, goodness!" cried Miss Emsdale, in dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">"—And I'm not going to jail for nothing, you can
stake your life on that."</p>
<p class="indent">"Do you think, Mr. Trotter, that it will add to my
happiness if you are lodged in jail on my account?"
said she. "Haven't I done you sufficient injury—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, you are not to talk like that," he interrupted,
reddening.</p>
<p class="indent">"But I <i>shall</i> talk like that," she said firmly. "I
have not come here to ask you to take up my battles for
me but to warn you of danger. Please do not interrupt
me. I know you would enjoy it, and all that sort
of thing, but it isn't to be considered. Hear me
out."</p>
<p class="indent">She went on with her story. Young Mr. Smith-Parvis,
still contending that he was a gentleman and a
friend as well as an abject adorer, made it very plain
to her that he would stand no foolishness. He told her
precisely what he would do unless she eased up a bit
and acted like a good, sensible girl. He would have her
dismissed without character and he would see to it that
no respectable house would be open to her after she left
the service of the Smith-Parvises.</p>
<p class="indent">"But couldn't you put the true situation before his
parents and tell 'em what sort of a rotten bounder he
is?" demanded Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>[pg 91]</span>
"You do not know them, Mr. Trotter," she said
forlornly.</p>
<p class="indent">"And they'd kick you out without giving you a
chance to prove to them that he is a filthy liar and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Just as Mr. Carpenter kicked you out," she said.</p>
<p class="indent">"By gad, I—I wouldn't stay in their house another
day if I were you," he exclaimed wrathfully.
"I'd quit so quickly they wouldn't have time to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"And then what?" she asked bitterly. "Am I so
rich and independent as all that? You forget that I
must have a 'character,' Mr. Trotter. That, you see,
would be denied me. I could not obtain employment.
Even Mrs. Sparflight would be powerless to help me
after the character they would give me."</p>
<p class="indent">"But, good Lord, you—you're not going to stay
on in the house with that da—
that nasty brute, are
you?" he cried, aghast.</p>
<p class="indent">"I must have time to think, Mr. Trotter," she said
quietly. "Now, don't say anything more,—please!
I shall take good care of myself, never fear. My woes
are small compared to yours, I am afraid. The next
morning after our little scene in the park, he came down
to breakfast, smiling and triumphant. He said he had
news for me. Mr. Carpenter was to dismiss you that
morning, but had agreed not to prefer charges against
you,—at least, not for the present." She paused to
moisten her lips. There was a harassed look in her
eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Charges?" said Trotter, after a moment. The
other men leaned forward, fresh interest in their faces.</p>
<p class="indent">"Did you say charges, Miss Emsdale?" asked Mr.
Bramble, putting his hand to his ear.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>[pg 92]</span>
"He told me that Mr. Carpenter was at first determined
to turn you over to the police, but that he had
begged him to give you a chance. He—he says that
Mr. Carpenter has had a private detective watching you
for a fortnight, and—and—oh, I cannot say it!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Go on," said Trotter harshly; "say it!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, of course, I know and you understand it is
simply part of his outrageous plan, but he says your
late employer has positive proof that you took—that
you took some marked bank notes out of his overcoat
pocket a few days ago. He had been missing money
and had provided himself with marked—"</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter leaped to his feet with a cry of rage.</p>
<p class="indent">"Sit down!" commanded Mr. Bramble. "Sit
down! Where are you going?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Great God! Do you suppose I can sit still and
let him get away with anything like that?" roared
Trotter. "I'm going to jam those words down Carpenter's
craven throat. I'm—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You forget he is in Atlantic City," said de Bosky,
as if suddenly coming out of a dream.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, Lord!" groaned Trotter, very white in the
face.</p>
<p class="indent">There were tears in Miss Emsdale's eyes. "They—he
means to drive you out of town," she murmured
brokenly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Fine chance of that!" cried Trotter violently.</p>
<p class="indent">"Let us be calm," said M. Mirabeau, gently taking
the young man's arm and leading him back to the box
on which he had been sitting. "You must not play
into their hands, and that is what you would be doing
if you went to him in a rage. As long as you remain
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>[pg 93]</span>
passive, nothing will come of all this. If you show your
teeth, they will stop at nothing. Take my word for
it, Trotter, before many hours have passed you will
be interviewed by a detective,—a genuine detective, by
the way, for some of them can be hired to do anything,
my boy,—and you will be given your choice of going
to prison or to some far distant city. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But how in thunder is he going to prove that I
took any marked bills from him? You've got to prove
those things, you know. The courts would not—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Just a moment! Did he pay you by check or with
bank notes this morning?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He gave me a check for thirty dollars, and three
ten-dollar bills and a five." ·</p>
<p class="indent">"Have you them on your person at present?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not all of them. I have—wait a second! We'll
see." He fumbled in his pocket for the bill-folder.</p>
<p class="indent">"What did you do with the rest?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Paid my landlady for—good Lord! I see what
you mean! He paid me with marked bills! The—the
damned scoundrel!"</p>
<p class="indent">"He not only did that, my boy, but he put a man on
your trail to recover them as fast as you disposed of
them," said M. Mirabeau calmly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>[pg 94]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>LADY JANE GOES ABOUT IT PROMPTLY</h3>
<p class="indent">A FEW minutes before six o'clock that same afternoon,
Mr. James Cricklewick, senior member of
the firm of Cricklewick, Stackable & Co., linen merchants,
got up from his desk in the crowded little
compartment labelled "Private," and peered out of the
second-floor window into the busy street below. Thousands
of people were scurrying along the pavements in
the direction of the brilliantly lighted Fifth Avenue, a
few rods away; vague, dusky, unrecognizable forms in
the darkness that comes so early and so abruptly to the
cross-town streets at the end of a young March day.
The middle of the street presented a serried line of snow
heaps, piled up by the shovellers the day before,—symmetrical
little mountains that formed an impassable
range over which no chauffeur had the temerity to bolt
in his senseless ambition to pass the car ahead.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. James Cricklewick sighed. He knew from past
experience that the Rock of Ages was but little more
enduring than the snow-capped range in front of him.
Time and a persistent sun inevitably would do the work
of man, but in the meantime Mr. Cricklewick's wagons
and trucks were a day and a half behind with deliveries,
and that was worth sighing about. As he stood looking
down the street, he sighed again. For more than
forty years Mr. Cricklewick had made constant use
of the phrase: "It's always something." If there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>[pg 95]</span>
was no one to say it to, he satisfied himself by condensing
the lament into a strictly personal sigh.</p>
<p class="indent">He first resorted to the remark far back in the days
when he was in the service of the Marquis of Camelford.
If it wasn't one thing that was going wrong it
was another; in any event it was "always something."</p>
<p class="indent">Prosperity and environment had not succeeded in
bringing him to the point where he could snap his fingers
and lightly say in the face of annoyances: "It's
really nothing."</p>
<p class="indent">The fact that he was, after twenty-five years of ceaseless
climbing, at the head of the well-known and thoroughly
responsible house of Cricklewick, Stackable &
Co., Linen Merchants and Drapers,—(he insisted on
attaching the London word, not through sentiment,
but for the sake of isolation),—operated not at all
in bringing about a becalmed state of mind. Habitually
he was disturbed by little things, which should not
be in the least surprising when one stops to think of the
multitudinous annoyances he must have experienced
while managing the staff of under-servants in the extensive
establishment of the late Marquis of Camelford.</p>
<p class="indent">He had never quite outgrown the temperament
which makes for a good and dependable butler,—and
that, in a way, accounts for the contention that "it is
always something," and also for the excellent credit of
the house he headed. Mr. Cricklewick made no effort
to deceive himself. He occasionally deceived his wife
in a mild and innocuous fashion by secretly reverting
to form, but not for an instant did he deceive himself.
He was a butler and he always would be a butler, despite
the fact that the business and a certain section
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>[pg 96]</span>
of the social world looked upon him as a very fine type
of English gentleman, with a crest in his shop window
and a popularly accepted record of having enjoyed a
speaking acquaintance with Edward, the late King of
England. Indeed, the late king appears to have enjoyed
the same privilege claimed and exercised by the
clerks, stenographers and floorwalkers in his employ,
although His Majesty had a slight advantage over
them in being free to call him "Cricky" to his face
instead of behind his back.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick, falling into a snug fortune when he
was forty-five and at a time when the Marquis felt it to
be necessary to curtail expenses by not only reducing
his staff of servants but also the salaries of those who
remained, married very nicely into a draper's family,
and soon afterward voyaged to America to open and
operate a branch of the concern in New York City.
His fortune, including the savings of twenty years,
amounted to something like thirty thousand pounds,
most of which had been accumulated by a sheep-raising
brother who had gone to and died in Australia. He
put quite a bit of this into the business and became a
partner, making himself doubly welcome to a family
that had suffered considerably through competition in
business and a complete lack of it in respect to the
matrimonial possibilities of five fully matured daughters.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick had the further good sense to marry
the youngest, prettiest and most ambitious of the quintette,
and thereby paved the way for satisfactory
though wholly unexpected social achievements in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>[pg 97]</span>
City of Now York. His wife, with the customary British
scorn for Americans, developed snobbish tendencies
that rather alarmed Mr. Cricklewick at the outset of
his business career in New York, but which ultimately
produced the most remarkable results.</p>
<p class="indent">Almost before he was safely out of the habit of saying
"thank you" when it wasn't at all necessary to
say it, his wife had him down at Hot Springs, Virginia,
for a month in the fall season, where, because of his exceptionally
mellifluous English accent and a stateliness
he had never been able to overcome, he was looked upon
by certain Anglo-maniacs as a real and unmistakable
"toff."</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick had been brought up in, or on, the very
best of society. From his earliest days as third groom
in the Camelford ménage to the end of his reign as
major-domo, he had been in a position to observe and
assimilate the manners of the elect. No one knew better
than he how to go about being a gentleman. He
had had his lessons, not to say examples, from the first
gentlemen of England. Having been brought up on
dukes and earls,—and all that sort of thing,—to say
nothing of quite a majority in the House of Lords, he
was in a fair way of knowing "what's what," to use
his own far from original expression.</p>
<p class="indent">You couldn't fool Cricklewick to save your life. The
instant he looked upon you he could put you where you
belonged, and, so far as he was concerned, that was
where you would have to stay.</p>
<p class="indent">It is doubtful if there was ever a more discerning,
more discriminating butler in all England. It was his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>[pg 98]</span>
rather astonishing contention that one could be quite
at one's ease with dukes and duchesses and absolutely
ill-at-ease with ordinary people. That was his way of
making the distinction. It wasn't possible to be on
terms of intimacy with the people who didn't belong.
They never seemed to know their place.</p>
<p class="indent">The next thing he knew, after the Hot Springs visit,
his name began to appear in the newspapers in columns
next to advertising matter instead of the other way
round. Up to this time it had been a struggle to get it
in next to reading matter on account of the exorbitant
rates demanded by the newspapers.</p>
<p class="indent">He protested to his wife. "Oh, I say, my dear, this
is cutting it a bit thick, you know. You can't really be
in earnest about it. I shouldn't know how to act sitting
down at a dinner table like that, you know. I am informed
that these people are regarded as real swells
over 'ere,—here, I should say. You must sit down
and drop 'em a line saying we can't come. Say we've
suddenly been called out of town, or had bad news
from home, or—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Rubbish! It will do them no end of good to see
how you act at table. Haven't you had the very best
of training? All you have to do—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But I had it standing, my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"Just the same, I shall accept the invitation. They
are very excellent people, and I see no reason why we
shouldn't know the best while we're about it."</p>
<p class="indent">"But they've got millions," he expostulated.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well," said she, "you musn't believe everything you
hear about people with millions. I must say that I've
not seen anything especially vulgar about them. So
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>[pg 99]</span>
don't let that stand in your way, old dear." It was
unconscious irony.</p>
<p class="indent">"It hasn't been a great while since I was a butler,
my love; don't forget that. A matter of a little over
seven years."</p>
<p class="indent">"Pray do not forget," said she coldly, "that it
hasn't been so very long since all these people over here
were Indians."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick, being more or less hazy concerning
overseas history, took heart. They went to the dinner
and he, remembering just how certain noblemen of his
acquaintance deported themselves, got on famously.
And although his wife never had seen a duchess eat, except
by proxy in the theatre, she left nothing to be desired,—except,
perhaps, in the way of food, of which
she was so fond that it was rather a bore to nibble as
duchesses do.</p>
<p class="indent">Being a sensible and far-seeing woman, she did not resent
it when he mildly protested that Lady So-and-So
wouldn't have done this, and the Duchess of You-Know
wouldn't have done that. She looked upon him
as a master in the School of Manners. It was not long
before she was able not only to hold her own with the
élite, but also to hold her lorgnette with them. If she
did not care to see you in a crowd she could overlook
you in the very smartest way.</p>
<p class="indent">And so, after twenty or twenty-five years, we find
the Cricklewicks,—mother, father and daughter,—substantially
settled in the City of Masks, occupying an enviable
position in society, and seldom, if ever,—even
in the bosom of the family,—referring to the days of
long ago,—a precaution no doubt inspired by the fear
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>[pg 100]</span>
that they might be overheard and misunderstood by
their own well-trained and admirable butler, whose respect
they could not afford to lose.</p>
<p class="indent">Once a week, on Wednesday nights, Mr. Cricklewick
took off his mask. It was, in a sense, his way of going
to confession. He told his wife, however, that he was
going to the club.</p>
<p class="indent">He sighed a little more briskly as he turned away
from the window and crossed over to the closet in which
his fur-lined coat and silk hat were hanging. It had
taken time and a great deal of persuasion on the part
of his wife to prove to him that it wasn't quite the thing
to wear a silk hat with a sack coat in New York; he
had grudgingly compromised with the barbaric demands
of fashion by dispensing with the sack coat in
favour of a cutaway. The silk hat was a fixture.</p>
<p class="indent">"A lady asking to see you, sir," said his office-boy,
after knocking on the door marked "Private."</p>
<p class="indent">"Hold my coat for me, Thomas," said Mr. Cricklewick.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, sir," said Thomas. "But she says you will
see her, sir, just as soon as you gets a look at her."</p>
<p class="indent">"Obviously," said Mr. Cricklewick, shaking himself
down into the great coat. "Don't rub it the wrong
way, you simpleton. You should always brush a silk
hat with the nap and not—"</p>
<p class="indent">"May I have a few words with you, Mr. Cricklewick?"
inquired a sweet, clear voice from the doorway.</p>
<p class="indent">The head of the house opened his lips to say something
sharp to the office-boy, but the words died as he
obeyed a magnetic influence and hazarded a glance at
the intruder's face.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>[pg 101]</span>
"Bless my soul!" said he, staring. An instant later
he had recovered himself. "Take my coat, Thomas.
Come in, Lady—er—Miss Emsdale. Thank you.
Run along, Thomas. This is—ah—a most unexpected
pleasure." The door closed behind Thomas.
"Pray have a chair, Miss Emsdale. Still quite cold,
isn't it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I sha'n't detain you for more than five or ten minutes,"
said Miss Emsdale, sinking into a chair.</p>
<p class="indent">"At your service,—quite at your service," said Mr.
Cricklewick, dissolving in the presence of nobility. He
could not have helped himself to save his life.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale came to the point at once. To save
<i>her</i> life she could not think of Cricklewick as anything
but an upper servant.</p>
<p class="indent">"Please see if we are quite alone, Mr. Cricklewick,"
she said, laying aside her little fur neck-piece.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick started. Like a flash there shot into
his brain the voiceless groan: "It's always something."
However, he made haste to assure her that
they would not be disturbed. "It is closing time, you
see," he concluded, not without hope.</p>
<p class="indent">"I could not get here any earlier," she explained.
"I stopped in to ask a little favour of you, Mr. Cricklewick."</p>
<p class="indent">"You have only to mention it," said he, and then
abruptly looked at his watch. The thought struck him
that perhaps he did not have enough in his bill-folder; if
not, it would be necessary to catch the cashier before
the safe was closed for the day.</p>
<p class="indent">"Lord Temple is in trouble, Mr. Cricklewick," she
said, a queer little catch in her voice.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>[pg 102]</span>
"I—I am sorry to hear that," said he.</p>
<p class="indent">"And I do not know of any one who is in a better
position to help him than you," she went on coolly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall be happy to be of service to Lord Temple,"
said Mr. Cricklewick, but not very heartily. Observation
had taught him that young noblemen seldom if
ever get into trouble half way; they make a practice
of going in clean over their heads.</p>
<p class="indent">"Owing to an unpleasant misunderstanding with Mr.
Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis, he has lost his situation as
chauffeur for Mr. Carpenter," said she.</p>
<p class="indent">"I hope he has not—ahem!—thumped him," said
Mr. Cricklewick, in such dismay that he allowed the extremely
undignified word to slip out.</p>
<p class="indent">She smiled faintly. "I said unpleasant, Mr. Cricklewick,—not
pleasant."</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless my soul," said Mr. Cricklewick, blinking.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mr. Smith-Parvis has prevailed upon Mr. Carpenter
to dismiss him, and I fear, between them,
they are planning to drive him out of the city in disgrace."</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless me! This is too bad."</p>
<p class="indent">Without divulging the cause of Smith-Parvis's animosity,
she went briefly into the result thereof.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is really infamous," she concluded, her eyes flashing.
"Don't you agree with me?"</p>
<p class="indent">Having it put to him so abruptly as that, Mr.
Cricklewick agreed with her.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, then, we must put our heads together, Mr.
Cricklewick," she said, with decision.</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite so," said he, a little vaguely.</p>
<p class="indent">"He is not to be driven out of the city," said she.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>[pg 103]</span>
"Nor is he to be unjustly accused of—of wrongdoing.
We must see to that."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick cleared his throat. "He can avoid
all that sort of thing, Lady—er—Miss Emsdale, by
simply announcing that he is Lord Temple, heir to one
of the—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, he wouldn't think of doing such a thing," said
she quickly.</p>
<p class="indent">"People would fall over themselves trying to put
laurels on his head," he urged. "And, unless I am
greatly mistaken, the first to rush up would be the—er—the
Smith-Parvises, headed by Stuyvesant."</p>
<p class="indent">"No one knows the Smith-Parvises better than you,
Mr. Cricklewick," she said, and for some reason he
turned quite pink.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mrs. Cricklewick and I have seen a great deal of
them in the past few years," he said, almost apologetically.</p>
<p class="indent">"And that encourages me to repeat that no one
knows them better than you," she said coolly.</p>
<p class="indent">"We are to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Parvis tonight,"
said Mr. Cricklewick.</p>
<p class="indent">"Splendid!" she cried, eagerly. "That works in
very nicely with the plan I have in mind. You must
manage in some way to remark—quite casually, of
course,—that you are very much interested in the affairs
of a young fellow-countryman,—omitting the
name, if you please,—who has been dismissed from
service as a chauffeur, and who has been threatened—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But my dear Miss Emsdale, I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"—threatened with all sorts of things by his late
employer. You may also add that you have communicated
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>[pg 104]</span>
with our Ambassador at Washington, and that it
is your intention to see your fellow-countryman through
if it takes a—may I say leg, Mr. Cricklewick? Young
Mr. Smith-Parvis will be there to hear you, so you may
bluster as much as you please about Great Britain protecting
her subjects to the very last shot. The entire
machinery of the Foreign Office may be called into
action, if necessary, to—but I leave all that to you.
You might mention, modestly, that it's pretty ticklish
business trying to twist the British lion's tail. Do you
see what I mean?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick may have had an inward conviction
that this was hardly what you would call asking a
favour of a person, but if he had he kept it pretty well
to himself. It did not occur to him that his present
position in the world, as opposed to hers, justified a
rather stiff reluctance on his part to take orders, or
even suggestions, from this penniless young person,—especially
in his own sacred lair. On the contrary, he
was possessed by the instant and enduring realization
that it was the last thing he could bring himself to
the point of doing. His father, a butler before him,
had gone to considerable pains to convince him, at the
outset of his career, that insolence is by far the greatest
of vices.</p>
<p class="indent">Still, in this emergency, he felt constrained to argue,—another
vice sometimes modified by circumstances and
the forbearance of one's betters.</p>
<p class="indent">"But I haven't communicated with our Ambassador
at Washington," he said. "And as for the Foreign
Office taking the matter up—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, don't you see, <i>they</i> couldn't possibly know
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>[pg 105]</span>
that, Mr. Cricklewick," she interrupted, frowning
slightly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite true,—but I should be telling a falsehood
if I said anything of the sort."</p>
<p class="indent">"Knowing you to be an absolutely truthful and reliable
man, Mr. Cricklewick," she said mendaciously,
"they would not even dream of questioning your veracity.
They do not believe you capable of telling a
falsehood. Can't you see how splendidly it would all
work out?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick couldn't see, and said so.</p>
<p class="indent">"Besides," he went on, "suppose that it should get
to the ears of the Ambassador."</p>
<p class="indent">"In that event, you could run over to Washington
and tell him in private just who Thomas Trotter is, and
then everything would be quite all right. You see,"
she went on earnestly, "all you have to do is to drop
a few words for the benefit of young Mr. Smith-Parvis.
He looks upon you as one of the most powerful and influential
men in the city, and he wouldn't have you discover
that he is in anyway connected with such a vile,
underhanded—"</p>
<p class="indent">"How am I to lead up to the subject of chauffeurs?"
broke in Mr. Cricklewick weakly. "I can hardly begin
talking about chauffeurs—er—out of a clear
sky, you might say."</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't begin by talking about chauffeurs," she
counselled. "Lead up to the issue by speaking of the
friendly relations that exist between England and
America, and proceed with the hope that nothing may
ever transpire to sever the bond of blood—and so on.
You know what I mean. It is quite simple. And then
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>[pg 106]</span>
look a little serious and distressed,—that ought to be
easy, Mr. Cricklewick. You must see how naturally it
all leads up to the unfortunate affair of your young
countryman, whom you are bound to defend,—and <i>we</i>
are bound to defend,—no matter what the consequences
may be."</p>
<p class="indent">Two minutes later she arose triumphant, and put on
her stole. Her eyes were sparkling.</p>
<p class="indent">"I knew you couldn't stand by and see this outrageous
thing done to Eric Temple. Thank you. I—goodness
gracious, I quite forgot a most important
thing. In the event that our little scheme does not
have the desired result, and they persist in persecuting
him, we must have something to fall back upon. I
know McFaddan very slightly. (She did not speak of
the ex-footman as Mr. McFaddan, nor did Cricklewick
take account of the omission). He is, I am informed,
one of the most influential men in New York,—one
of the political bosses, Mr. Smith-Parvis says. He
says he is a most unprincipled person. Well, don't
you see, he is just the sort of person to fall back upon
if all honest measures fail?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick rather blankly murmured something
about "honest measures," and then mopped his brow.
Miss Emsdale's enthusiasm, while acutely ingenuous, had
him "sweating blood," as he afterwards put it during
a calm and lucid period of retrospection.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I assure you I have no influence with McFaddan,"
he began, looking at his handkerchief,—and
being relieved, no doubt, to find no crimson stains,—applied
it to his neck with some confidence and vigour.
"In fact, we differ vastly in—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>[pg 107]</span>
"McFaddan, being in a position to dictate to the
police and, if it should come to the worst, to the magistrates,
is a most valuable man to have on our side, Mr.
Cricklewick. If you could see him tomorrow morning,—I
suppose it is too late to see him this evening,—and
tell him just what you want him to do, I'm sure—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, Miss Emsdale, you must allow me to say that
McFaddan will absolutely refuse to take orders from
me. He is no longer what you might say—er—in a
position to be—er—you see what I mean, I hope."</p>
<p class="indent">"Nonsense!" she said, dismissing his objection with
a word. "McFaddan is an Irishman and therefore
eternally committed to the under dog, right or wrong.
When you explain the circumstances to him, he will come
to our assistance like a flash. And don't, overlook the
fact, Mr. Cricklewick, that McFaddan will never see
the day when he can ignore a—a request from you."
She had almost said command, but caught the word
in time. "By the way, poor Trotter is out of a situation,
and I may as well confess to you that he can ill
afford to be without one. It has just occurred to me
that you may know of some one among your wealthy
friends, Mr. Cricklewick, who is in need of a good man.
Please rack your brain. Some one to whom you can
recommend him as a safe, skilful and competent chauffeur."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am glad you mention it," said he, brightening
perceptibly in the light of something tangible. "This
afternoon I was called up on the telephone by a party—by
some one, I mean to say,—asking for information
concerning Klausen, the man who used to drive for me.
I was obliged to say that his habits were bad, and that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>[pg 108]</span>
I could not recommend him. It was Mrs. Ellicott
Millidew who inquired."</p>
<p class="indent">"The young one or the old one?" inquired Miss
Emsdale quickly.</p>
<p class="indent">"The elder Mrs. Millidew," said Mr. Cricklewick, in
a tone that implied deference to a lady who was entitled
to it, even when she was not within earshot. "Not
the pretty young widow," he added, risking a smile.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's all right, then," said Miss Emsdale briskly.
"I am sure it would be a most satisfactory place for
him."</p>
<p class="indent">"But she is a very exacting old lady," said he,
"and will require references."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sure you can give him the very best of references,"
said she. "She couldn't ask for anything better
than your word that he is a splendid man in every
particular. Thank you so much, Mr. Cricklewick.
And Lord Temple will be ever so grateful to you too,
I'm sure. Oh, you cannot possibly imagine how relieved
I am—about everything. We are very great
friends, Lord Temple and I."</p>
<p class="indent">He watched the faint hint of the rose steal into her
cheeks and a velvety softness come into her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing could be more perfect," he said, irrelevantly,
but with real feeling, and the glow of the rose
deepened.</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank you again,—and good-bye," she said, turning
toward the door.</p>
<p class="indent">It was then that the punctilious Cricklewick forgot
himself, and in his desire to be courteous, committed a
most unpardonable offence.</p>
<p class="indent">"My motor is waiting, Lady Jane," he said, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>[pg 109]</span>
words falling out unwittingly. "May I not drop you
at Mr. Smith-Parvis's door?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, thank you," she said graciously. "You are
very good, but the stages go directly past the door."</p>
<p class="indent">As the door closed behind her, Mr. Cricklewick sat
down rather suddenly, overcome by his presumption.
Think of it! He had had the brass to invite Lady
Jane Thorne to accept a ride in his automobile! He
might just as well have had the effrontery to ask her
to dine at his house!</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>[pg 110]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>MR. TROTTER FALLS INTO A NEW POSITION</h3>
<p class="indent">THE sagacity of M. Mirabeau went far toward
nullifying the hastily laid plans of Stuyvesant
Smith-Parvis. It was he who suggested a prompt
effort to recover the two marked bills that Trotter had
handed to his landlady earlier in the day.</p>
<p class="indent">Prince Waldemar de Bosky, with a brand new
twenty-dollar bill in his possession,—(supplied by the
excited Frenchman)—boarded a Lexington Avenue
car and in due time mounted the steps leading to the
front door of the lodging house kept by Mrs. Dulaney.
Ostensibly he was in search of a room for a gentleman
of refinement and culture; Mrs. Dulaney's house had
been recommended to him as first class in every particular.
The landlady herself showed him a room,
fourth-floor front, just vacated (she said) by a most
refined gentleman engaged in the phonograph business.
It was her rule to demand references from prospective
lodgers, but as she had been in the business a great
many years it was now possible for her to distinguish a
gentleman the instant she laid eyes on him, so it would
only be necessary for the present applicant to pay the
first week's rent in advance. He could then move in
at once.</p>
<p class="indent">With considerable mortification, she declared that she
wouldn't insist on the "advance,"—knowing gentlemen
as perfectly as she did,—were it not for the fact that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>[pg 111]</span>
her rent was due and she was short exactly that amount,—having
recently sent more than she could spare to a
sick sister in Bridgeport.</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky was very amiable about it,—and very
courteous. He said that, so far as he knew, all gentlemen
were prepared to pay five dollars in advance
when they engaged lodgings by the week, and would
she be so good as to take it out of the twenty-dollar
bill?</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Dulaney was slightly chagrined. The sight of
a twenty-dollar bill caused her to regret not having
asked for two weeks down instead of one.</p>
<p class="indent">"If it does not inconvenience you, madam," said de
Bosky, "I should like the change in new bills. You
have no idea how it offends my artistic sense to—"
He shuddered a little. "I make a point of never having
filthy, germ-disseminating bank notes on my person."</p>
<p class="indent">"And you are quite right," said she feelingly. "I
wish to God I could afford to be as particular. If
there's anything I hate it's a dirty old bill. Any one
could tell that you are a real gentleman, Mr.—Mr.—I
didn't get the name, did I?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Drexel," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Excuse me," she said, and moved over a couple of
paces in order to place the parlour table between herself
and the prospective lodger. Using it as a screen,
she fished a thin flat purse from her stocking, and
opened it. "I wouldn't do this in the presence of any
one but a gentleman," she explained, without embarrassment.
As she was twice the size of Prince Waldemar
and of a ruggedness that challenged offence, one
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>[pg 112]</span>
might have been justified in crediting her with egotism
instead of modesty.</p>
<p class="indent">Selecting the brightest and crispest from the layer of
bank notes, she laid them on the table. De Bosky's
eyes glistened.</p>
<p class="indent">"The city has recently been flooded with counterfeit
fives and tens, madam," he said politely. This afforded
an excuse for holding the bills to the light for examination.</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, don't tell me they're phoney," said Mrs. Dulaney,
bristling. "I got 'em this morning from the
squarest chap I've ever had in my—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I have every reason to believe they are genuine,"
said he, concealing his exultation behind a patronizing
smile. He had discovered the tell-tale marks on both
bills. Carefully folding them, he stuck them into his
waistcoat pocket. "You may expect me tomorrow,
madam,—unless, of course, destiny should shape another
end for me in the meantime. One never can tell,
you know. I may be dead, or your comfortable house
may be burned to the ground. It is—"</p>
<p class="indent">"For the Lord's sake, don't make a crack like that,"
she cried vehemently. "It's bad luck to talk about
fire."</p>
<p class="indent">"In any event," said he jauntily, "you have my
five dollars. Au revoir, madam. Auf wiedersehn!"
He buttoned Mr. Bramble's ulster close about his
throat and gravely bowed himself out into the falling
night.</p>
<p class="indent">In the meantime, Mr. Bramble had substituted two
unmarked bills for those remaining in the possession of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>[pg 113]</span>
Thomas Trotter, and, with the return of Prince Waldemar,
triumphant, M. Mirabeau arbitrarily confiscated
the entire thirty dollars.</p>
<p class="indent">"These bills must be concealed at once," he explained.
"Temporarily they are out of circulation. Do not
give them another thought, my dear Trotter. And
now, Monsieur Bookseller, we are in a proper frame of
mind to discuss the beefsteak you have neglected to
order."</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless my soul," cried Mr. Bramble in great
dismay. His unceremonious departure an instant later
was due to panic. Mrs. O'Leary had to be stopped
before the tripe and tunny fish had gone too far.
Moreover, he had forgotten to tell her that there would
be two extra for dinner,—besides the extra sirloin.</p>
<p class="indent">On the following Monday, Thomas Trotter entered
the service of Mrs. Millidew, and on the same day Stuyvesant
Smith-Parvis returned to New York after a
hasty and more or less unpremeditated visit to Atlantic
City, where he experienced a trying half hour with the
unreasonable Mr. Carpenter, who spoke feelingly of a
personal loss and most unfeelingly of the British Foreign
Office. Every nation in the world, he raged, has
a foreign office; foreign offices are as plentiful as birds'-nests.
But Tom Trotters were as scarce as hen's-teeth.
He would never find another like him.</p>
<p class="indent">"And what's more," he interrupted himself to say,
glowering at the shocked young man, "he's a gentleman,
and that's something you ain't,—not in a million
years."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ass!" said Mr. Smith-Parvis, under his breath.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>[pg 114]</span>
"What's that?" roared the aggrieved one.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't shout like that! People are beginning to
stare at—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank the Lord I had sense enough to engage a
private detective and not to call in the police, as you
suggested. That would have been the limit. I've a
notion to hunt that boy up and tell him the whole
rotten story."</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead and do it," invited Stuyvie, his eyes narrowing,
"and I will do a little telling myself. There
is one thing in particular your wife would give her ears
to hear about you. It will simplify matters tremendously.
Go ahead and tell him."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Carpenter appeared to be reflecting. His inflamed
sullen eyes assumed a misty, faraway expression.</p>
<p class="indent">"For two cents I'd tell you to go to hell," he said,
after a long silence.</p>
<p class="indent">"Boy!" called Mr. Smith-Parvis loftily, signalling
a passing bell-hop. "Go and get me some small change
for this nickel."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Carpenter's face relaxed into a sickly grin.
"Can't you take a joke?" he inquired peevishly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Never mind," said Stuyvie to the bell-boy. "I
sha'n't need it after all."</p>
<p class="indent">"What I'd like to know," mused Mr. Carpenter,
later on, "is how in thunder the New York police
department got wind of all this."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis, Junior, wiped a fine moisture from
his brow, and said: "I forgot to mention that I had
to give that plain-clothes man fifty dollars to keep him
from going to old man Cricklewick with the whole
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>[pg 115]</span>
blooming story. It seems that he got it from your
bally private detective."</p>
<p class="indent">"Good!" said the other brightly. "You got off
cheap," he added quickly, catching the look in Stuyvie's
eye.</p>
<p class="indent">"I did it to spare Cricklewick a whole lot of embarrassment,"
said the younger man stiffly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't get you."</p>
<p class="indent">"He never could look me in the face again if he
found out I was the man he was panning so unmercifully
the other night at our own dinner table." He
wiped his brow again. "'Gad, he'd never forgive himself."</p>
<p class="indent">Which goes to prove that Stuyvie was more considerate
of the feelings of others than one might have
credited him with being.</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,—an
idiosyncrasy, it may be said, that brought her
into contact with a great many of them in the course
of a twelvemonth. The last one to leave her without
giving the customary week's notice had remained in her
employ longer than any of his predecessors. A most
astonishing discrepancy appeared in their statements
as to the exact length of time he was in her service.
Mrs. Millidew maintained that he was with her for
exactly three weeks; the chauffeur swore to high heaven
that it was three centuries.</p>
<p class="indent">She had Thomas Trotter up before her.</p>
<p class="indent">"You have been recommended to me by Mr. Cricklewick,"
she said, regarding him with a critical eye.
"No other reference is necessary, so don't go fumbling
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>[pg 116]</span>
in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What
is your name?"</p>
<p class="indent">She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and
exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows.</p>
<p class="indent">"Thomas Trotter, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"How tall are you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Six feet."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another
look at him.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you."</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you speaking of livery, madam?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't
be buying new uniforms every two weeks. I don't mind
a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. Mr.
Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter
of fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you
would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin.
You couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man.
I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English
chauffeur, and—you <i>are</i> English, aren't you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for
you. I never, under any circumstances, wear livery,—I
beg your pardon, I should say a uniform."</p>
<p class="indent">"You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking.</p>
<p class="indent">"Wear livery," said he, succinctly.</p>
<p class="indent">"That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you
worked for me. Now, see here, my man, it's possible
you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform
I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted politely,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>[pg 117]</span>
favouring her with his never-failing smile. Her
gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and
then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is
as far as I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know."</p>
<p class="indent">"I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are
quite a good-looking fellow. The last man I had looked
like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white
pants. I—Don't you think you could be persuaded
to put it on if I,—well, if I added five dollars a week
to your wages? I like your looks. You look as if
you might have been a soldier."</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least
object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew.
That's quite different, you see."</p>
<p class="indent">"Suppose I take you on trial for a couple of weeks,"
she ventured, surrendering to his smile and the light in
his unservile eyes. Considering the matter settled, she
went on brusquely: "How old are you, Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Thirty."</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you married? I never employ married men.
Their wives are always having babies or operations or
something disagreeable and unnecessary."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am not married, Mrs. Millidew."</p>
<p class="indent">"Who was your last employer in England?"</p>
<p class="indent">"His Majesty King George the Fifth," said Trotter
calmly.</p>
<p class="indent">Her eyes bulged. "What?" she cried. Then her
eyes narrowed. "And do you mean to tell me you
didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I wore a uniform, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"Umph! America has spoiled you, I see. That's
always the way. Independence is a curse. Have you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>[pg 118]</span>
ever been arrested? Wait! Don't answer. I withdraw
the question. You would only lie, and that is a
bad way to begin."</p>
<p class="indent">"I lie only when it is absolutely necessary, Mrs. Millidew.
In police courts, for example."</p>
<p class="indent">"Good! Now, you are young, good looking and
likely to be spoiled. It must be understood in the beginning,
Trotter, that there is to be no foolishness with
women." She regarded him severely.</p>
<p class="indent">"No foolishness whatsoever," said he humbly, raising
his eyes to heaven.</p>
<p class="indent">"How long were you employed in your last job—ah,
situation?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not quite a twelve-month, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"And now," she said, with a graciousness that surprised
her, "perhaps you would like to put a few questions
to me. The cooks always do."</p>
<p class="indent">He smiled more engagingly than ever. "As they say
in the advertisements of lost jewellery, madam,—'no
questions asked,'" he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Eh? Oh, I see. Rather good. I hope you know
your place, though," she added, narrowly. "I don't
approve of freshness."</p>
<p class="indent">"No more do I," said he, agreeably.</p>
<p class="indent">"I suppose you are accustomed to driving in—er—in
good society, Trotter. You know what I mean."</p>
<p class="indent">"Perfectly. I have driven in the very best, madam,
if I do say it as shouldn't. Beg pardon, I daresay you
mean smart society?" He appeared to be very much
concerned, even going so far as to send an appraising
eye around the room,—doubtless for the purpose of
satisfying himself that <i>she</i> was quite up to the standard.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>[pg 119]</span>
"Of course," she said hastily. Something told her
that if she didn't nab him on the spot he would get away
from her. "Can you start in at once, Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">"We have not agreed upon the wages, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"I have never paid less than forty a week," she said
stiffly. "Even for bad ones," she added.</p>
<p class="indent">He smiled, but said nothing, apparently waiting for
her to proceed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Would fifty a week suit you?" she asked, after a
long pause. She was a little helpless.</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite," said he.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's a lot of money," she murmured. "But I like
the way you speak English. By the way, let me hear
you say: 'It is half after four, madam. Are you
going on to Mrs. Brown's.'"</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter laid himself out. He said "hawf-paast,"
and "fou-ah," and "Meddem," and "gehing," in a
way that delighted her.</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall be going out at three o'clock, Trotter. Be
on time. I insist on punctuality."</p>
<p class="indent">"Very good, madam," he said, and retreated in good
order. She halted him at the door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Above all things you mustn't let any of these silly
women make a fool of you, Trotter," she said, a troubled
gleam in her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"I will do my best, madam," he assured her.</p>
<p class="indent">And that very afternoon she appeared in triumph at
the home of her daughter-in-law (the <i>young</i> Mrs. Millidew)
and invited that widowed siren to go out for a
spin with her "behind the stunningest creature you
ever laid your eyes on."</p>
<p class="indent">"Where did you get him?" inquired the beautiful
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>[pg 120]</span>
daughter-in-law, later on, in a voice perfectly audible
to the man at the wheel. "He's the best looking thing
in town. Don't be surprised if I steal him inside of a
week." She might as well have been at the zoo, discussing
impervious captives.</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, don't try anything like that," cried Mrs. Millidew
the elder, glaring fiercely.</p>
<p class="indent">"I like the way his hair kinks in the back,—and just
above his ears," said the other. "And his skin is as
smooth and as clear—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Is there any drive in particular you would like to
take, madam?" broke in Trotter, turning in the seat.</p>
<p class="indent">"Up—up and down Fifth Avenue," said Mrs. Millidew
promptly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Did you ever see such teeth?" cried Mrs. Millidew,
the younger, delightedly.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter's ears were noticeable on account of their
colour.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>[pg 121]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
<h3>PUTTING THEIR HEADS—AND HEARTS—TOGETHER</h3>
<p class="indent">"FOR every caress," philosophized the Marchioness,
"there is a pinch. Somehow they manage
to keep on pretty even terms. One receives the caresses
fairly early in life, the pinches later on. You
shouldn't be complaining at your time of life, my
friend."</p>
<p class="indent">She was speaking to Lord Temple, who had presented
himself a full thirty minutes ahead of other
expected guests at the Wednesday evening salon. He
explained that he came early because he had to leave
early. Mrs. Millidew was at the theatre. She was
giving a box party. He had been directed to return to
the theatre before the end of the second act. Mrs. Millidew,
it appears, was in the habit of "walking out"
on every play she attended, sometimes at the end of an
act but more frequently in the middle of it, greatly to
the relief of actors and audience.</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">("Tell me something good to read," said one of her
guests, in the middle of the first act, addressing no one
in particular, the audience being a very large one. "Is
there anything new that's worth while?"</p>
<p class="indent">"<i>The Three Musketeers</i> is a corker," said the man
next her. "Awfully exciting."</p>
<p class="indent">"Write it down for me, dear boy. I will order it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>[pg 122]</span>
sent up tomorrow. One has so little time to read, you
know. Anything else?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You <i>must</i> read <i>Trilby</i>," cried one of the other
women, frowning slightly in the direction of the stage,
where an actor was doing his best to break into the
general conversation. "It's perfectly ripping, I hear.
And there is another book called <i>Three Men in a Yacht</i>,
or something like that. Have you had it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No. Good Lord, what a noisy person he is! One
can't hear oneself think, the way he's roaring. <i>Three
Men in a Yacht.</i> Put that down, too, Bertie. Dear
me, how do you find the time to keep up with your reading,
my dear? It's absolutely impossible for me. I'm
always six months or a year behind—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Have you read <i>Brewster's Millions</i>, Mrs. Corkwright?"
timidly inquired a rather up-to-date gentleman.</p>
<p class="indent">"That isn't a book. It's a play," said Mrs. Millidew.
"I saw it ten years ago. There is a ship in it.")</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">"I'm not complaining," remarked Lord Temple, smiling
down upon the Marchioness, who was seated in front
of the fireplace. "I merely announced that the world
is getting to be a dreary old place,—and that's all."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, but you made the announcement after a silence
of five minutes following my remark that Lady Jane
Thorne finds it impossible to be with us tonight."</p>
<p class="indent">He blushed. "Did it seem as long as that?" he
said, penitently. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p class="indent">"How do you like your new situation?" she inquired,
changing the subject abruptly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>[pg 123]</span>
He gave a slight start. It was an unwritten law
that one's daily occupation should not be discussed at
the weekly drawing-rooms. For example, it is easy
to conceive that one could not be forgiven for asking
the Count Pietro Poloni how many nickels he
had taken in during the day as Humpy the Organ-grinder.</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple also stared. Was it possible that she
was forgetting that Thomas Trotter, the chauffeur, was
hanging over the back of a chair in the locker room
down-stairs,—where he had been left by a hurried and
somewhat untidy Lord Temple?</p>
<p class="indent">"As well as could be expected," he replied, after a
moment.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mrs. Millidew came in to see me today. She informed
me that she had put in her thumb and pulled out
a plum. Meaning you, of course."</p>
<p class="indent">"How utterly English you are, my dear Marchioness.
She mentioned a fruit of some kind, and you
missed the point altogether. 'Peach' is the word she's
been using for the past two days, just plain, ordinary
'peach.' A dozen times a day she sticks a finger almost
up against my manly back, and says proudly: 'See my
new chauffeur. Isn't he a peach?' I can't see how
you make plum out of it."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness laughed. "It doesn't matter.
She dragged me to the window this afternoon and
pointed down at you sitting alone in all your splendour.
I am afraid I gasped. I couldn't believe my eyes.
You won't last long, dear boy. She's a dreadful
woman."</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm not worrying. I shouldn't be out of a situation
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>[pg 124]</span>
long. Do you happen to know her daughter-in-law?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I do," said the Marchioness, frowning.</p>
<p class="indent">"She told me this morning that the instant I felt I
couldn't stand the old lady any longer, she'd give me
a job on the spot. As a matter-of-fact, she went so
far as to say she'd be willing to pay me more money if
I felt the slightest inclination to leave my present position
at once."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness smiled faintly. "No other recommendation
necessary, eh?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Beg pardon?"</p>
<p class="indent">"In other words, she is willing to accept you at your
face value."</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay I have a competent face," he acknowledged,
his smile broadening into a grin.</p>
<p class="indent">"Designed especially for women," said she.</p>
<p class="indent">He coloured. "Oh, I say, that's a bit rough."</p>
<p class="indent">"And thoroughly approved by men," she added.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's better," he said. "I'm not a ladies' man,
you know,—thank God." His face clouded. "Is
Lady Jane ill?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Apparently not. She merely telephoned to say it
would be impossible to come." She eyed him shrewdly.
"Do you know anything about it, young man?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Have you seen her,—lately?" he parried.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yesterday afternoon," she answered, keeping her
eyes upon his half-averted face. "See here, Eric Temple,"
she broke out suddenly, "she is unhappy—most
unhappy. I am not sure that I ought to tell you—and
yet, you are in love with her, so you should know.
Now, don't say you are not in love with her! Save
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>[pg 125]</span>
your breath. The trouble is, you are not the only
man who is in that peculiar fix."</p>
<p class="indent">"I know," he said, frowning darkly. "She's being
annoyed by that infernal blighter."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oho, so you <i>do</i> know, then?" she cried. "She was
very careful to leave you out of the story altogether.
Well, I'm glad you know. What are you going to do
about it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I? Why,—why, what <i>can</i> I do?"</p>
<p class="indent">"There is a great deal you can do."</p>
<p class="indent">"But she has laid down the law, hard and fast. She
won't let me," he groaned.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness blinked rapidly. "Well, of all the
stupid,—Say that again, please."</p>
<p class="indent">"She won't let me. I would in a second, you know,—no
matter if it did land me in jail for—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What are you talking about?" she gasped.</p>
<p class="indent">"Punching his bally head till he wouldn't know it
himself in the mirror," he grated, looking at his fist
almost tearfully.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness opened her lips to say something,
thought better of it, and turned her head to smile.</p>
<p class="indent">"Moreover," he went on, "she's right. Might get
her into no end of a mess with those people, you see.
It breaks my heart to think of her—"</p>
<p class="indent">"He wants her to run away with him and be married,"
she broke in.</p>
<p class="indent">"What!" he almost shouted, glaring at her as if
she were the real offender. "You—did she tell you
that?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes. He rather favours San Francisco. He
wants her to go out there with him and be married by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>[pg 126]</span>
a chap to whom he promised the distinction while they
were still in their teens."</p>
<p class="indent">"The cur! That's his game, is it? Why, that's the
foulest trick known to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But she isn't going, my friend,—so possess yourself
in peace. That's why he is turning off so nasty.
He is making things most unpleasant for her."</p>
<p class="indent">He wondered how far Jane had gone in her confidences.
Had she told the Marchioness everything?</p>
<p class="indent">"Why doesn't she leave the place?" he demanded,
as a feeler.</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane had told the Marchioness everything, and
a great deal more besides, including, it may be said,
something touching upon her own feelings toward Lord
Temple. But the Marchioness was under imperative
orders. Not for the world, was Thomas Trotter to
know that Miss Emsdale, among others, was a perfect
fool about him.</p>
<p class="indent">"She must have her bread and butter, you know,"
said she severely.</p>
<p class="indent">"But she can get that elsewhere, can't she?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly. She can get it by marrying some decent,
respectable fellow and all that sort of thing, but
she can't get another place in New York as governess if
the Smith-Parvis establishment turns her out with a bad
name."</p>
<p class="indent">He swallowed hard, and went a little pale. "Of
course, she isn't thinking of—of getting married."</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, she is," said the Marchioness flatly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Has—has she told you that in so many words,
Marchioness?" he asked, his heart going to his boots.</p>
<p class="indent">"Is it fair to ask that question, Lord Temple?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>[pg 127]</span>
"No. It isn't fair. I have no right to pry into her
affairs. I'm—I'm desperately concerned, that's all.
It's my only excuse."</p>
<p class="indent">"It isn't strange that she should be in love, is it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"But I—I don't see who the deuce she can have
found over here to—to fall in love with," he floundered.</p>
<p class="indent">"There are millions of good, fine Americans, my
friend. Young Smith-Parvis is one of the exceptions."</p>
<p class="indent">"He isn't an American," said Lord Temple, savagely.
"Don't insult America by mentioning his name in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Please, please! Be careful not to knock over the
lamp, dear boy. It's Florentine, and Count Antonio
says it came from some dreadful sixteenth-century
woman's bedroom, price two hundred guineas net.
She's afraid she's being watched."</p>
<p class="indent">"She? Oh, you mean Lady Jane?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly. The other woman has been dead for
centuries. Jane thinks it isn't safe for her to come
here for a little while. There's no telling what the
wretch may stoop to, you see."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple squared his shoulders. "I don't see
how you can be so cheerful about it," he said icily. "I
fear it isn't worth while to ask the favour I came to—er—to
ask of you tonight."</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't be silly. Tell me what I can do for you."</p>
<p class="indent">"It isn't for me. It's for her. I came early tonight
so that we could talk it all over before any one
else arrived. I've slept precious little the last few
nights, Marchioness." His brow was furrowed as with
pain. "In the first place, you will agree that she cannot
remain in that house up there. That's settled."
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>[pg 128]</span>
As she did not offer any audible support, he demanded,
after a pause: "Isn't it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay she will have something to say about
that," she said, temporizing. "She is her own mistress,
you know."</p>
<p class="indent">"But the poor girl doesn't know where to turn," he
protested. "She'd chuck it in a second if something
else turned up."</p>
<p class="indent">"I spoke of marriage, you will remember," she remarked,
drily.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I know," he gulped. "But we've just got to
tide her over the rough going until she's—until she's
ready, you see." He could not force the miserable
word out of his mouth. "Now, I have a plan. Are
you prepared to back me up in it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"How can I answer that question?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I'll explain," he went on rapidly, eagerly.
"We've got to make a new position for her. I can't do
it without your help, of course, so we'll have to combine
forces. Now, here's the scheme I've worked out. You
are to give her a place here,—not downstairs in the
shop, mind you,—but upstairs in your own, private
apartment. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Good heavens, man! What are you saying?
Would you have Lady Jane Thorne go into service?
Do you dare suggest that she should put on a cap and
apron and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all," he interrupted. "I want you to engage
her as your private secretary, at a salary of one
hundred dollars a month. She's receiving that amount
from the Smith-Parvises. I don't see how she can get
along on less, so—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>[pg 129]</span>
"My dear man!" cried the Marchioness, in amazement.
"What <i>are</i> you talking about? In the first
place, I haven't the slightest use for a private secretary.
In the second place, I can't afford to pay one hundred—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You haven't heard all I have to say—"</p>
<p class="indent">"And in the third place, Lady Jane wouldn't consider
it in the first place. Bless my soul, you <i>do</i> need
sleep. You are losing your—"</p>
<p class="indent">"She sends nearly all of her salary over to the boy
at home," he went on earnestly. "It will have to be
one hundred dollars, at the very lowest. Now, here's
my proposition. I am getting two hundred a month.
It's just twice as much as I'm worth,—or any other
chauffeur, for that matter. Well, now what's the matter
with me taking just what I'm worth and giving her
the other half? See what I mean?"</p>
<p class="indent">He was standing before her, his eyes glowing, his
voice full of boyish eagerness. As she looked up into
his shining eyes, a tender smile came and played about
her lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"I see," she said softly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well?" he demanded anxiously, after a moment.</p>
<p class="indent">"Do sit down," she said. "You appear to have
grown prodigiously tall in the last few minutes. I shall
have a dreadful crick in my neck, I'm afraid."</p>
<p class="indent">He pulled up a chair and sat down.</p>
<p class="indent">"I can get along like a breeze on a hundred dollars
a month," he pursued. "I've worked it all out,—just
how much I can save by moving into cheaper lodgings,
and cutting out expensive cigarettes, and going on the
water-wagon entirely,—although I rarely take a drink
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>[pg 130]</span>
as it is,—and getting my clothes at a department
store instead of having them sent out from London,—I'd
be easy to fit, you see, even with hand-me-downs,—and
in a lot of other ways. Besides, it would be a
splendid idea for me to practise economy. I've
never—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You dear old goose," broke in the Marchioness, delightedly;
"do you think for an instant that I will
allow you to pay the salary of my private secretary,—if
I should conclude to employ one?"</p>
<p class="indent">"But you say you can't afford to employ one," he
protested. "Besides, I shouldn't want her to be a real
secretary. The work would be too hard and too confining.
Old Bramble was my grandfather's secretary.
He worked sixteen hours a day and never had a holiday.
She must have plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise
and—and time to read and do all sorts of agreeable
things. I couldn't think of allowing her to learn how
to use a typing machine, or to write shorthand, or to
get pains in her back bending over a desk for hours at a
time. That isn't my scheme, at all. She mustn't do
any of those stupid things. Naturally, if you were
to pay her out of your own pocket, you'd be justified
in demanding a lot of hard, exacting work—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Just a moment, please. Let's be serious," said the
Marchioness, pursing her lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"Suffering—" he began, staring at her in astonishment.</p>
<p class="indent">"I mean, let's seriously consider your scheme," she
hastened to amend. "You are assuming, of course,
that she will accept a position such as you suggest.
Suppose she says no,—what then?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>[pg 131]</span>
"I leave that entirely to you," said he, composedly.
"You can persuade her, I'm sure."</p>
<p class="indent">"She is no fool. She is perfectly well aware that I
don't require the services of a secretary, that I am quite
able to manage my private affairs myself. She would
see through me in a second. She is as proud as Lucifer.
I don't like to think of what she would say to me.
And if I were to offer to pay her one hundred dollars
a month, she would—well, she would think I was losing
my mind. She knows I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"By Jove!" he exclaimed, slapping his knee, his face
beaming. "That's the ticket! That simplifies everything.
Let her think you <i>are</i> losing your mind. From
worry and overwork—and all that sort of thing. It's
the very thing, Marchioness. She would drop everything
to help you in a case like that."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, of all the—" began the Marchioness, aghast.</p>
<p class="indent">"You can put it up to her something like this," he
went on, enthusiastically. "Tell her you are on the
point of having a nervous breakdown,—a sort of collapse,
you know. You know how to put it, better than
I do. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I certainly do <i>not</i> know how to put it better than
you do," she cried, sitting up very straight.</p>
<p class="indent">"Tell her you are dreadfully worried over not being
able to remember things,—mental strain, and all that
sort of thing. May have to give up business altogether
unless you can—Is it a laughing matter, Marchioness?"
he broke off, reddening to the roots of his hair.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are delicious!" she cried, dabbing her eyes with
a bit of a lace handkerchief. "I haven't laughed so
heartily in months. Bless my soul, you'll have me telling
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>[pg 132]</span>
her there is insanity in my family before you're
through with it."</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all," he said severely. "People <i>never</i> admit
that sort of thing, you know. But certainly it isn't
asking too much of you to act tired and listless, and a
<i>little</i> distracted, is it? She'll ask what's the matter,
and you simply say you're afraid you're going to have a
nervous breakdown or—or—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Or paresis," she supplied.</p>
<p class="indent">"Whatever you like," he said promptly. "Now you
<i>will</i> do this for me, won't you? You don't know what
it will mean to me to feel that she is safe here with you."</p>
<p class="indent">"I will do my best," she said, for she loved him
dearly—and the girl that he loved dearly too.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hurray!" he shouted,—and kissed her!</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't be foolish," she cried out. "You've tumbled
my hair, and Julia had a terrible time with it tonight."</p>
<p class="indent">"When will you tackle—see her, I mean?" he
asked, sitting down abruptly and drawing his chair a
little closer.</p>
<p class="indent">"The first time she comes in to see me," she replied
firmly, "and not before. You must not demand too
much of a sick, collapsible old lady, you know. Give
me time,—and a chance to get my bearings."</p>
<p class="indent">He drew a long breath. "I seem to be getting my
own for the first time in days."</p>
<p class="indent">She hesitated. "Of course, it is all very quixotic,—and
most unselfish of you, Lord Temple. Not every
man would do as much for a girl who—well, I'll not
say a girl who is going to be married before long, because
I'd only be speculating,—but for a girl, at any
rate, who can never be expected to repay. I take it,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>[pg 133]</span>
of course, that Lady Jane is never, under any circumstances
to know that you are the real paymaster."</p>
<p class="indent">"She must never know," he gasped, turning a shade
paler. "She would hate me, and—well, I couldn't
stand that, you know."</p>
<p class="indent">"And you will not repent when the time comes for
her to marry?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'll—I'll be miserably unhappy, but—but, you
will not hear a whimper out of me," he said, his face
very long.</p>
<p class="indent">"Spoken like a hero," she said, and again she
laughed, apparently without reason. "Some one is
coming. Will you stay?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No; I'll be off, Marchioness. You don't know how
relieved I am. I'll drop in tomorrow some time to see
what she says,—and to arrange with you about the
money. Good night!" He kissed her hand, and
turned to McFaddan, who had entered the room. "Call
a taxi for me, McFaddan."</p>
<p class="indent">"Very good, sir."</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait! Never mind. I'll walk or take a street
car." To the Marchioness: "I'm beginning right
now," he said, with his gayest smile.</p>
<p class="indent">In the foyer he encountered Cricklewick.</p>
<p class="indent">"Pleasant evening, Cricklewick," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is, your lordship. Most agreeable change, sir."</p>
<p class="indent">"A bit soft under foot."</p>
<p class="indent">"Slushy, sir," said Cricklewick, obsequiously.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>[pg 134]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2>
<h3>WINNING BY A NOSE</h3>
<p class="indent">MRS. SMITH-PARVIS, having received the annual
spring announcement from Juneo & Co.,
repaired, on an empty Thursday, to the show-rooms
and galleries of the little Italian dealer in antiques.</p>
<p class="indent">Twice a year she disdainfully,—and somewhat hastily,—went
through his stock, always proclaiming at
the outset that she was merely "looking around";
she'd come in later if she saw anything really worth
having. It was her habit to demand the services of
Mr. Juneo himself on these profitless visits to his
establishment. She looked holes through the presumptuous
underlings who politely adventured to inquire if
she was looking for anything in particular. It would
seem that the only thing in particular that she was
looking for was the head of the house, and if he happened
to be out she made it very plain that she didn't
see how he ever did any business if he wasn't there to
look after it.</p>
<p class="indent">And if little Mr. Juneo was in, she swiftly conducted
him through the various departments of his own shop,
questioning the genuineness of everything, denouncing
his prices, and departing at last with the announcement
that she could always find what she wanted at Pickett's.</p>
<p class="indent">At Pickett's she invariably encountered coldly punctilious
gentlemen in "frockaway" coats, who were never
quite sure, without inquiring, whether Mr. Moody was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>[pg 135]</span>
at liberty. Would she kindly take a seat and wait, or
would she prefer to have a look about the galleries
while some one went off to see if he could see her at once
or a little later on? She liked all this. And she would
wander about the luxurious rooms of the establishment
of Pickett, Inc., content to stare languidly at other and
less influential patrons who had to be satisfied with the
smug attentions of ordinary salesmen.</p>
<p class="indent">And Moody, being acutely English, laid it on very
thick when it came to dealing with persons of the type
of Mrs. Smith-Parvis. Somehow he had learned that
in dealing with snobs one must transcend even in snobbishness.
The only way to command the respect of a
snob is to go him a little better,—indeed, according
to Moody, it isn't altogether out of place to go him a
great deal better. The loftier the snob, the higher you
must shoot to get over his head (to quote Moody, whose
training as a footman in one of the oldest houses in
England had prepared him against almost any emergency).
He assumed on occasion a polite, bored indifference
that seldom failed to have the desired effect. In
fact, he frequently went so far as to pretend to stifle a
yawn while face to face with the most exalted of patrons,—a
revelation of courage which, being carefully
timed, usually put the patron in a corner from which
she could escape only by paying a heavy ransom.</p>
<p class="indent">He sometimes had a way of implying,—by his manner,
of course,—that he would rather not sell the treasure
at all than to have it go into <i>your</i> mansion, where
it would be manifestly alone in its splendour, notwithstanding
the priceless articles you had picked up elsewhere
in previous efforts to inhabit the place with glory.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>[pg 136]</span>
On the other hand, if you happened to be nobody at all
and therefore likely to resent being squelched, he could
sell you a ten-dollar candlestick quite as amiably as
the humblest clerk in the place. Indeed, he was quite
capable of giving it to you for nine dollars if he found
he had not quite correctly sized you up in the beginning.</p>
<p class="indent">As he never erred in sizing up people of the Smith-Parvis
ilk, however, his profits were sublime. Accident,
and nothing less, brought him into contact with
the common people looking for bargains: such as the
faulty adjustment of his monocle, or a similarity in
backs, or the perverseness of the telephone, or a sudden
shower. Sudden showers always remind pedestrians
without umbrellas that they've been meaning for a long
time to stop in and price things, and they clutter up
the place so.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis was bent on discovering something
cheap and unusual for the twins, whose joint birthday
anniversary was but two days off. It occurred to
her that it would be wise to give them another heirloom
apiece. Something English, of course, in view
of the fact that her husband's forebears had come over
from England with the twenty or thirty thousand voyagers
who stuffed the <i>Mayflower</i> from stem to stern
on her historic maiden trip across the Atlantic.</p>
<p class="indent">Secretly, she had never got over being annoyed with
the twins for having come regardless, so to speak. She
had prayed for another boy like Stuyvesant, and along
came the twins—no doubt as a sort of sop in the form
of good measure. If there had to be twins, why under
heaven couldn't she have been blessed with them on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>[pg 137]</span>
Stuyvesant's natal day? She couldn't have had too
many Stuyvesants.</p>
<p class="indent">Still, she considered it her duty to be as nice as possible
to the twins, now that she had them; and besides,
they were growing up to be surprisingly pretty girls,
with a pleasantly increasing resemblance to Stuyvesant.</p>
<p class="indent">Always, a day or two prior to the anniversary, she
went surreptitiously into the antique shops and picked
out for each of them a piece of jewellery, or a bit of
china, or a strip of lace, or anything else that bore evidence
of having once been in a very nice sort of family.
On the glad morning she delivered her gifts, with sweet
impressiveness, into the keeping of these remote little
descendants of her beloved ancestors! Invariably
something English, heirlooms that she had kept under
lock and key since the day they came to Mr. Smith-Parvis
under the terms of his great-grandmother's will.
Up to the time Stuyvesant was sixteen he had been getting
heirlooms from a long-departed great-grandfather,
but on reaching that vital age, he declared that he preferred
cash.</p>
<p class="indent">The twins had a rare assortment of family heirlooms
in the little glass cabinets upstairs.</p>
<p class="indent">"You must cherish them for ever," said their mother,
without compunction. "They represent a great deal
more than mere money, my dears. They are the intrinsic
bonds that connect you with a glorious past."</p>
<p class="indent">When they were ten she gave them a pair of beautiful
miniatures,—a most alluring and imperial looking
young lady with powdered hair, and a gallant young
gentleman with orders pinned all over his bright red
coat. It appears that the lady of the miniature was a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>[pg 138]</span>
great personage at court a great many years before the
misguided Colonists revolted against King George the
Third, and they—her darling twins—were directly
descended from her. The gentleman was her husband.</p>
<p class="indent">"He was awfully handsome," one of the twins had
said, being romantic. "Are we descended from him
too, mamma?" she inquired innocently.</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis severely.</p>
<p class="indent">A predecessor of Miss Emsdale's got her walking
papers for putting nonsense (as well as the truth) into
the heads of the children. At least, she told them
something that paved the way for a most embarrassing
disclosure by one of the twins when a visitor was
complimenting them on being such nice, lovely little
ladies.</p>
<p class="indent">"We ought to be," said Eudora proudly. "We are
descended from Madam du Barry. We've got her picture
upstairs."</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis took Miss Emsdale with her on
this particular Thursday afternoon. This was at the
suggestion of Stuyvesant, who held forth that an English
governess was in every way qualified to pass upon
English wares, new or old, and there wasn't any sense
in getting "stung" when there was a way to protect
oneself, and all that sort of thing.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant also joined the hunt.</p>
<p class="indent">"Rather a lark, eh, what?" he whispered in Miss
Emsdale's ear as they followed his stately mother into
the shop of Juneo & Co. She jerked her arm away.</p>
<p class="indent">The proprietor was haled forth. Courteous, suave
and polished though he was, Signor Juneo had the misfortune
to be a trifle shabby, and sartorially remiss.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>[pg 139]</span>
Mrs. Smith-Parvis eyed him from a peak,—a very lofty
peak.</p>
<p class="indent">Ten minutes sufficed to convince her that he had
nothing in his place that she could think of buying.</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear sir," she said haughtily, "I know just
what I want, so don't try to palm off any of this jewellery
on me. Miss Emsdale knows the Queen Anne
period quite as well as I do, I've no doubt. Queen Anne
never laid eyes on that wristlet, Mr. Juneo."</p>
<p class="indent">"Pardon me, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear you misunderstood
me," said the little dealer politely. "I think
I said that it was of Queen Anne's period—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What time is it, Stuyvesant?" broke in the lady,
turning her back on the merchant. "We must be getting
on to Pickett's. It is really a waste of time, coming
to places like this. One should go to Pickett's in
the first—"</p>
<p class="indent">"There are a lot of ripping things here, mater," said
Stuyvesant, his eyes resting on a comfortable couch in
a somewhat secluded corner of the shop. "Take a look
around. Miss Emsdale and I will take a back seat, so
that you may go about it with an open mind. I daresay
we confuse you frightfully, tagging at your heels
all the time, what? Come along, Miss Emsdale. You
look fagged and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank you, I am quite all right," said Miss Emsdale,
the red spots in her cheeks darkening.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, be a sport," he urged, under his voice. "I've
just got to have a few words with you. It's been days
since we've had a good talk. Looks as though you were
deliberately avoiding me."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am," said she succinctly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>[pg 140]</span>
Mrs. Smith-Parvis had gone on ahead with Signor
Juneo, and was loudly criticizing a beautiful old Venetian
mirror which he had the temerity to point out to
her.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I don't like it," Stuyvesant said roughly.
"That sort of thing doesn't go with me, Miss Emsdale.
And, hang it all, why haven't you had the decency
to answer the two notes I stuck under your door
last night and the night before?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I did not read the second one," she said, flushing
painfully. "You have no right to assume that I will
meet you—oh, <i>can't</i> you be a gentleman?"</p>
<p class="indent">He gasped. "My God! Can you beat <i>that</i>!"</p>
<p class="indent">"It is becoming unbearable, Mr. Smith-Parvis," said
she, looking him straight in the eye. "If you persist, I
shall be compelled to speak to your mother."</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead," he said sarcastically. "I'm ready for
exposure if you are."</p>
<p class="indent">"And I am now prepared to give up my position,"
she added, white and calm.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good!" he exclaimed promptly. "I'll see that
you never regret it," he went on eagerly, his enormous
vanity reaching out for but one conclusion.</p>
<p class="indent">"You beast!" she hissed, and walked away.</p>
<p class="indent">He looked bewildered. "I'm blowed if I understand
what's got into women lately," he muttered, and passed
his fingers over his brow.</p>
<p class="indent">On the way to Pickett's, Mrs. Smith-Parvis dilated
upon the unspeakable Mr. Juneo.</p>
<p class="indent">"You will be struck at once, Miss Emsdale, by the
contrast. The instant you come in contact with Mr.
Moody, at Pickett's—he is really the head of the firm,—you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>[pg 141]</span>
will experience the delightful,—and unique, I
may say,—sensation of being in the presence of a cultured,
high-bred gentleman. They are most uncommon
among shop-keepers in these days. This little
Juneo is as common as dirt. He hasn't a shred of
good-breeding. Utterly low-class Neapolitan person, I
should say at a venture,—although I have never been
by way of knowing any of the lower class Italians.
They must be quite dreadful in their native gutters.
Now, Mr. Moody,—but you shall see. Really, he is
so splendid that one can almost imagine him in the
House of Lords, or being privileged to sit down in the
presence of the king, or—
My word, Stuyvesant,
what are you scowling at?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm not scowling," growled Stuyvesant, from the
little side seat in front of them.</p>
<p class="indent">"He actually makes me feel sometimes as though I
were dirt under his feet," went on Mrs. Smith-Parvis.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, come now, mother, you know I never make you
feel anything of the—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I was referring to Mr. Moody, dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh,—well," said he, slightly crestfallen.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale suppressed a desire to giggle. Moody,
a footman without the normal supply of aitches; Juneo,
a nobleman with countless generations of nobility behind
him!</p>
<p class="indent">The car drew up to the curb on the side street paralleling
Pickett's. Another limousine had the place
of vantage ahead of them.</p>
<p class="indent">"Blow your horn, Galpin," ordered Mrs. Smith-Parvis.
"They have no right to stand there, blocking
the way."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>[pg 142]</span>
"It's Mrs. Millidew's car, madam," said the footman
up beside Galpin.</p>
<p class="indent">"Never mind, Galpin," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis hastily.
"We will get out here. It's only a step."</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale started. A warm red suffused her
cheeks. She had not seen Trotter since that day in
Bramble's book-shop. Her heart began to beat
rapidly.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter was standing on the curb, carrying on a
conversation with some one inside the car. He too
started perceptibly when his gaze fell upon the third
person to emerge from the Smith-Parvis automobile.
Almost instantly his face darkened and his tall frame
stiffened. He had taken a second look at the first person
to emerge. The reply he was in process of making
to the occupant of his own car suffered a collapse. It
became disjointed, incoherent and finally came to a
halt. He was afforded a slight thrill of relief when
Miss Emsdale deliberately ignored the hand that was
extended to assist her in alighting.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew, the younger, turned her head to
glance at the passing trio. Her face lighted with a
slight smile of recognition. The two Smith-Parvises
bowed and smiled in return.</p>
<p class="indent">"Isn't she beautiful?" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis to
her son, without waiting to get out of earshot.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, rather," said he, quite as distinctly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Who is that extremely pretty girl?" inquired
Mrs. Millidew, the younger, also quite loudly, addressing
no one in particular.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter cleared his throat.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, you wouldn't know, of course," she observed.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>[pg 143]</span>
"Go on, Trotter. You were telling me about your
family in—was it Chester? Your dear old mother
and the little sisters. I am very much interested."</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter looked around cautiously, and again cleared
his throat.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is awfully good of you to be interested in my
people," he said, an uneasy note in his voice. For
his life, he could not remember just what he had been
telling her in response to her inquiries. The whole
thing had been knocked out of his head by the sudden
appearance of one who knew that he had no dear old
mother in Chester, nor little sisters anywhere who depended
largely on him for support! "Chester," he
said, rather vaguely. "Yes, to be sure,—Chester.
Not far from Liverpool, you know,—it's where the
cathedral is."</p>
<p class="indent">"Tell me all about them," she persisted, leaning a
little closer to the window, an encouraging smile on
her carmine lips.</p>
<p class="indent">In due time the impassive Mr. Moody issued forth
from his private office and bore down upon the two
matrons, who, having no especial love for each other,
were striving their utmost to be cordial without compromising
themselves by being agreeable.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew the elder, arrayed in many colours,
was telling Mrs. Smith-Parvis about a new masseuse
she had discovered, and Mrs. Smith-Parvis was talking
freely at the same time about a person named Juneo.</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale had drifted over toward the broad show
window looking out upon the cross-town street, where
Thomas Trotter was visible,—out of the corner of her
eye. Also the younger Mrs. Millidew.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>[pg 144]</span>
Stuyvesant, sullenly smoking a cigarette, lolled
against a show-case across the room, dropping ashes
every minute or two into the mouth of a fragile and,
for the time being, priceless vase that happened to be
conveniently located near his elbow.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Moody adjusted his monocle and eyed his matronly
visitors in a most unfeeling way.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah,—good awfternoon, Mrs. Millidew. Good
awfternoon, Mrs. Smith-Parvis," he said, and then
catching sight of an apparently neglected customer in
the offing, beckoned to a smart looking salesman, and
said, quite loudly:</p>
<p class="indent">"See what that young man wants, Proctor."</p>
<p class="indent">The young man, who happened to be young Mr.
Smith-Parvis, started violently,—and glared.</p>
<p class="indent">"Stupid blight-ah!" he said, also quite loudly, and
disgustedly chucked his cigarette into the vase, whereupon
the salesman, in some horror, grabbed it up and
dumped the contents upon the floor.</p>
<p class="indent">"You shouldn't do that, you know," he said, in a
moment of righteous forgetfulness. "That's a peach-blow—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, is it?" snapped Stuyvesant, and walked away.</p>
<p class="indent">"That is my son, Mr. Moody," explained Mrs.
Smith-Parvis quickly. "Poor dear, he hates so to
shop with me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah,—ah, I see," drawled Mr. Moody. "Your
son? Yes, yes." And then, as an afterthought, with
a slight elevation of one eyebrow, "Bless my soul, Mrs.
Smith-Parvis, you amaze me. It's incredible. You
cawn't convince me that you have a son as old as—
Well,
now, really it's a bit thick."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>[pg 145]</span>
"I—I'm not spoofing you, Mr. Moody," cried Mrs.
Smith-Parvis delightedly.</p>
<p class="indent">His face relaxed slightly. One might have detected
the faint, suppressed gleam of a smile in his eyes,—but
it was so brief, so evanescent that it would be folly
to put it down as such.</p>
<p class="indent">The ensuing five minutes were devoted entirely to
manœuvres on the part of all three. Mrs. Smith-Parvis
was trying to shunt Mrs. Millidew on to an ordinary
salesman, and Mrs. Millidew was standing her
ground, resolute in the same direction. The former
couldn't possibly inspect heirlooms under the eye of
that old busy-body, nor could the latter resort to cajolery
in the effort to obtain a certain needle-point chair
at bankrupt figures. As for Mr. Moody, he was splendid.
The lordliest duke in all of Britain could not
have presented a truer exemplification of lordliness than
he. He quite outdid himself. The eighth letter in
the alphabet behaved in a most gratifying manner; indeed,
he even took chances with it, just to see how it
would act if he were not watching it,—and not once
did it fail him.</p>
<p class="indent">"But, of course, one never can find anything one
wants unless one goes to the really exclusive places,
you know," Mrs. Smith-Parvis was saying. "It is a
waste of time, don't you think?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Quate—oh, yes, quate," drawled Mr. Moody, in
a roving sort of way. That is to say, his interest
seemed to be utterly detached, as if nothing that Mrs.
Smith-Parvis said really mattered.</p>
<p class="indent">"Naturally we try to find things in the cheaper
places before we come here," went on the lady boldly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>[pg 146]</span>
"More int'resting," said Mr. Moody, indulgently
eyeing a great brass lanthorn that hung suspended over
Mrs. Millidew's bonnet,—but safely to the left of it,
he decided.</p>
<p class="indent">"I've been looking for something odd and quaint
and—and—you know,—of the Queen Anne period,—trinkets,
you might say, Mr. Moody. What have you
in that—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Queen Anne? Oh, ah, yes, to be sure,—Queen
Anne. Yes, yes. I see. 'Pon my soul, Mrs. Smith-Parvis,
I fear we haven't anything at all. Most uncommon
dearth of Queen Anne material nowadays.
We cawn't get a thing. Snapped up in England, of
course. I know of some extremely rare pieces to be
had in New York, however, and, while I cannot procure
them for you myself, I should be charmed to give you
a letter to the dealer who has them."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, how kind of you. That is really most gracious
of you."</p>
<p class="indent">"Mr. Juneo, of Juneo & Co., has quite a stock," interrupted
Mr. Moody tolerantly,—"quite a remarkable
collection, I may say. Indeed, nothing finer has been
brought to New York in—in—in—"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Moody faltered. His whole manner underwent
a swift and peculiar change. His eyes were riveted
upon the approaching figure of a young lady. Casually,
from time to time, his roving, detached gaze had
rested upon her back as she stood near the window.
As a back, it did not mean anything to him.</p>
<p class="indent">But now she was approaching,—and a queer, cold
little something ran swiftly down his spine. It was
Lady Jane Thorne!</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>[pg 147]</span>
Smash went his house of cards into a jumbled heap.
It collapsed from a lofty height. Lady Jane Thorne!</p>
<p class="indent">No use trying to lord it over her! She was the real
thing! Couldn't put on "lugs" with her,—not a bit
of it! She knew!</p>
<p class="indent">His monocle dropped. He tried to catch it.
Missed!</p>
<p class="indent">"My word!" he mumbled, as he stooped over to retrieve
it from the rug at his feet. The exertion sent a
ruddy glow to his neck and ears and brow.</p>
<p class="indent">"Did you break it?" cried Mrs. Millidew.</p>
<p class="indent">He stuck it in his waist-coat pocket without examination.</p>
<p class="indent">"This is Miss Emsdale, our governess," said Mrs.
Smith-Parvis. "She's an English girl, Mr. Moody."</p>
<p class="indent">"Glad to meet you," stammered Mr. Moody, desperately.</p>
<p class="indent">"How do you do, Mr. Moody," said Jane, in the
most matter-of-fact way.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Moody knew that she was a paid governess.
He had known it for many months. But that didn't
alter the case. She was the "real thing." He couldn't
put on any "side" with her. He couldn't bring himself
to it, not if his life depended on it. Not even if
she had been a scullery-maid and appeared before him
in greasy ginghams. All very well to "stick it on"
with these fashionable New Yorkers, but when it came
to the daughter of the Earl of Wexham,—well, it
didn't matter <i>what</i> she was as long as he knew <i>who</i>
she was.</p>
<p class="indent">His mask was off.</p>
<p class="indent">The change in his manner was so abrupt, so complete,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>[pg 148]</span>
that his august customers could not fail to notice
it. Something was wrong with the poor man! Certainly
he was not himself. He looked ill,—at any
rate, he did not look as well as usual. Heart, that's
what it was, flashed through Mrs. Millidew's brain.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis took it to be vertigo. Sometimes
her husband looked like that when—</p>
<p class="indent">"Will you please excuse me, ladies,—just for a
moment or two?" he mumbled, in a most extraordinary
voice. "I will go at once and write a note to Mr.
Juneo. Make yourselves at 'ome. And—and—" He
shot an appealing glance at Miss Emsdale,—"and
you too, Miss."</p>
<p class="indent">In a very few minutes a stenographer came out of
the office into which Mr. Moody had disappeared, with a
typewritten letter to Mr. Juneo, and the word that
Mr. Moody had been taken suddenly ill and begged to
be excused. He hoped that they would be so gracious
as to allow Mr. Paddock to show them everything they
had in stock,—and so on.</p>
<p class="indent">"It was so sudden," said Mrs. Millidew. "I never
saw such a change in a man in all my life. Heart, of
course. High living, you may be sure. It gets them
every time."</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall run in tomorrow and tell him about Dr.
Brodax," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis firmly. "He ought
to see the best man in the city, of course, and no one—"</p>
<p class="indent">"For the Lord's sake, don't let him get into the
clutches of that man Brodax," interrupted Mrs. Millidew.
"He is—"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, thank you, Mr. Paddock,—I sha'n't wait.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>[pg 149]</span>
Another day will do just as well. Come, Miss Emsdale.
Good-bye, my dear. Come and see me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Dr. Brown stands at the very top of the profession
as a heart specialist. He—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I've never heard of him," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis
icily, and led the way to the sidewalk, her head very
high. You could say almost anything you pleased to
Mrs. Smith-Parvis about her husband, or her family, or
her religion, or even her figure, but you couldn't
belittle her doctor. That was lese-majesty. She
wouldn't have it.</p>
<p class="indent">A more or less peaceful expedition came to grief
within sixty seconds after its members reached the sidewalk,—and
in a most astonishing manner.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant was in a nasty humour. He had not
noticed Thomas Trotter before. Coming upon the
tall young man suddenly, after turning the corner of
the building, he was startled into an expression of disgust.
Trotter was holding open the limousine door
for Mrs. Millidew, the elder.</p>
<p class="indent">Young Mr. Smith-Parvis stopped short and stared
in a most offensive manner at Mrs. Millidew's chauffeur.</p>
<p class="indent">"By gad, you weren't long in getting a job after
Carpenter fired you, were you? Fish!"</p>
<p class="indent">Now, there is no way in the world to recall the word
"fish" after it has been uttered in the tone employed
by Stuyvesant. Ordinarily it is a most inoffensive
word, and signifies something delectable. In French
it is <i>poisson</i>, and we who know how to pronounce it say
it with pleasure and gusto, quite as we say <i>pomme
de terre</i> when we mean potato. If Stuyvesant had said
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>[pg 150]</span>
<i>poisson</i>, the chances are that nothing would have happened.
But he didn't. He said fish.</p>
<p class="indent">No doubt Thomas Trotter was in a bad humour
also. He was a very sensible young man, and there
was no reason why he should be jealous of Stuyvesant
Smith-Parvis. He had it from Miss Emsdale herself
that she loathed and despised the fellow. And yet he
saw red when she passed him a quarter of an hour
before with Stuyvesant at her side. For some time
he had been harassed by the thought that if she had
not caught sight of him as she left the car, the young
man's offer of assistance might not have been spurned.
In any event, there certainly was something queer afoot.
Why was she driving about with Mrs. Smith-Parvis,—<i>and</i>
Stuyvesant,—as if she were one of the family and
not a paid employé?</p>
<p class="indent">In the twinkling of an eye, Thomas Trotter forgot
that he was a chauffeur. He remembered only that he
was Lord Eric Carruthers Ethelbert Temple, the
grandson of a soldier, the great-grandson of a soldier,
and the great-great grandson of a soldier whose father
and grandfather had been soldiers before him.</p>
<p class="indent">Thomas Trotter would have said,—and quite properly,
too, considering his position:—"Quite so, sir."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple merely put his face a little closer to
Stuyvesant's and said, very audibly, very distinctly:
"You go to hell!"</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant fell back a step. He could not believe
his ears. The fellow couldn't have said—and yet,
there was no possible way of making anything else
out of it. He <i>had</i> said "You go to hell."</p>
<p class="indent">Fortunately he had said it in the presence of ladies.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>[pg 151]</span>
Made bold by the continued presence of at least three
ladies, Stuyvesant, assuming that a chauffeur would not
dare go so far as a physical retort, snapped his fingers
under Trotter's nose and said:</p>
<p class="indent">"For two cents I'd kick you all over town for that."</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale erred slightly in her agitation. She
grasped Stuyvesant's arm. Trotter also erred. He
thought she was trying to keep Smith-Parvis from
carrying out the threat.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply:
"What's all this? Trotter, get up on the seat at once.
I—"</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew, the younger, leaned from the window
and patted Trotter on the shoulder. Her eyes were
sparkling.</p>
<p class="indent">"Give it to him, Trotter. Don't mind me!" she
cried.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant turned to Miss Emsdale. "Don't be
alarmed, my dear. I sha'n't do it, you know. Pray
compose yourself. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">At that juncture Lord Eric Temple reached out
and, with remarkable precision, grasped Stuyvesant's
nose between his thumb and forefinger. One sharp
twist brought a surprised grunt from the owner of the
nose, a second elicited a pained squeak, and the third,—pressed
upward as well as both to the right and left,—resulted
in a sharp howl of anguish.</p>
<p class="indent">The release of his nose was attended by a sudden
push that sent Stuyvesant backward two or three
steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, my God!" he gasped, and felt for his nose.
There were tears in his eyes. There would have been
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>[pg 152]</span>
tears in anybody's eyes after those merciless tweaks.</p>
<p class="indent">Finding his nose still attached, he struck out wildly
with both fists, a blind fury possessing him. Even a
coward will strike if you pull his nose severely enough.
As Trotter remained motionless after the distressing
act of Lord Temple, Stuyvesant missed him by a good
yard and a half, but managed to connect solidly with
the corner of the limousine, barking his knuckles, a
circumstance which subsequently provided him with
something to substantiate his claim to having planted
a "good one" on the blighter's jaw.</p>
<p class="indent">His hat fell off and rolled still farther away from
the redoubtable Trotter, luckily in the direction of the
Smith-Parvis car. By the time Stuyvesant retrieved it,
after making several clutches in his haste, he was, singularly
enough, beyond the petrified figure of his
mother.</p>
<p class="indent">"Call the police! Call the police!" Mrs. Smith-Parvis
was whimpering. "Where are the police?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "Hush
up! Don't be idiotic! Do you want to attract the
police and a crowd and—What do you mean, Trotter,
by attacking Mr. Smith-Par—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Get out of the way, mother," roared Stuyvesant.
"Let me at him! Don't hold me! I'll break his infernal
neck—Shut up!" His voice sank to a hoarse
whisper. "We don't want the police. Shut up, I say!
My God, don't make a scene!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Splendid!" cried Mrs. Millidew, the younger, enthusiastically,
addressing herself to Trotter. "Perfectly
splendid!"</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter, himself once more, calmly stepped to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>[pg 153]</span>
back of the car to see what, if any, damage Stuyvesant
had done to the polished surface!</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis advanced. Her eyes were blazing.</p>
<p class="indent">"You filthy brute!" she exclaimed.</p>
<p class="indent">Up to this instant, Miss Emsdale had not moved.
She was very white and breathless. Now her eyes
flashed ominously.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't you dare call him a brute," she cried out.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis gasped, but was speechless in the
face of this amazing defection. Stuyvesant opened his
lips to speak, but observing that the traffic policeman
at the Fifth Avenue corner was looking with some
intensity at the little group, changed his mind and got
into the automobile.</p>
<p class="indent">"Come on!" he called out. "Get in here, both of
you. I'll attend to this fellow later on. Come on, I
say!"</p>
<p class="indent">"How dare you speak to me in that manner?" flared
Mrs. Smith-Parvis, turning from Trotter to the girl.
"What do you mean, Miss Emsdale? Are you defending
this—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, I am defending him," cried Jane, passionately.
"He—he didn't do half enough to him."</p>
<p class="indent">"Good girl!" murmured Trotter, radiant.</p>
<p class="indent">"That will do!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis imperiously.
"I shall not require your services after today, Miss
Emsdale."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, good Lord, mother,—don't be a fool," cried
Stuyvesant. "Let me straighten this thing out. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"As you please, madam," said Jane, drawing herself
up to her full height.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>[pg 154]</span>
"Drive to Dr. Brodax's, Galpin, as quickly as possible,"
directed Stuyvesant's mother, and entered the car
beside her son.</p>
<p class="indent">The footman closed the door and hopped up beside
the chauffeur. He was very pink with excitement.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, for heaven's sake—" began her son furiously,
but the closing of the door smothered the rest of the
complaint.</p>
<p class="indent">"You may also take your notice, Trotter," said
Mrs. Millidew the elder. "I can't put up with such
behaviour as this."</p>
<p class="indent">"Very good, madam. I'm sorry. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale was walking away. He did not finish
the sentence. His eyes were following her and they
were full of concern.</p>
<p class="indent">"You may come to me tomorrow, Trotter," said
Mrs. Millidew, the younger. "Now, don't glare at
me, mother-in-law," she added peevishly. "You've
dismissed him, so don't, for heaven's sake, croak about
me stealing him away from you."</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter's employer closed her jaws with a snap,
then opened them instantly to exclaim:</p>
<p class="indent">"No, you don't, my dear. I withdraw the notice,
Trotter. You stay on with me. Drop Mrs. Millidew
at her place first, and then drive me home. That's all
right, Dolly. I don't care if it is out of our way. I
wouldn't leave you alone with him for anything in the
world."</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter sighed. Miss Emsdale had turned the corner.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>[pg 155]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>IN THE FOG</h3>
<p class="indent">MISS EMSDALE did not ask Mrs. Smith-Parvis
for a "reference." She dreaded the interview
that was set for seven o'clock that evening. The butler
had informed her on her return to the house shortly
after five that Mrs. Smith-Parvis would see her at
seven in the library, after all, instead of in her boudoir,
and she was to look sharp about being prompt.</p>
<p class="indent">The young lady smiled. "It's all one to me, Rogers,—the
library or the boudoir."</p>
<p class="indent">"First it was the boudoir, Miss, and then it was the
library, and then the boudoir again,—and now the
library. It seems to be quite settled, however. It's
been nearly 'arf an hour since the last change was made.
Shouldn't surprise me if it sticks."</p>
<p class="indent">"It gives me an hour and a half to get my things together,"
said she, much more brightly than he thought
possible in one about to be "sacked." "Will you
be good enough to order a taxi for me at half-past
seven, Rogers?"</p>
<p class="indent">Rogers stiffened. This was not the tone or the manner
of a governess. He had a feeling that he ought
to resent it, and yet he suddenly found himself powerless
to do so. No one had spoken to him in just that
way in fifteen years.</p>
<p class="indent">"Very good, Miss Emsdale. Seven-thirty." He
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156" id="page156"></a>[pg 156]</span>
went away strangely puzzled, and not a little disgusted
with himself.</p>
<p class="indent">She expected to find that Stuyvesant had carried out
his threat to vilify her, and was prepared for a bitter
ten minutes with the outraged mistress of the house,
who would hardly let her escape without a severe lacing.
She would be dismissed without a "character."</p>
<p class="indent">She packed her boxes and the two or three hand-bags
that had come over from London with her. A heightened
colour was in her cheeks, and there was a repelling
gleam in her blue eyes. She was wondering whether
she could keep herself in hand during the tirade. Her
temper was a hot one.</p>
<p class="indent">A not distant Irish ancestor occasionally got loose
in her blood and played havoc with the strain inherited
from a whole regiment of English forebears. On such
occasions, she flared up in a fine Celtic rage, and then
for days afterwards was in a penitential mood that
shamed the poor old Irish ghost into complete and
grovelling subjection.</p>
<p class="indent">What she saw in the mirror over her dressing-table
warned her that if she did not keep a pretty firm grip
tonight on the throat of that wild Irishman who had
got into the family-tree ages before the twig represented
by herself appeared, Mrs. Smith-Parvis was
reasonably certain to hear from him. A less captious
observer, leaning over her shoulder, would have taken
an entirely different view of the reflection. He (obviously
he) would have pronounced it ravishing.</p>
<p class="indent">Promptly at seven she entered the library. To her
dismay, Mrs. Smith-Parvis was not alone. Her husband
was there, and also Stuyvesant. If her life had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157" id="page157"></a>[pg 157]</span>
depended on it, she could not have conquered the impulse
to favour the latter's nose with a rather penetrating
stare. A slight thrill of satisfaction shot
through her. It <i>did</i> seem to be a trifle red and enlarged.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis, senior, was nervous. Otherwise
he would not have risen from his comfortable chair.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good evening, Miss Emsdale," he said, in a palliative
tone. "Have this chair. Ahem!" Catching
a look from his wife, he sat down again, and laughed
quite loudly and mirthlessly, no doubt actuated by a
desire to put the governess at her ease,—an effort that
left him rather flat and wholly non-essential, it may be
said.</p>
<p class="indent">His wife lifted her lorgnon. She seemed a bit surprised
and nonplussed on beholding Miss Emsdale.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I remember. It is you, of course."</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale had the effrontery to smile. "Yes,
Mrs. Smith-Parvis."</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant felt of his nose. He did it without thinking,
and instantly muttered something under his breath.</p>
<p class="indent">"We owe you, according to my calculations, fifty-five
dollars and eighty-two cents," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis,
abruptly consulting a tablet. "Seventeen days
in this month. Will you be good enough to go over it
for yourself? I do not wish to take advantage of
you."</p>
<p class="indent">"I sha'n't be exacting," said Miss Emsdale, a wave
of red rushing to her brow. "I am content to accept
your—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Be good enough to figure it up, Miss Emsdale," insisted
the other coldly. "We must have no future
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page158" id="page158"></a>[pg 158]</span>
recriminations. Thirty-one days in this month.
Thirty-one into one hundred goes how many times?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg pardon," said the girl, puzzled. "Thirty-one
into one hundred?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Can't you do sums? It's perfectly simple. Any
school child could do it in a—in a jiffy."</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite simple," murmured her husband. "I worked
it out for Mrs. Smith-Parvis in no time at all. Three
dollars and twenty-two and a half cents a day. Perfectly
easy, if you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sure it is quite satisfactory," said Miss
Emsdale coldly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Very well. Here is a check for the amount," said
Mrs. Smith-Parvis, laying the slip of paper on the end
of the library table. "And now, Miss Emsdale, I feel
constrained to tell you how gravely disappointed I am
in you. For half-a-year I have laboured under the delusion
that you were a lady, and qualified to have
charge of two young and innocent—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, Lord," groaned Stuyvesant, fidgeting in his
chair.</p>
<p class="indent">"—young and innocent girls. I find, however, that
you haven't the first instincts of a lady. I daresay it
is too much to expect." She sighed profoundly. "I
know something about the lower classes in London, having
been at one time interested in settlement work there
in connection with Lady Bannistell's committee, and I
am aware that too much should not be expected of them.
That is to say, too much in the way of—er—delicacy.
Still, I thought you might prove to be an exception.
I have learned my lesson. I shall in the future engage
only German governesses. From time to time I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159" id="page159"></a>[pg 159]</span>
have observed little things in you that disquieted me,
but I overlooked them because you appeared to be
earnestly striving to overcome the handicap placed
upon you at birth. For example, I have found cigarette
stubs in your room when I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I say, mother," broke in Stuyvesant; "cut it
out."</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear!"</p>
<p class="indent">"You'd smoke 'em yourself if father didn't put up
such a roar about it. Lot of guff about your grandmothers
turning over in their graves. I don't see anything
wrong in a woman smoking cigarettes. Besides,
you may be accusing Miss Emsdale unjustly. What
proof have you that the stubs were hers?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I distinctly said that I found them in her room,"
said Mrs. Smith-Parvis icily. "I don't know how they
got there."</p>
<p class="indent">"Circumstantial evidence," retorted Stuyvie, an evil
twist at one corner of his mouth. "Doesn't prove that
she smoked 'em, does it?" He met Miss Emsdale's
burning gaze for an instant, and then looked away.
"Might have been the housekeeper. She smokes."</p>
<p class="indent">"It was not the housekeeper," said Jane quietly.
"I smoke."</p>
<p class="indent">"We are digressing," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis sternly.
"There are other instances of your lack of refinement,
Miss Emsdale, but I shall not recite them. Suffice to
say, I deeply deplore the fact that my children have
been subject to contamination for so long. I am afraid
they have acquired—"</p>
<p class="indent">Jane had drawn herself up haughtily. She interrupted
her employer.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page160" id="page160"></a>[pg 160]</span>
"Be good enough, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to come to the
point," she said. "Have you nothing more serious to
charge me with than smoking? Out with it! Let's
have the worst."</p>
<p class="indent">"How dare you speak to me in that—My goodness!"
She half started up from her chair. "What
<i>have</i> you been up to? Drinking? Or some low affair
with the butler? Good heavens, have I been harbouring
a—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't get so excited, momsey," broke in Stuyvesant,
trying to transmit a message of encouragement to
Miss Emsdale by means of sundry winks and frowns
and cautious head-shakings. "Keep your hair on."</p>
<p class="indent">"My—my hair?" gasped his mother.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis got up. "Stuyvesant, you'd better
retire," he said, noisily. "Remember, sir, that you
are speaking to your mother. It came out at the time
of her illness,—when we were so near to losing her,—and
you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Keep still, Philander," snapped Mrs. Smith-Parvis,
very red in the face. "It came in again, thicker than
before," she could not help explaining. "And don't
be absurd, Stuyvesant. This is my affair. Please do
not interfere again. I—What was I saying?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Something about drinking and the butler, Mrs.
Smith-Parvis," said Jane, drily. It was evident that
Stuyvesant had not carried tales to his mother. She
would not have to defend herself against a threatened
charge. Her sense of humour was at once restored.</p>
<p class="indent">"Naturally I cannot descend to the discussion of
anything so perfectly vile. Your conduct this afternoon
is sufficient—ah,—sufficient unto the day. I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161" id="page161"></a>[pg 161]</span>
am forced to dismiss you without a reference. Furthermore,
I consider it my duty to protect other women
as unsuspecting as I have been. You are in no way
qualified to have charge of young and well-bred girls.
No apology is desired," she hastily declared, observing
symptoms of protest in the face of the delinquent; "so
please restrain yourself. I do not care to hear a single
word of apology, or any appeal to be retained. You
may go now, my girl. Spare us the tears. I am not
turning you out into the streets tonight. You may
remain until tomorrow morning."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am going tonight," said Jane, quite white,—with
suppressed anger.</p>
<p class="indent">"It isn't necessary," said the other, loftily.</p>
<p class="indent">"Where are you going?" inquired Mr. Smith-Parvis,
senior, fumbling with his nose-glasses. "Have you
any friends in the city?"</p>
<p class="indent">Miss Emsdale ignored the question. She picked up
the check and folded it carefully.</p>
<p class="indent">"I should like to say good-bye to the—to Eudora
and Lucille," she said, with an effort.</p>
<p class="indent">"That is out of the question," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane deliberately turned her back upon Mrs. Smith-Parvis
and moved toward the door. It was an eloquent
back. Mrs. Smith-Parvis considered it positively insulting.</p>
<p class="indent">"Stop!" she cried out. "Is that the way to leave a
room, Miss Emsdale? Please remember who and what
you are. I can not permit a servant to be insolent to
me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, come now, Angela, dear," began Mr. Smith-Parvis,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162" id="page162"></a>[pg 162]</span>
uncomfortably. "Seems to me she walks properly
enough. What's the matter with her—There,
she's gone! I can't see what—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You would think the hussy imagines herself to be
the Queen of England," sputtered Mrs. Smith-Parvis
angrily. "I've never seen such airs."</p>
<p class="indent">The object of her derision mounted the stairs and
entered her bed-chamber on the fourth floor. Her
steamer-trunk and her bags were nowhere in sight. A
wry little smile trembled on her lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"Must you be going?" she said to herself, whimsically,
as she adjusted her hat in front of the mirror.</p>
<p class="indent">There was no one to say good-bye to her, except
Peasley, the footman. He opened the big front door
for her, and she passed out into the foggy March night.
A fine mist blew upon her hot face.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye, Miss," said Peasley, following her to the
top of the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye, Peasley. Thank you for taking down
my things."</p>
<p class="indent">"You'll find 'em in the taxi," said he. He peered
hard ahead and sniffed. "A bit thick, ain't it? Reminds
one of London, Miss." He referred to the fog.</p>
<p class="indent">At the bottom of the steps she encountered the irrepressible
and somewhat jubilant scion of the house.
His soft hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and
the collar of his overcoat was turned up about his ears.
He promptly accosted her, his voice lowered to an
eager, confident undertone.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't cry, little girl," he said. "It isn't going to
be bad at all. I—Oh, I say, now, listen to me!"</p>
<p class="indent">She tried to pass, but he placed himself directly in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163" id="page163"></a>[pg 163]</span>
her path. The taxi-cab loomed up vaguely through
the screen of fog. At the corner below an electric
street lamp produced the effect of a huge, circular vignette
in the white mist. The raucous barking of automobile
horns, and the whir of engines came out of the
street, and shadowy will-o'-the-wisp lights scuttled
through the yielding, opaque wall.</p>
<p class="indent">"Be good enough to let me pass," she cried, suddenly
possessed of a strange fear.</p>
<p class="indent">"Everything is all right," he said. "I'm not going
to see you turned out like this without a place to go—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Will you compel me to call for help?" she said,
backing away from him.</p>
<p class="indent">"Help? Why, hang it all, can't you see that I'm
trying to help you? It was a rotten thing for mother
to do. Poor little girl, you sha'n't go wandering
around the streets looking for—Why, I'd never
forgive myself if I didn't do something to offset the cruel
thing she's done to you tonight. Haven't I told you
all along you could depend on me? Trust me, little
girl. I'll—"</p>
<p class="indent">Suddenly she blazed out at him.</p>
<p class="indent">"I see it all! That is <i>your</i> taxi, not mine! So that
is your game, is it? You beast!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't be a damn' fool," he grated. "I ought to be
sore as a crab at you, but I'm not. You need me now,
and I'm going to stand by you. I'll forgive all that
happened today, but you've got to—"</p>
<p class="indent">She struck his hand from her arm, and dashed out to
the curb.</p>
<p class="indent">"Driver!" she cried out. "If you are a man you
will protect me from this—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page164" id="page164"></a>[pg 164]</span>
"Hop in, Miss," interrupted the driver from his seat.
"I've got all your bags and things up but,—What's
that you're saying?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall not enter this cab," she said resolutely.
"If you are in the pay of this man—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I was sent here in answer to a telephone call half
an hour ago. That's all I know about it. What's the
row?"</p>
<p class="indent">"There is no row," said Stuyvesant, coming up.
"Get in, Miss Emsdale. I'm through. I've done my
best to help you."</p>
<p class="indent">But she was now thoroughly alarmed. She sensed
abduction.</p>
<p class="indent">"No! Stay on your box, my man! Don't get
down. I shall walk to my—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead, driver. Take those things to the address
I just gave you," said Stuyvesant. "We'll be
along later."</p>
<p class="indent">"I knew! I knew!" she cried out. In a flash she
was running down the sidewalk toward the corner.</p>
<p class="indent">He followed her a few paces and then stopped, cursing
softly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hey!" called out the driver, springing to the sidewalk.
"What's all this? Getting me in wrong, huh?
That's what the little roll of bills was for, eh? Well,
guess again! Get out of the way, you, or I'll bat you
one over the bean."</p>
<p class="indent">In less time than it takes to tell it, he had whisked
the trunk from the platform of the taxi and the three
bags from the interior.</p>
<p class="indent">"I ought to beat you up anyhow," he grunted.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165" id="page165"></a>[pg 165]</span>
"The Parkingham Hotel, eh? Fine little place, that!
How much did you say was in this roll?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Never mind. Give it back to me at once or I'll—I'll
call the police."</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead! Call your head off. Good <i>night</i>!"</p>
<p class="indent">Ten seconds later, Stuyvesant alone stood guard over
the scattered effects on the curb. A tail-light winked
blearily at him for an additional second or two, the taxi
chortled disdainfully, and seemed to grind its teeth as
it joined the down-town ghosts.</p>
<p class="indent">"Blighter!" shouted Stuyvesant, and urged by a
sudden sense of alarm, strode rapidly away,—not in
the wake of Miss Emsdale nor toward the house from
which she had been banished, but diagonally across the
street. A glance in the direction she had taken revealed
no sign of her, but the sound of excited voices
reached his ear. On the opposite sidewalk he slowed
down to a walk, and peering intently into the fog, listened
with all his ears for the return of the incomprehensible
governess, accompanied by a patrolman!</p>
<p class="indent">A most amazing thing had happened to Lady Jane.
At the corner below she bumped squarely into a
pedestrian hurrying northward.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm sorry," exclaimed the pedestrian. He did not
say "excuse me" or "I beg pardon."</p>
<p class="indent">Jane gasped. "Tom—Mr. Trotter!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Jane!" cried the man in surprise. "I say, what's
up? 'Gad, you're trembling like a leaf."</p>
<p class="indent">She tried to tell him.</p>
<p class="indent">"Take a long breath," he suggested gently, as the
words came swiftly and disjointedly from her lips.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page166" id="page166"></a>[pg 166]</span>
She did so, and started all over again. This time
he was able to understand her.</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait! Tell me the rest later on," he interrupted.
"Come along! This looks pretty ugly to me. By
gad, I—I believe he was planning to abduct you or
something as—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I must have a policeman," she protested, holding
back. "I was looking for one when you came up."</p>
<p class="indent">"Nonsense! We don't need a bobby. I can take
care of—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But that man will make off with my bags."</p>
<p class="indent">"We'll see," he cried, and she was swept along up
the street, running to keep pace with his prodigious
strides. He had linked his arm through hers.</p>
<p class="indent">They found her effects scattered along the edge of
the sidewalk. Trotter laughed, but it was not a good-humoured
laugh.</p>
<p class="indent">"Skipped!" he grated. "I might have known it.
Now, let me think. What is the next, the best thing
to do? Go up there and ring that doorbell and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"No! You are not to do that. Sit down here
beside me. My—my knees are frightfully shaky. So
silly of them. But I—I—really it was quite a shock
I had, Mr. Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">"Better call me Tom,—for the present at least,"
he suggested, sitting down beside her on the trunk.</p>
<p class="indent">"What a strange coincidence," she murmured.
There was not much room on the trunk for two. He
sat quite on one end of it.</p>
<p class="indent">"You mean,—sitting there?" he inquired, blankly.</p>
<p class="indent">"No. Your turning up as you did,—out of a
clear sky."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page167" id="page167"></a>[pg 167]</span>
"I shouldn't call it clear," said he, suddenly diffident.
"Thick as a blanket."</p>
<p class="indent">"It was queer, though, wasn't it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not a bit. I've been walking up and down past
this house for twenty minutes at least. We were bound
to meet. Sit still. I'll keep an eye out for an empty
taxi. The first thing to do is to see that you get
safely down to Mrs. Sparflight's."</p>
<p class="indent">"How did you know I was to go there?" she demanded.</p>
<p class="indent">"She told me," said he bluntly.</p>
<p class="indent">"She wasn't to tell any one—at present." She
peered closely,—at the side of his face.</p>
<p class="indent">He abruptly changed the subject. "And then I'll
come back here and wait till he ventures out. I'm off
till nine o'clock. I sha'n't pull his nose this time."</p>
<p class="indent">"Please explain," she insisted, clutching at his arm
as he started to arise. "Did she send you up here,
Mr. Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, she didn't," said he, almost gruffly, and stood
up to hail an approaching automobile. "Can't see
a thing," he went on. "We'll just have to stop 'em
till we catch one that isn't engaged. Taxi?" he
shouted.</p>
<p class="indent">"No!" roared a voice from the shroud of mist.</p>
<p class="indent">"The butler telephoned for one, I am sure," said she.
"He must have been sent away before I came downstairs."</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't think about it. You'll get yourself all
wrought up and—and—Everything's all right,
now, Lady Jane,—I should say Miss—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Call me Jane," said she softly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page168" id="page168"></a>[pg 168]</span>
"You—you don't mind?" he cried, and sat down
beside her again. The trunk seemed to have increased
in size. At any rate there was room to spare at the
end.</p>
<p class="indent">"Not—not in the least," she murmured.</p>
<p class="indent">He was silent for a long time. "Would you mind
calling me Eric,—just once?" he said at last, wistfully.
His voice was very low. "I—I'm rather
homesick for the sound of my own name, uttered by
one of my own people."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, you poor dear boy!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Say 'Eric,'" he pleaded.</p>
<p class="indent">"Eric," she half-whispered, suddenly shy.</p>
<p class="indent">He drew a long, deep breath, and again was silent for
a long time. Both of them appeared to have completely
forgotten her plight.</p>
<p class="indent">"We're both a long, long way from home, Jane," he
said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, Eric."</p>
<p class="indent">"Odd that we should be sitting here like this, on a
trunk, on the sidewalk,—in a fog."</p>
<p class="indent">"The 'two orphans,'" she said, with feeble attempt
at sprightliness.</p>
<p class="indent">"People passing by within a few yards of us and yet
we—we're quite invisible." There was a thrill in his
voice.</p>
<p class="indent">"Almost as if we were in London, Eric,—lovely black
old London."</p>
<p class="indent">Footsteps went by in the fog in front of them, automobiles
slid by behind them, tooting their unheard
horns.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page169" id="page169"></a>[pg 169]</span>
"Oh, Jane, I—I can't help it," he whispered in
her ear, and his arm went round her shoulders. "I—I
love you so."</p>
<p class="indent">She put her hand up to his cheek and held it there.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I know it, Eric," she said, ever so softly.</p>
<p class="indent">It may have been five minutes, or ten minutes—even
so long as half an hour. There is no way to determine
the actual lapse of time, or consciousness, that followed
her declaration. The patrolman who came up
and stopped in front of them, peering hard at the
dense, immobile mass that had attracted his attention
for the simple reason that it wasn't there when he
passed on his uptown round, couldn't have thrown any
light on the question. He had no means of knowing
just when it began.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, what's all this?" he demanded suspiciously.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane sighed, and disengaged herself. Trotter stood
up, confronting the questioner.</p>
<p class="indent">"We're waiting for a taxi," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's this? A trunk?" inquired the officer, tapping
the object with his night-stick.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is," said Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"Out of one of these houses along here?" He described
a half-circle with his night-stick.</p>
<p class="indent">"Right in front of you."</p>
<p class="indent">"That's the Smith-Parvis house. They've got a
couple of cars, my bucko. What you givin' me?
Whadda you mean taxi?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She happens not to be one of the family. The
courtesy of the port is not extended to her, you see."</p>
<p class="indent">"Hired girl?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page170" id="page170"></a>[pg 170]</span>
"In a way. I say, officer, be a good fellow. Keep
your eye peeled for a taxi as you go along and send it up
for us. She had one ordered, but—well, you can see
for yourself. It isn't here."</p>
<p class="indent">"That's as plain as the nose on your face. I guess
I'll just step up to the door and see if it's all right.
Stay where you are. Looks queer to me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, it isn't necessary to inquire, officer," broke in
Jane nervously. "You have my word for it that it's
all right."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I have, have I? Fine! And what if them bags
and things is filled with silver and God knows what?
You don't—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead and inquire," said Trotter, pressing her
arm encouragingly. "Ask the butler if he didn't call
a cab for Miss Emsdale,—and also ask him why in
thunder it isn't here."</p>
<p class="indent">The patrolman hesitated. "Who are you," he
asked, stepping a little closer to Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am this young lady's fiancé," said Trotter, with
dignity.</p>
<p class="indent">"Her what?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Her steady," said Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">The policeman laughed,—good-naturedly, to their
relief.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, well, <i>that</i> being the case," said he, and started
away. "Excuse me for buttin' in."</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure," said Trotter amiably. "If you see a taxi,
old man."</p>
<p class="indent">"Leave it to me," came back from the fog.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane nestled close to her tall young man. His arm
was about her.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page171" id="page171"></a>[pg 171]</span>
"Wasn't he perfectly lovely?" she murmured.</p>
<p class="indent">"Everything is perfectly lovely," said he, vastly reassured.
He had taken considerable risk with the word
"fiancé."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page172" id="page172"></a>[pg 172]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
<h3>NOT CLOUDS ALONE HAVE LININGS</h3>
<p class="indent">THE weather turned off warm. The rise in the temperature
may have been responsible for the melting
of Princess Mariana Theresa Sebastano Michelini
Celestine di Pavesi's heart, or it may have sharply revealed
to her calculating mind the prospect of a long
and profitless season in cold storage for Prince de
Bosky's fur-lined coat. In any event, she notified him
by post to call for his coat and take it away with him.</p>
<p class="indent">The same post brought a letter from the Countess
du Bara advising him that her brother-in-law, who
conducted an all-night café just off Broadway in the
very heart of the thriftless district, had been compelled
to dismiss the leader of his far-famed Czech orchestra,
and that she had recommended him for the
vacancy. He would have to hurry, however.</p>
<p class="indent">In a postscript, she hoped he wouldn't mind wearing
a red coat.</p>
<p class="indent">The Countess du Bara was of the Opera, where she
was known as Mademoiselle Belfort and occupied a
fairly prominent position in the front row of chorus
sopranos. Some day she was to make her début as a
principal. The Director of the Opera had promised
her that, and while she regarded his promise as being
as good as gold, it was, unfortunately, far more elastic,
as may be gathered from the fact that it already had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173" id="page173"></a>[pg 173]</span>
stretched over three full seasons and looked capable
of still further extension without being broken.</p>
<p class="indent">But that is neither here nor there. It is only necessary
to state that the Countess, being young and vigorous
and satisfactorily endowed with good looks, was
not without faith in the promises of man. In return
for the Director's faith in her, she was one day going
to make him famous as the discoverer of Corinne Belfort.
For the moment, her importance, so far as this
narrative is concerned, rests on the fact that her brother-in-law
conducts a café and had named his youngest
daughter Corinne, a doubtful compliment in view of his
profane preference for John or even George. He was
an American and had five daughters.</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky was ecstatic. Luck had turned. He was
confident, even before he ventured to peer out of his
single little window, that the sun was shining brightly
and that birds were singing somewhere, if not in the
heart of the congested East Side. And sure enough the
sun was shining, and hurdy-gurdies were substituting
for bobolinks, and the air was reeking of spring. A
little wistfully he regretted that the change had not
come when he needed the overcoat to shield his shivering
body, and when the "opportunity" would have insured
an abundance of meat and drink, to say nothing of a
couple of extra blankets,—but why lament?</p>
<p class="indent">There was a sprightliness in his gait, a gleam in his
eyes, and a cheery word on his lips as he forged his
way through the suddenly alive streets, and made his
way to the Subway station. This morning he would
not walk. There was something left of the four dollars
he had earned the week before shovelling snow into the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174" id="page174"></a>[pg 174]</span>
city's wagons. True, his hands were stiff and blistered,
but all that would respond to the oil of affluence. There
was no time to lose. She had said in the postscript
that he would have to hurry.</p>
<p class="indent">Two hours later he burst excitedly into the bookshop
of J. Bramble and exclaimed:</p>
<p class="indent">"And now, my dear, good friend, I shall soon be
able to return to you the various amounts you have
advanced me from time to time, out of the goodness of
your heart, and I shall—what do I say?—blow you
off to a banquet that even now, in contemplation, makes
my own mouth water,—and I shall—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bramble. "Would
you mind saying <i>all</i> of it in English? What is the excitement?
Just a moment, please." The latter to a
mild-looking gentleman who was poising a book in one
hand and inquiring the price with the uplifting of his
eyebrows.</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky rapped three or four times on the violin
case tucked under his arm.</p>
<p class="indent">"After all the years and all the money I spent in
mastering this—But, you are busy, my good friend.
Pray forgive the interruption—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Bramble,
uneasily.</p>
<p class="indent">"I have fallen into a fortune. Twenty-five dollars
a week,—so!" he said whimsically. "Also I shall
restore the five dollars that Trotter forced me to take,—and
the odd amounts M. Mirabeau has—Yes, yes,
my friend, I am radiant. I am to lead the new orchestra
at Spangler's café. I have concluded negotiations
with—ah, how quickly it was done! And I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page175" id="page175"></a>[pg 175]</span>
approached him with fear and trembling. I would
have played for him, so that he might judge,—but
no! He said 'No, no!' It was not necessary. Corinne's
word was enough for him. You do not know
Corinne. She is beautiful. She is an artiste! One
day she will be on the lips of every one. Go! Be
quick! The gentleman is departing. You will have
lost a—a sale, and all through the fault of me. I beseech
you,—catch him quick. Do not permit me to
bring you bad luck. Au revoir! I go at once to
acquaint M. Mirabeau with—au revoir!"</p>
<p class="indent">He dashed up the back stairway, leaving Mr. Bramble
agape.</p>
<p class="indent">"It was only a ten-cent book," he muttered to the
back of the departing customer. "And, besides, you
do not belong to the union," he shouted loudly, addressing
himself to de Bosky, who stopped short on the
stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">"The union?"</p>
<p class="indent">"The union will not permit you to play," said the
bookseller, mounting the steps. "It will permit you
to starve but not to play."</p>
<p class="indent">"But the man—the man he said it was because I
do not belong to the union that he engages me. He
says the union holds him, up, what? So! He discharge
the union—all of them. We form a new orchestra.
Then we don't give a damn, he say. Not
a tinkle damn! And Corinne say also not a tinkle
damn! And I say not a tinkle damn! <i>Voila!</i>"</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, shaking his
head.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau rejoiced. He embraced the little musician,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176" id="page176"></a>[pg 176]</span>
he pooh-hooed Mr. Bramble's calamitous regard
for the union, and he wound up by inviting de
Bosky to stop for lunch with him.</p>
<p class="indent">"No, no,—impossible," exclaimed de Bosky, feeling
in his waistcoat pocket absent-mindedly, and then
glancing at a number of M. Mirabeau's clocks in rotation;
"no, I have not the time. Your admirable clocks
urge me to be off. See! I am to recover the overcoat
of my excellent friend, the safe-blower. This letter,—see!
Mrs. Moses Jacobs. She tells me to come and
take it away with me. Am I not the lucky dog,—no,
no! I mean am I not the lucky star? I must be off.
She may change her mind. She—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Mon dieu! I'd let her change it if I were you,"
cried M. Mirabeau. "I call it the height of misfortune
to possess a fur coat on a day like this. One might as
well rejoice over a linen coat in mid-winter. You are
excited! Calm yourself. A bit of cold tongue, and a
salad, and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Au revoir!" sang out de Bosky from the top of
the steps. "And remember! I shall repay you within
the fortnight, monsieur. I promise! Ah, it is a
beautiful, a glorious day!"</p>
<p class="indent">The old Frenchman dashed to the landing and called
down after his speeding guest:</p>
<p class="indent">"Fetch the coat with you to luncheon. I shall order
some moth-balls, and after we've stuffed it full of them,
we'll put the poor thing away for a long, long siesta.
It shall be like the anaconda. I have a fine cedar
chest—"</p>
<p class="indent">But Mr. Bramble was speaking from the bottom of
the steps.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page177" id="page177"></a>[pg 177]</span>
"And the unfeeling brutes may resort to violence.
They often do. They have been known to inflict serious
injury upon—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Tonight I shall play at Spangler's," cried de
Bosky, slapping his chest. "In a red coat,—and I
shall not speak the English language. I am the recent
importation from Budapesth. So! I am come especially
to direct the orchestra—at great expense! In
big letters on the menu card it shall be printed that I am
late of the Royal Hungarian Orchestra, and at the
greatest expense have I been secured. The newspapers
shall say that I came across the ocean in a special
steamer, all at Monsieur Spangler's expense. I and my
red coat! So! Come tonight, my friend. Come and
hear the great de Bosky in his little red coat,—and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Do not forget that you are to return for luncheon,"
sang out M. Mirabeau from the top of the stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">There were tears in de Bosky's eyes. "God bless
you both," he cried. "But for you I should have
starved to death,—as long ago as last week. God
bless you!"</p>
<p class="indent">His frail body swayed a little as he made his way
down the length of the shop. Commanding all his
strength of will, he squared his shoulders and stiffened
his trembling knees, but not soon enough to delude the
observing Mr. Bramble, who hurried after him, peering
anxiously through his horn-rimmed spectacles.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is just like you foreigners," he said, overtaking
the violinist near the door, and speaking with some
energy. "Just like you, I say, to forget to eat breakfast
when you are excited. You did not have a bite of
breakfast, now did you? Up and out, all excited and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178" id="page178"></a>[pg 178]</span>
eager, forgetting everything but—I say, Mirabeau,
lend a hand! He is ready to drop. God bless my
soul! Brace up, your highness,—I should say old
chap—brace up! Damme, sir, what possessed you to
refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? And
it was the third time within the week. Answer me
that, sir!"</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before
the two old men. They had led him to a chair at the
back of the shop. Both were regarding him with justifiable
severity. He smiled wanly as he passed his hand
over his moist, pallid brow.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are poor men. Why,—why should I become
a charge upon you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Mon dieu!" sputtered M. Mirabeau, lifting his
arms on high and shaking his head in absolute despair,—despair,
you may be sure, over a most unaccountable
and never-to-be-forgotten moment in which he found
himself utterly and hopelessly without words.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble suddenly rammed a hand down into
the pocket of his ancient smoking-coat, and fished out
a huge, red, glistening apple.</p>
<p class="indent">"Here! Eat this!"</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky shook his head. His smile broadened.</p>
<p class="indent">"No, thank you. I—I do not like apples."</p>
<p class="indent">The bookseller was aghast. Moreover, pity and
alarm rendered him singularly inept in the choice of
a reply to this definite statement.</p>
<p class="indent">"Take it home to the children," he pleaded, with
the best intention in the world.</p>
<p class="indent">By this time, M. Mirabeau had found his tongue.
He took the situation in hand. With tact and an infinite
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179" id="page179"></a>[pg 179]</span>
understanding, he astonished the matter-of-fact
Mr. Bramble by appearing to find something amusing
in the plight of their friend. He made light of the
whole affair. Mr. Bramble, who could see no farther
than the fact that the poor fellow was starving, was
shocked. It certainly wasn't a thing one should treat
as a joke,—and here was the old simpleton chuckling
and grinning like a lunatic when he should be—</p>
<p class="indent">Lunatic! Mr. Bramble suddenly went cold to the
soles of his feet. A horrified look came into his eyes.
Could it be possible that something had snapped in the
old Frenchman's—but M. Mirabeau was now addressing
him instead of the smiling de Bosky.</p>
<p class="indent">"Come, come!" he was shouting merrily. "We're
not following de Bosky to the grave. He is not even
having a funeral. Cheer up! Mon dieu, such a
face!"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble grew rosy. "Blooming rubbish," he
snorted, still a trifle apprehensive.</p>
<p class="indent">The clock-maker turned again to de Bosky. "Come
upstairs at once. I shall myself fry eggs for you, and
bacon,—nice and crisp,—and my coffee is not the
worst in the world, my friend. <i>His</i> is abominable.
And toast, hot and buttery,—ah, I am not surprised
that your mouth waters!"</p>
<p class="indent">"It isn't my mouth that is watering," said de Bosky,
wiping his eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Any fool could see that," said Mr. Bramble, scowling
at the maladroit Mirabeau.</p>
<p class="indent">It was two o'clock when Prince Waldemar de Bosky
took his departure from the hospitable home of the
two old men, and, well-fortified in body as well as in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180" id="page180"></a>[pg 180]</span>
spirit, moved upon the stronghold of Mrs. Moses
Jacobs.</p>
<p class="indent">The chatelaine of "The Royal Exchange. M. Jacobs,
Proprietor," received him with surprising cordiality.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, well!" she called out cheerily as he approached
the "desk." "I thought you'd never get
here. I been waitin' since nine o'clock."</p>
<p class="indent">Her dark, heavy face bore signs of a struggle to
overcome the set, implacable expression that avarice
and suspicion had stamped upon it in the course of a
long and resolute abstinence from what we are prone
to call the milk of human kindness. She was actually
trying to beam as she leaned across the gem-laden showcase
and extended her coarse, unlovely hand to the
visitor.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sorry," said he, shaking hands with her. "I
have been extremely busy. Besides, on a hot day like
this, I could get along very nicely without a fur coat,
Mrs. Jacobs."</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure!" said she. "It sure is hot today. You
ought to thank God you ain't as fat as I am. It's
awful on fat people. Well, wasn't you surprised?"</p>
<p class="indent">"It was most gracious of you, Mrs. Jacobs," he
said with dignity. "I should have come in at once
to express my appreciation of your—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, that's all right. Don't mention it. You're
a decent little feller, de Bosky, and I've got a heart,—although
most of these mutts around here don't think
so. Yes, sir, I meant it when I said you could tear up
the pawn ticket and take the coat—with the best
wishes of yours truly."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>[pg 181]</span>
"Spoken like a lady," said he promptly. He was
fanning himself with his hat.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mind you, I don't ask you for a penny. The slate
is clean. There's the coat, layin' over there on that
counter. Take it along. No one can ever say that I'd
let a fellow-creature freeze to death for the sake of a
five-dollar bill. No, sir! With the compliments of
'The Royal Exchange,'—if you care to put it that
way."</p>
<p class="indent">"But I cannot permit you to cancel my obligation,
Mrs. Jacobs. I shall hand you the money inside of a
fortnight. I thank you, however, for the generous
impulse—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Cut it out," she interrupted genially. "Nix on
the sentiment stuff. I'm in a good humour. Don't
spoil it by tryin' to be polite. And don't talk about
handin' me anything. I won't take it."</p>
<p class="indent">"In that case, Mrs. Jacobs, I shall be obliged to
leave the coat with you," he said stiffly.</p>
<p class="indent">She stared. "You mean,—you won't accept it from
me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I borrowed money on it. I can say no more,
madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I'll be—" She extended her hand again, a
look of genuine pleasure in her black eyes. "Shake
hands again, Prince de Bosky. I—I understand."</p>
<p class="indent">"And I—I think I understand, Princess," said he,
grasping the woman's hand.</p>
<p class="indent">"I hope you do," said she huskily. "I—I just
didn't know how to go about it, that's all. Ever since
that day you were in here to see me,—that bitterly
cold day,—I've been trying to think of a way to—And
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>[pg 182]</span>
so I waited till it turned so hot that you'd know I
wasn't trying to do it out of charity—You <i>do</i> understand,
don't you, Prince?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Perfectly," said he, very soberly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I feel better than I've felt in a good long time,"
she said, drawing a long breath.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's the way we all feel sometimes," said he,
smiling. "No doubt it's the sun," he added. "We
haven't seen much of it lately."</p>
<p class="indent">"Quit your kiddin'," she cried, donning her mask
again and relapsing into the vernacular of the district.</p>
<p class="indent">He bore the coat in triumph to the work-shop of M.
Mirabeau, and loudly called for moth-balls as he
mounted the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"I jest, good friend," he explained, as the old
Frenchman laid aside his tools and started for the
shelves containing a vast assortment of boxes and
packages. "Time enough for all that. At four
o'clock I am due at Spangler's for a rehearsal of the
celebrated Royal Hungarian Orchestra, imported at
great expense from Budapesth. I leave the treasure in
your custody. Au revoir!" He had thrown the coat
on the end of the work bench.</p>
<p class="indent">"You will return for dinner," was M. Mirabeau's
stern reminder. "A pot roast tonight, Bramble has
announced. We will dine at six, since you must report
at seven."</p>
<p class="indent">"In my little red coat," sang out de Bosky blithely.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mon dieu!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in dismay,
running his fingers over the lining of the coat. "They
are already at work. The moths! See! Ah, <i>le
diable!</i> They have devoured—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>[pg 183]</span>
"What!" cried de Bosky, snatching up the coat.</p>
<p class="indent">"The arm pits and—ah, the seams fall apart!
One could thrust his hand into the hole they have made.
Too late!" he groaned. "They have ruined it, my
friend."</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky leaned against the bench, the picture of
distress. "What will my friend, the safe-blower, say to
this? What will he think of me for—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Now we know how the estimable Mrs. Jacobs came
to have softening of the heart," exploded M. Mirabeau,
pulling at his long whiskers.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Bramble, abandoning the shop downstairs, shuffled
into the room.</p>
<p class="indent">"Did I hear you say 'moths'?" he demanded, consternation
written all over his face. "For God's sake,
don't turn them loose in the house. They'll be into
everything—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What is this?" cried de Bosky, peering intently
between the crumbling edges of the rent, which widened
hopelessly as he picked at it with nervous fingers.</p>
<p class="indent">Stitched securely inside the fur at the point of the
shoulder was a thin packet made of what at one time
must have been part of a rubber rain-coat. The three
men stared at it with interest.</p>
<p class="indent">"Padding," said Mr. Bramble.</p>
<p class="indent">"Rubbish," said M. Mirabeau, referring to Mr.
Bramble's declaration. He was becoming excited.
Thrusting a keen-edged knife into de Bosky's hand, he
said: "Remove it—but with care, with care!"</p>
<p class="indent">A moment later de Bosky held the odd little packet
in his hand.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>[pg 184]</span>
"Cut the threads," said Mr. Bramble, readjusting
his big spectacles. "It is sewed at the ends."</p>
<p class="indent">The old bookseller was the first of the stupefied men
to speak after the contents of the rubber bag were revealed
to view.</p>
<p class="indent">"God bless my soul!" he gasped.</p>
<p class="indent">Bank notes,—many of them,—lay in de Bosky's
palm.</p>
<p class="indent">Almost mechanically he began to count them. They
were of various denominations, none smaller than twenty
dollars. The eyes of the men popped as he ran off in
succession two five-hundred-dollar bills.</p>
<p class="indent">Downstairs in the shop of J. Bramble, some one was
pounding violently on a counter, but without results.
He could produce no one to wait on him. He might as
well have tried to rouse the dead.</p>
<p class="indent">"Clever rascal," said M. Mirabeau at last. "The
last place in the world one would think of looking for
plunder."</p>
<p class="indent">"What do you mean?" asked de Bosky, still dazed.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is quite simple," said the Frenchman. "Who
but your enterprising friend, the cracksman, could
have thought of anything so original as hiding money
in the lining of a fur overcoat? He leaves the coat in
your custody, knowing you to be an honest man. At
the expiration of his term, he will reclaim—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, but he has still a matter of ten or eleven years
to serve," agreed de Bosky. "A great deal could happen
in ten or eleven years. He would not have taken
so great a risk. He—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Um!" mused M. Mirabeau, frowning. "That is
so."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>[pg 185]</span>
"What am I to do with it?" cried de Bosky.
"Nearly three thousand dollars! Am I awake, Mr.
Bramble?"</p>
<p class="indent">"We can't all be dreaming the same thing," said the
bookseller, his fascinated gaze fixed on the bank notes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah-h!" exclaimed M. Mirabeau suddenly. "Try
the other shoulder! There will be more. He would not
have been so clumsy as to put it all on one side. He
would have padded both shoulders alike."</p>
<p class="indent">And to the increased amazement of all of them, a
similar packet was found in the left shoulder of the
coat.</p>
<p class="indent">"What did I tell you!" cried the old Frenchman,
triumphantly.</p>
<p class="indent">Included among the contents of the second bag, was
a neatly folded sheet of writing-paper. De Bosky,
with trembling fingers, spread it out, and holding it to
the light, read in a low, halting manner:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="indent">"'Finder is keeper. This coat dont belong to me,
and the money neither. It is nobodies buisness who
they belonged to before. I put the money inside here
becaus it is a place no one would ever look and I am
taken a gamblers chanse on geting it back some day.
Stranger things have happened. Something tells me
that they are going to get me soon, and I dont want them
to cop this stuff. It was hard earned. Mighty hard.
I am hereby trusting to luck. I leave this coat with my
neighbor, Mr. Debosky, so in case they get me, they
wont get it when they search my room. My neighber
is an honest man. He dont know what I am and he
dont know about this money. If anybody has to find
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>[pg 186]</span>
it I hope it will be him. Maybe they wont get me after
all so all this writing is in vain. But Im taken no
chance on that, and Im willing to take a chance on this
stuff getting back to me somehow. I will say this before
closing. The money belonged to people in various
parts of the country and they could all afford to
lose it, espeshilly the doctor. He is a bigger robber
than I am, only he lets people see him get away with it.
If this should fall into the hands of the police I want
them to believe me when I say my neighber, a little forreigner
who plays the violin till it brings tears to my
eyes, has no hand in this business. I am simply asking
him to take care of my coat and wear it till I call for it,
whenever that may be. And the following remarks is
for him. If he finds this dough, he can keep it and use
as much of it as he sees fit. I would sooner he had it
than anybody, because he is poorer than anybody.
And what he dont know wont hurt him. I mean what
he dont know about who the stuff belonged to in the
beginning. Being of sound mind and so fourth I hereby
subscribe myself, in the year of our lord, September
26, 1912.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Henry Loveless</span>."</p>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<p class="indent">"How very extraordinary," said Mr. Bramble after
a long silence.</p>
<p class="indent">"Nearly five thousand dollars," said M. Mirabeau.
"What will you do with it, de Bosky?"</p>
<p class="indent">The little violinist passed his hand over his brow,
as if to clear away the last vestige of perplexity.</p>
<p class="indent">"There is but one thing to do, my friends," he said
slowly, straightening up and facing them. "You will
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>[pg 187]</span>
understand, of course, that I cannot under any circumstances
possess myself of this stolen property."</p>
<p class="indent">Another silence ensued.</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly not," said Mr. Bramble at last.</p>
<p class="indent">"It would be impossible," said M. Mirabeau, sighing.</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall, therefore, address a letter to my friend,
acquainting him with the mishap to his coat. I shall
inform him that the insects have destroyed the fur in
the shoulders, laying bare the padding, and that while
I have been negligent in my care of his property up to
this time, I shall not be so in the future. Without
betraying the secret, I shall in some way let him know
that the money is safe and that he may expect to regain
all of it when he—when he comes out."</p>
<p class="indent">"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble warmly.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau suddenly broke into uproarious laughter.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mon dieu!" he gasped, when he could catch his
breath. The others were staring at him in alarm. "It
is rare! It is exquisite! The refinement of justice!
That <i>this</i> should have happened to the blood-sucking
Mrs. Jacobs! Oho—ho—ho!"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>[pg 188]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<h3>DIPLOMACY</h3>
<p class="indent">MR. SMITH-PARVIS, Senior, entertained one
old-fashioned, back-number idea,—relict of a
throttled past; it was a pestiferous idea that always
kept bobbing up in an insistent, aggravating way the
instant he realized that he had a few minutes to himself.</p>
<p class="indent">Psychologists might go so far as to claim that he
had been born with it; that it was, after a fashion,
hereditary. He had come of honest, hard-working
Smiths; the men and women before him had cultivated
the idea with such unwavering assiduity that, despite
all that had conspired to stifle it, the thing still clung
to him and would not be shaken off.</p>
<p class="indent">In short, Mr. Smith-Parvis had an idea that a man
should work. Especially a young man.</p>
<p class="indent">In secret he squirmed over the fact that his son Stuyvesant
had never been known to do a day's work in his
life. Not that it was actually necessary for the young
man to descend to anything so common and inelegant as
earning his daily bread, or that there was even a remote
prospect of the wolf sniffing around a future doorway.
Not at all. He knew that Stuyvie didn't have to work.
Still, it grieved him to see so much youthful energy
going to waste. He had never quite gotten over the
feeling that a man could make something besides a mere
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>[pg 189]</span>
gentleman of himself, and do it without seriously impairing
the family honour.</p>
<p class="indent">He had once suggested to his wife that Stuyvesant
ought to go to work. He didn't care what he took up,
just so he took up something. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was
horrified. She would not listen to his reiterations that
he didn't mean clerking in a drygoods shop, or collecting
fares on a street car, or repairing electric doorbells,
or anything of the kind, and she wouldn't allow
him to say just what sort of work he did mean. The
subject was not mentioned again for years. Stuyvesant
was allowed to go on being a gentleman in his
own sweet way.</p>
<p class="indent">One day Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to his surprise and joy,
announced that she thought Stuyvesant ought to have
a real chance to make something of himself,—a vocation
or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,—and she
couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable
boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before
him. She actually blamed him for holding the young
man back.</p>
<p class="indent">"I suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in
self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and
settle down to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Job? How I loathe that word. It is almost as
bad as situation."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, then, position," he amended. "You wouldn't
hear to it."</p>
<p class="indent">"I have no recollection of any such conversation,"
said she firmly. "I have been giving the subject a
great deal of thought lately. The dear boy is entitled
to his opportunity. He must make a name for himself.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>[pg 190]</span>
I have decided, Philander, that he ought to go into the
diplomatic service."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, Lord!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't blame you for saying 'Oh, Lord,' if you
think I mean the American diplomatic service," she
said, smiling. "That, of course, is not even to be considered.
He must aim higher than that. I know it is
a vulgar expression, but there is no class to the American
embassies abroad. Compare our embassies with
any of the other—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, my dear, you forget that—"</p>
<p class="indent">"They are made up largely of men who have sprung
from the most ordinary walks in life,—men totally unfitted
for the social position that—
Please do not
argue, Philander. You know perfectly well that what
I say is true. I shouldn't think of letting Stuyvesant
enter the American diplomatic service. Do you remember
that dreadful person who came to see us in Berlin,—about
the trunks we sent up from Paris by <i>grande
vitesse</i>? Well, just think of Stuyvesant—"</p>
<p class="indent">"He was a clerk from the U. S. Consul's office," he
interrupted doggedly. "Nothing whatever to do with
the embassy. Besides, we can't—"</p>
<p class="indent">"It doesn't matter. I have been giving it a great
deal of thought lately, trying to decide which is the best
service for Stuyvesant to enter. The English diplomatic
corps in this country is perfectly stunning, and
so is the French,—and the Russian, for that matter.
He doesn't speak the Russian language, however, so I
suppose we will have to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"See here, my dear,—listen to me," he broke in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>[pg 191]</span>
resolutely. "Stuyvesant can't get into the service of
any of these countries. He—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'd like to know why not!" she cried sharply.
"He is a gentleman, he has manner, he is—
Well,
isn't he as good as any of the young men one sees at
the English or the French Legations in Washington?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I grant you all that, but he is an American just the
same. He can't be born all over again, you know, with
a new pair of parents. He's got to be in the American
diplomatic corps, or in no corps at all. Now, get that
through your head, my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">She finally got it through her head, and resigned herself
to the American service, deciding that the Court of
St. James offered the most desirable prospects in view
of its close proximity to the other great capitals of
Europe.</p>
<p class="indent">"Stuyvesant likes London next to Paris, and he could
cross over to France whenever he felt the need of
change."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis looked harassed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Easier said than done," he ventured. "These
chaps in the legations have to stick pretty close to their
posts. He can't be running about, all over the place,
you know. It isn't expected. You might as well understand
in the beginning that he'll have to work like
a nailer for a good many years before he gets anywhere
in the diplomatic service."</p>
<p class="indent">"Nonsense. Doesn't the President appoint men to
act as Ambassadors who never had an hour's experience
in diplomacy? It's all a matter of politics. I'm
sorry to say, Philander, the right men are never appointed.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>[pg 192]</span>
It seems to be the practice in this country to
appoint men who, so far as I know, have absolutely no
social standing. Mr. Choate was an exception, of
course. I am sure that Stuyvesant will go to the top
rapidly if he is given a chance. Now, how shall we
go about it, Philander?" She considered the matter
settled. Her husband shook his head.</p>
<p class="indent">"Have you spoken to Stuyvie about it?" he inquired.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear me, no. I want to surprise him."</p>
<p class="indent">"I see," said he, rather grimly for him. "I see.
We simply say: 'Here is a nice soft berth in the diplomatic
corps, Stuyvie. You may sail tomorrow if you
like.'"</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't be silly. And please do not call him Stuyvie.
I've spoken to you about that a thousand times,
Philander. Now, don't you think you ought to run
down to Washington and see the President? It
may—"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, I don't," said he flatly. "I'm not a dee fool."</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't—don't you care to see your son make something
of himself?" she cried in dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly. I'd like nothing better than—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Then, try to take a little interest in him," she said
coldly.</p>
<p class="indent">"In the first place," said he resignedly, "what are
his politics?"</p>
<p class="indent">"The same as yours. He is a Republican. All the
people we know are Republicans. The Democrats are
too common for words."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, his first attempt at diplomacy will be to
change his politics," he said, waxing a little sarcastic
as he gained courage. "And I'd advise you not to say
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>[pg 193]</span>
nasty things about the Democrats. They are in the
saddle now, you know. I suppose you've heard that
the President is a Democrat?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't help that," she replied stubbornly.</p>
<p class="indent">"And he appoints nothing but Democrats."</p>
<p class="indent">"Is there likely to be a Republican president soon?"
she inquired, knitting her brows.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's difficult to say."</p>
<p class="indent">"I suppose Stuyvesant could, in a diplomatic sort of
way, pretend to be a Democrat, couldn't he, dear?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He lost nearly ten thousand dollars at the last election
betting on what he said was a sure thing," said he,
compressing his lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"The poor dear!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't see very much in this diplomatic game, anyhow,"
said Mr. Smith-Parvis determinedly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I asked you a direct question, Philander," she
said stiffly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I seem to have forgotten just what—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I asked you how we are to go about securing an
appointment for him."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh," said he, wilting a little. "So you did. Well,—um—aw—let
me think. There's only one way.
He's got to have a pull. Does he know any one high
up in the Democratic ranks? Any one who possesses
great influence?" There was a twinkle in his eye.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I don't know," she replied, helplessly. "He
is quite young, Philander. He can't be expected to
know everybody. But you! Now that I think of it,
you must know any number of influential Democrats.
There must be some one to whom you could go. You
would simply say to him that Stuyvesant agrees to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>[pg 194]</span>
enter the service, and that he will do everything in his
power to raise it to the social standard—"</p>
<p class="indent">"The man would die laughing," said he unfeelingly.
"I was just thinking. Suppose I were to go to the
only influential Democratic politician I know,—Cornelius
McFaddan,—and tell him that Stuyvesant advocates
the reconstruction of our diplomatic service along
English lines, he would undoubtedly say things to me
that I could neither forget nor forgive. I can almost
hear him now."</p>
<p class="indent">"You refuse to make any effort at all, then?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all," he broke in quickly. "I will see him.
As a matter of fact, McFaddan is a very decent sort
of chap, and he is keen to join the Oxford Country
Club. He knows I am on the Board of Governors. In
fact, he asked me not long ago what golf club I'd advise
him to join. He thinks he's getting too fat. Wants to
take up golf."</p>
<p class="indent">"But you <i>couldn't</i> propose him for membership in
the Oxford, Philander," she said flatly. "Only the
smartest people in town—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Leave it to me," he interrupted, a flash of enthusiasm
in his eyes. "By gad, I shouldn't be surprised
if I could do something through him. He carries
a good deal of weight."</p>
<p class="indent">"Would it be wise to let him reduce it by playing
golf?" she inquired doubtfully.</p>
<p class="indent">He stared. "I mean politically. Figure of speech,
my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I see."</p>
<p class="indent">"A little coddling on my part, and that sort of
thing. They all want to break into society,—every
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>[pg 195]</span>
last one of them. You never can tell. A little soft
soap goes a long way sometimes. I could ask him to
have luncheon with me at Bombay House. Um-m-m!"
He fell into a reflective mood.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis also was thoughtful. An amazing
idea had sprouted in her head.</p>
<p class="indent">"Has he a wife?" she inquired, after many minutes.</p>
<p class="indent">"They always have, those chaps," said he. "And
a lot of children."</p>
<p class="indent">"I was just wondering if it wouldn't be good policy
to have them to dinner some night, Philander," she
said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly
and staring at her in astonishment.</p>
<p class="indent">"Every little helps," she said argumentatively. "It
would be like opening the seventh heaven to her if I
were to invite her here to dine. Just think what it
would mean to her. She would meet—"</p>
<p class="indent">"They probably eat with their knives and tuck their
napkins under their chins."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sure that would be amusing," said she, eagerly.
"It is so difficult nowadays to provide amusement for
one's guests. Really, my dear, I think it is quite an
idea. We could explain beforehand to the people we'll
have in to meet them,—explain everything, you know.
The plan for Stuyvesant, and everything."</p>
<p class="indent">He was still staring. "Well, who would you suggest
having in with Mr. and Mrs. Con McFaddan?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, the Cricklewicks, and the Blodgetts,—and old
Mrs. Millidew,—I've been intending to have her anyway,—and
perhaps the Van Ostrons and Cicely Braithmere,
and I am sure we could get dear old Percy Tromboy.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>[pg 196]</span>
He would be frightfully amused by the McFinnegans,
and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"McFaddan," he edged in.</p>
<p class="indent">"—and he could get a world of material for those
screaming Irish imitations he loves to give. Now, when
will you see Mr. McFaddan?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You'd have to call on his wife, wouldn't you, before
asking her to dinner?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She probably never has heard of the custom," said
Mrs. Smith-Parvis composedly.</p>
<p class="indent">The next day, Mr. Smith-Parvis strolled into the offices
of Mr. Cornelius McFaddan, Contractor, and casually
remarked what a wonderful view of the Bay he
had from his windows.</p>
<p class="indent">"I dropped in, Mr. McFaddan," he explained, "to
see if you were really in earnest about wanting to join
the Oxford Country Club." He had decided that it
was best to go straight to the point.</p>
<p class="indent">McFaddan regarded him narrowly. "Did I ever say
I wanted to join the Oxford Country Club?" he demanded.</p>
<p class="indent">"Didn't you?" asked his visitor, slightly disturbed
by this ungracious response.</p>
<p class="indent">"I did not," said Mr. McFaddan promptly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Dear me, I—I was under the impression—Ahem!
I am sure you spoke of wanting to join a
golf club."</p>
<p class="indent">"That must have been some time ago. I've joined
one," said the other, a little more agreeably.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis punched nervously with his cane
at one of his pearl grey spats. The contractor allowed
his gaze to shift. He didn't wear "spats" himself.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>[pg 197]</span>
"I am sorry. I daresay I could have rushed you
through in the Oxford. They are mighty rigid and
exclusive up there, but—well, you would have gone in
with a rush. Men like you are always shoved through
ahead of others. It isn't quite—ah—regular, you
know, but it's done when a candidate of special prominence
comes up. Of course, I need not explain that it's—ah—quite
sub rosa?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure," said Mr. McFaddan promptly; "I know.
We do it at the Jolly Dog Club." He was again eyeing
his visitor narrowly, speculatively. "It's mighty good
of you, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Have a cigar?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, thank you. I seldom—
On second thoughts,
I will take one." It occurred to him that it was the
diplomatic thing to do, no matter what kind of a cigar
it was. Besides, he wouldn't feel called upon to terminate
his visit at once if he lighted the man's cigar.
He could at least smoke an inch or even an inch and
a half of it before announcing that he would have to be
going. And a great deal can happen during the consumption
of an inch or so of tobacco.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's a good cigar," he commented, after a couple
of puffs. He took it from his lips and inspected it
critically.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. McFaddan was pleased. "It ought to be," he
said. "Fifty cents straight."</p>
<p class="indent">The visitor looked at it with sudden respect. "A
little better than I'm in the habit of smoking," he said
ingratiatingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"What does it cost to join the Oxford Club?" inquired
the contractor.</p>
<p class="indent">"Twelve hundred dollars admission, and two hundred
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>[pg 198]</span>
a year dues," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, pricking up
his ears. "Really quite reasonable."</p>
<p class="indent">"My wife don't like the golf club I belong to," said
the other, squinting at his own cigar. "Rough-neck
crowd, she says."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Smith-Parvis looked politely concerned.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's too bad," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">The contractor appeared to be weighing something
in his mind.</p>
<p class="indent">"How long does it take to get into your club?" he
asked.</p>
<p class="indent">"Usually about five years," said Mr. Smith-Parvis,
blandly. "Long waiting list, you know. Some of the
best people in the city are on it, by the way. I daresay
it wouldn't be more than two or three months in your
case, however," he concluded.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'll speak to the wife about it," said Mr. McFaddan.
"She may put her foot down hard. Too swell
for us, maybe. We're plain people."</p>
<p class="indent">"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Smith-Parvis readily.
"Extremely democratic club, my dear McFaddan.
Exclusive and all that, but quite—ah—unconventional.
Ha-ha!"</p>
<p class="indent">Finding himself on the high-road to success, he adventured
a little farther. Glancing up at the clock on
the wall, he got to his feet with an exclamation of well-feigned
dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear fellow, I had no idea it was so near the
luncheon hour. Stupid of me. Why didn't you kick
me out? Ha-ha! Let me know what you decide to
do, and I will be delighted to—
But better still, can't
you have lunch with me? I could tell you something
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>[pg 199]</span>
about the club and—
What do you say to going
around to Bombay House with me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'd like nothing better," said the thoroughly perplexed
politician. "Excuse me while I wash me hands."</p>
<p class="indent">And peering earnestly into the mirror above the
washstand in the corner of the office, Mr. McFaddan
said to himself:</p>
<p class="indent">"I must look easier to him than I do to meself. If
I'm any kind of a guesser at all he's after one of two
things. He either wants his tax assessment rejuced or
wants to run for mayor of the city. The poor boob!"</p>
<p class="indent">That evening Mr. Smith-Parvis announced, in a
bland and casual manner, that things were shaping
themselves beautifully.</p>
<p class="indent">"I had McFaddan to lunch with me," he explained.
"He was tremendously impressed."</p>
<p class="indent">His wife was slightly perturbed. "And I suppose
you were so stupid as to introduce him to a lot of men
in the club who—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I didn't have to," interrupted Mr. Smith-Parvis,
a trifle crossly. "It was amazing how many of the
members knew him. I daresay four out of every five
men in the club shook hands with him and called him
Mr. McFaddan. Two bank presidents called him Con,
and, by gad, Angela, he actually introduced me to several
really big bugs I've been wanting to meet for ten
years or more. Most extraordinary, 'pon my word."</p>
<p class="indent">"Did you—did you put out any feelers?"</p>
<p class="indent">"About Stuyvie—sant? Certainly not. That
would have been fatal. I did advance a few tactful
and pertinent criticisms of our present diplomatic service,
however. I was relieved to discover that he thinks
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>[pg 200]</span>
it can be improved. He agreed with me when I advanced
the opinion that we, as sovereign citizens of this
great Republic, ought to see to it that a better, a
higher class of men represent us abroad. He said,—in
his rough, slangy way: 'You're dead right. What
good are them authors and poets we're sendin' over
there now? What we need is good, live hustlers,—men
with ginger instead of ink in their veins.' I remember
the words perfectly. 'Ginger instead of ink!' Ha-ha,—rather
good, eh?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You must dress at once, Philander," said his wife.
"We are dining with the Hatchers."</p>
<p class="indent">"That reminds me," he said, wrinkling his brow.
"I dropped in to see Cricklewick on the way up. He
didn't appear to be very enthusiastic about dining here
with the McFaddans."</p>
<p class="indent">"For heaven's sake, you don't mean to say you've
already asked the man to dine with us!" cried his wife.</p>
<p class="indent">"Not in so many words," he made haste to explain.
"He spoke several times about his wife. Seemed to
want me to know that she was a snappy old girl,—his
words, not mine. The salt of the earth, and so on. Of
course, I had to say something agreeable. So I said
I'd like very much to have the pleasure of meeting her."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, you did, did you?" witheringly.</p>
<p class="indent">"He seemed really quite affected, my dear. It was
several minutes before he could find the words to reply.
Got very red in the face and managed to say finally
that it was very kind of me. I think it rather made a
hit with him. I merely mentioned the possibility of
dining together some time,—<i>en famille</i>,—and that I'd
like him to meet you. Nothing more,—not a thing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>[pg 201]</span>
more than that!" he cried, quailing a little under his
wife's eye.</p>
<p class="indent">"And what did he say to that?" she inquired. The
rising inflection was ominous.</p>
<p class="indent">"He was polite enough to say he'd be pleased to meet
you," said he, with justifiable exasperation.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>[pg 202]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2>
<h3>ONE NIGHT AT SPANGLER'S</h3>
<p class="indent">A FEW mornings after de Bosky's <i>premier</i> as director
of the Royal Hungarian Orchestra, Mrs.
Sparflight called Jane Emsdale's attention to a news
"story" in the <i>Times</i>. The headline was as follows:</p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">A Royal Violinist</span></p>
<p class="center"><i>Prince de Bosky Leads the Orchestra<br />
at Spangler's</i></p>
<p class="indent">Three-quarters of a column were devoted to the first
appearance in America of the royal musician; his remarkable
talent; his glorious ancestry; his singular independence;
and (through an interpreter) his impressions
of New York.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I am so glad," cried Jane, after she had read
the story. "The poor fellow was so dreadfully up
against it."</p>
<p class="indent">"We must go and hear him soon," said the other.</p>
<p class="indent">They were at the breakfast-table. Jane had been
with the elder woman for nearly a week. She was
happy, radiant, contented. Not so much as an inkling
of the truth arose to disturb her serenity. She believed
herself to be actually in the pay of "Deborah." From
morning till night she went cheerfully about the tasks
set for her by her sorely tried employer, who, as time
went on, found herself hard put to invent duties for a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>[pg 203]</span>
conscientious private secretary. Jane was much too
active, much too eager; such indefatigable energy harassed
rather than comforted her employer. And, not
for the world, would the latter have called upon her to
take over any of the work downstairs. The poor lady
lay awake nights trying to think of something that she
could set the girl to doing in the morning!</p>
<p class="indent">A curt, pointed epistle had come to Mrs. Sparflight
from Mrs. Smith-Parvis. That lady announced briefly
that she had been obliged to discharge Miss Emsdale,
and that she considered it her duty to warn Mrs. Sparflight
against recommending her late governess to any
one else.</p>
<p class="indent">"You may answer the note, my dear," the Marchioness
had said, her eyes twinkling as she watched Jane's
face. "Thank her for the warning and say that I regret
having sent Miss Emsdale to her. Say that I shall
be exceedingly careful in the future. Sign it, and append
your initials. It isn't a bad idea to let her know
that I do not regard her communication as strictly confidential,—between
friends, you might say. And now
you must get out for a long walk today. A strong,
healthy English girl like you shouldn't go without
stretching her legs. You'll be losing the bloom in your
cheek if you stay indoors as you've been doing the past
week."</p>
<p class="indent">Jane's dread of meeting her tormentor had kept her
close to the apartment since the night of her rather unconventional
arrival. Twice the eager Trotter, thrilled
and exalted by his new-found happiness, had dashed in
to see her, but only for a few minutes' stay on each
occasion.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>[pg 204]</span>
"How do you like your new position?" he had asked
in the dimness at the head of the stairway. She could
not see his face, but it was because he kept her head
rather closely pressed into the hollow of his shoulder.
Otherwise she might have detected the guilty flicker in
his eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"I love it. She is such a dear. But, really, Eric,
I don't think I'm worth half what she pays me."</p>
<p class="indent">He chuckled softly. "Oh, yes, you are. You are
certainly worth half what my boss pays me."</p>
<p class="indent">"But I do not earn it," she insisted.</p>
<p class="indent">"Neither do I," said he.</p>
<p class="indent">To return to the Marchioness and the newspaper:</p>
<p class="indent">"We will go off on a little spree before long, my dear.
A good dinner at Spangler's, a little music, and a chat
with the sensation of the hour. Get Mrs. Hendricks on
the telephone, please. I will ask her to join us there
some night soon with her husband. He is the man who
wrote that delightful novel with the name I never can
remember. You will like him, I know. He is so dreadfully
deaf that all one has to do to include him in the
conversation is to return his smiles occasionally."</p>
<p class="indent">And so, on a certain night in mid-April, it came to
pass that Spangler's Café, gay and full of the din that
sustains the <i>genus</i> New Yorker in his contention that
there is no other place in the world fit to live in, had
among its patrons a number of the persons connected
with this story of the City of Masks.</p>
<p class="indent">First of all, there was the new leader of the orchestra,
a dapper, romantic-looking young man in a flaming red
coat. Ah, but you should have seen him! The admirable
Mirabeau, true Frenchman that he was, had performed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205" id="page205"></a>[pg 205]</span>
wonders with pomades and oils and the glossy
brilliantine. The sleek black hair of the little Prince
shone like the raven's wing; his dark, gipsy eyes, rendered
more vivid by the skilful application of "lampblack,"
gleamed with an ardent excitement; there was
colour in his cheeks, and a smile on his lips.</p>
<p class="indent">At a table near the platform on which the orchestra
was stationed, sat the Honourable Cornelius McFaddan,
his wife, and a congenial party of friends. In a far-off
corner, remote from the music, you would have discovered
the Marchioness and her companions; the bland,
perpetually smiling Mr. Hendricks who wrote the book,
his wife, and the lovely, blue-eyed Jane.</p>
<p class="indent">By a strange order of coincidence, young Mr. Stuyvesant
Smith-Parvis, quite mellow and bereft of the
power to focus steadily with eye or intellect, occupied
a seat,—and frequently a seat and a half,—at a table
made up of shrill-voiced young women and bald-headed
gentlemen of uncertain age who had a whispering acquaintance
with the head waiter and his assistants.</p>
<p class="indent">The Countess du Bara, otherwise Corinne, entertained
a few of the lesser lights of the Opera and two
lean, hungry-looking critics she was cultivating against
an hour of need.</p>
<p class="indent">At a small, mean table alongside the swinging door
through which a procession of waiters constantly
streamed on their way from the kitchen, balancing trays
at hazardous heights, sat two men who up to this moment
have not been mentioned in these revelations.
Very ordinary looking persons they were, in business
clothes.</p>
<p class="indent">One of them, a sallow, liverish individual, divided his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206" id="page206"></a>[pg 206]</span>
interest between two widely separated tables. His companion
was interested in nothing except his food, which
being wholly unsatisfactory to him, relieved him of the
necessity of talking about anything else. He spoke of
it from time to time, however, usually to the waiter,
who could only say that he was sorry. This man was
a red-faced, sharp-nosed person with an unmistakable
Cockney accent. He seemed to find a great deal of
comfort in verbally longing for the day when he could
get back to Simpson's in the Strand for a bit of "roast
that is a roast."</p>
<p class="indent">The crowd began to thin out shortly after the time
set for the lifting of curtains in all of the theatres.
It was then that the sallow-faced man arose from his
seat and, after asking his companion to excuse him for
a minute, approached Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. That
gentleman had been dizzily ogling a dashing, spirited
young woman at the table presided over by Mr. McFaddan,
a circumstance which not only annoyed the lady
but also one closer at hand. The latter was wanting to
know, in some heat, what he took her for. If he
thought she'd stand for anything like that, he had another
guess coming.</p>
<p class="indent">"May I have a word with you?" asked the sallow
man, inserting his head between Stuyvesant and the
protesting young woman.</p>
<p class="indent">"The bouncer," cried the young woman, looking up.
"Good work. That's what you get for making eyes at
strange—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Shut up," said Stuyvie, who had, after a moment's
concentration, recognized the man. "What do you
want?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page207" id="page207"></a>[pg 207]</span>
"A word in private," said the other.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table
in the rear.</p>
<p class="indent">"She is here," said the stranger. "Here in this
restaurant. Not more than fifty feet from where we're
sitting."</p>
<p class="indent">The listener blinked. His brain was foggy.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's that?" he mumbled, thickly.</p>
<p class="indent">"The girl you're lookin' for," said the man.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to
clear.</p>
<p class="indent">"You mean—Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather
distinctly.</p>
<p class="indent">The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them
on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after
a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his
ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of
the English girl at the far end of the room, and had
favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes. Stand up and take a look. Keep back of
this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there
with the white-haired old lady. Am I right? She's
the one, ain't she?"</p>
<p class="indent">Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,—there's
not the slightest doubt. How—how long has
she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me
sooner?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in
this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl.
She—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right,"
retorted the young man, bellicose at once.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page208" id="page208"></a>[pg 208]</span>
"I know you are," said the other soothingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Darn the luck," growled Stuyvie, following a heroic
effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "I wouldn't
have had her see me here with this crowd for half the
money in New York. She'll get a bad impression of
me. Look at 'em! My Lord, they're all stewed. I
say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose
at the head of my table that I've been suddenly called
away, and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Take my advice, and sit tight."</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvie's mind wandered. "Say, do you know who
that rippin' creature is over there with the fat Irishman?
She's a dream."</p>
<p class="indent">The sallow man did not deign to look. He bent a
little closer to Mr. Smith-Parvis.</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, what is the next move, Mr. Smith-Parvis?
I've located her right enough. Is this the end of the
trail?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sh!" cautioned Stuyvie, loudly. Then even more
loudly: "Don't you know any better than to roar like
that? There's a man sitting up there—"</p>
<p class="indent">"He can't understand a word of English. Wop.
Just landed. That's the guy the papers have been—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I am not in the least interested in your conversation,"
said Stuyvie haughtily. "What were you saying?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Am I through? That's what I want to know."</p>
<p class="indent">"You have found out where she's stopping?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yep. Stayin' with the white-haired old lady.
Dressmaking establishment. The office will make a full
report to you tomorrow."</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait a minute. Let me think."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page209" id="page209"></a>[pg 209]</span>
The sallow man waited for some time. Then he
said: "Excuse me, Mr. Smith-Parvis, but I've got a
friend over here. Stranger in New York. I'm detailed
to entertain him."</p>
<p class="indent">"You've got to shake him," said Stuyvie, arrogantly.
"I want you to follow her home, and I'm going with
you. As soon as I know positively where she lives, I'll
decide on the next step we're to take. We'll have to
work out some plan to get her away from that dressmakin'
'stablishment."</p>
<p class="indent">The other gave him a hard look. "Don't count our
people in on any rough stuff," he said levelly. "We
don't go in for that sort of thing."</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvie winked. "We'll talk about that when the
time comes."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, what I said goes. We're the oldest and most
reliable agency in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I know all that," said Stuyvie, peevishly. "It is
immaterial to me whether your agency or some other
one does the job. Remember that, will you? I want
that girl, and I don't give a—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Good night, Mr. Smith-Parvis."</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait a minute,—<i>wait</i> a minute. Now, listen.
When you see her getting ready to leave this place, rush
out and get a taxi. I'll join you outside, and we'll—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Very well. That's part of my job, I suppose. I
will have to explain to my friend. He will understand."
He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "He's in the
same business. Special from Scotland Yard. My
God, what bulldogs these Britishers are. He's been
clear around the world, lookin' for a young English
swell who lit out a couple of years ago. We've been
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210" id="page210"></a>[pg 210]</span>
taken in on the case,—and I'm on the job with him
from now—"</p>
<p class="indent">"And say," broke in Stuyvie, irrelevantly, "before
you leave find out who that girl is over there with the
fat Irishman. Understand?"</p>
<p class="indent">Prince Waldemar de Bosky's thoughts and reflections,
up to the beginning of this duologue, were of the
rosiest and most cheerful nature. He was not proud to
be playing the violin in Spangler's, but he was human.
He was not above being gratified by the applause and
enthusiasm of the people who came to see if not to hear
a prince of the blood perform.</p>
<p class="indent">His friends were out there in front, and it was to them
that he played. He was very happy. And the five
thousand dollars in the old steel safe at the shop of
Mirabeau the clockmaker! He had been thinking of
them and of the letter he had posted to the man "up
the river,"—and of the interest he would take in the
reply when it came. Abruptly, in the midst of these
agreeable thoughts, came the unlovely interruption.</p>
<p class="indent">At first he was bewildered, uncertain as to the course
he should pursue. He never had seen young Smith-Parvis
before, but he had no difficulty in identifying him
as the disturber of Trotter's peace of mind. That
there was something dark and sinister behind the plans
and motives of the young man and his spy was not a
matter for doubt. How was he to warn Lady Jane?
He was in a fearful state of perturbation as he stepped
to the front of the platform for the next number on the
program.</p>
<p class="indent">As he played, he saw Smith-Parvis rejoin his party.
He watched the sallow man weave his way among the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211" id="page211"></a>[pg 211]</span>
diners to his own table. His anxious gaze sought out
the Marchioness and Jane, and he was relieved to find
that they were not preparing to depart. Also, he
looked again at McFaddan and the dashing young
woman at the foot of his table. He had recognized the
man who once a week came under his critical observation
as a proper footman. As a matter of fact, he had
been a trifle flabbergasted by the intense stare with
which McFaddan favoured him. Up to this hour he
had not associated McFaddan with opulence or a tailor-made
dress suit.</p>
<p class="indent">After the encore, he descended from the platform and
made his way, bowing right and left to the friendly
throng, until he brought up at the Marchioness's table.
There he paused and executed a profound bow.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness proffered her hand, which he was
careful not to see, and said something to him in English.
He shook his head, expressive of despair, and
replied in the Hungarian tongue.</p>
<p class="indent">"He does not understand English," said Jane, her
eyes sparkling. Then she complimented him in
French.</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky affected a faint expression of hope. He
managed a few halting words in French. Jane was
delighted. This was rare good fun. The musician
turned to the others at the table and gave utterance to
the customary "Parle vouz Francais, madame—m'sieu?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not a word," said Mrs. Hendricks. "<i>He</i> understands
it but he can't hear it," she went on, and suddenly
turned a fiery red. "How silly of me," she said
to the Marchioness, giggling hysterically.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page212" id="page212"></a>[pg 212]</span>
De Bosky's face cleared. He addressed himself to
Jane; it was quite safe to speak to her in French. He
forgot himself in his eagerness, however, and spoke
with amazing fluency for one who but a moment before
had been so at a loss. In a few quick, concise sentences
he told her of Stuyvesant's presence, his condition
and his immediate designs.</p>
<p class="indent">Both Jane and the Marchioness were equal to the
occasion. Although filled with consternation, they succeeded
admirably in concealing their dismay behind a
mask of smiles and a gay sort of chatter. De Bosky
beamed and smirked and gesticulated. One would have
thought he was regaling them with an amusing story.</p>
<p class="indent">"He is capable of making a horrid scene," lamented
Jane, through smiling lips. "He may come over to
this table and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Compose yourself," broke in de Bosky, a smile on
his lips but not in his eyes. "If he should attempt to
annoy you here, I—I myself will take him in hand.
Have no fear. You may depend on me."</p>
<p class="indent">He was interrupted at this juncture by a brass-buttoned
page who passed the table, murmuring the name
of Mrs. Sparflight.</p>
<p class="indent">Spangler's is an exceptional place. Pages do not
bawl out one's name as if calling an "extra." On the
contrary, in quiet, repressed tones they politely inquire
at each table for the person wanted. Mr. Spangler was
very particular about this. He came near to losing
his license years before simply because a page had meandered
through the restaurant bellowing the name of a
gentleman whose influence was greater at City Hall than
it was at his own fireside,—from which, by the way,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page213" id="page213"></a>[pg 213]</span>
he appears to have strayed on the night in question.</p>
<p class="indent">"Dear me," cried the Marchioness, her agitation increasing.
"No one knows I am here. How on
earth—Here, boy!"</p>
<p class="indent">A note was delivered to her. It was from Thomas
Trotter. Her face brightened as she glanced swiftly
through the scrawl.</p>
<p class="indent">"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "It is from Mr. Trotter.
He is waiting outside with his automobile."</p>
<p class="indent">She passed the note to Jane, whose colour deepened.
De Bosky drew a deep breath of relief, and, cheered
beyond measure by her reassuring words, strode off, his
head erect, his white teeth showing in a broad smile.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter wrote: "It is raining cats and dogs. I
have the car outside. The family is at the theatre.
Don't hurry. I can wait until 10:15. If you are not
ready to come away by that time, you will find my friend
Joe Glimm hanging about in front of the café,—drenched
to the skin, I'll wager. You will recall him
as the huge person I introduced to you recently as from
Constantinople. Just put yourselves under his wing if
anything happens. He is jolly well able to protect
you. I know who's in there, but don't be uneasy. He
will not dare molest you."</p>
<p class="indent">"Shall I keep it for you?" asked Jane, her eyes
shining.</p>
<p class="indent">"I fancy it was intended for you, my dear," said the
other drily.</p>
<p class="indent">"How very interesting," observed Mr. Hendricks,
who occasionally offered some such remark as his contribution
to the gaiety of the evening. He had found
it to be a perfectly safe shot, even when fired at random.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page214" id="page214"></a>[pg 214]</span>
In the meantime, Mr. McFaddan had come to the
conclusion that the young man at the next table but
one was obnoxious. It isn't exactly the way Mr. McFaddan
would have put it, but as he would have put it
less elegantly, it is better to supply him with a word out
of stock.</p>
<p class="indent">The dashing young woman upon whom Stuyvesant
lavished his bold and significant glances happened to be
Mrs. McFaddan, whose scant twelve months as a wife
gave her certain privileges and a distinction that properly
would have been denied her hearth-loving predecessor
who came over from Ireland to marry Con McFaddan
when he was promoted to the position of foreman
in the works,—and who, true to her estate of muliebrity,
produced four of the most exemplary step-children
that any second wife could have discovered if she
had gone storking over the entire city.</p>
<p class="indent">Cornelius had married his stenographer. It was
not his fault that she happened to be a very pretty
young woman, nor could he be held responsible for the
fact that he was approximately thirty years of age on
the day she was born. Any way you look at it, she
was his wife and dependent on him for some measure of
protection.</p>
<p class="indent">And Mr. McFaddan, being an influence, sent for the
proprietor of the café himself, and whispered to him.
Whereupon, Mr. Spangler, considering the side on which
his bread was buttered, whispered back that it should be
attended to at once.</p>
<p class="indent">"And," pursued Mr. McFaddan, purple with suppressed
rage, "if you don't, I will."</p>
<p class="indent">A minute or two later, one of the waiters approached
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>[pg 215]</span>
young Mr. Smith-Parvis and informed him that he was
wanted outside at once.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant's heart leaped. He at once surmised
that Miss Emsdale, repentant and envious, had come
off her high horse and was eager to get away from the
dull, prosaic and stupidly respectable old "parties"
over in the corner. Conceivably she had taken a little
more champagne than was good for her. He got up
immediately, and without so much as a word of apology
to his host, made his way eagerly, though unsteadily,
to the entrance-hall.</p>
<p class="indent">He expected Miss Emsdale to follow; he was already
framing in his beaddled brain the jolly little lecture he
would give her when—</p>
<p class="indent">A red-faced person jostled him in a most annoying
manner.</p>
<p class="indent">"Look sharp there," said Stuyvie thickly. "Watch
where you're going."</p>
<p class="indent">"Steady, sir,—steady!" came in a hushed, agitated
voice from Mr. Spangler, who appeared to be addressing
himself exclusively to the red-faced person. "Let
me manage it,—please."</p>
<p class="indent">"Who the devil is this bally old blighter?" demanded
Stuyvie loudly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Leave him to me, Spangler," said the red-faced
man. "I have a few choice words I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Here! Confound you! Keep off of my toes, you
fool! I say, Spangler, what's the matter with you?
Throw him out! He's—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I ought to knock your block off," said Mr. McFaddan,
without raising his voice. As his face was within
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>[pg 216]</span>
six inches of Stuyvesant's nose, the young man had no
difficulty whatever in hearing what he said, and yet it
should not be considered strange that he failed to understand.
In all fairness, it must be said that he was
bewildered. Under the circumstances any one would
have been bewildered. Being spoken to in that fashion
by a man you've never seen before in your life is, to
say the least, surprising. "I'll give you ten seconds
to apologize."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ap—apologize? Confound you, what do you
mean? You're drunk."</p>
<p class="indent">"I said ten seconds," growled Cornelius.</p>
<p class="indent">"And then what?" gulped Stuyvie.</p>
<p class="indent">"A swat on the nose," said Mr. McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">At no point in the course of this narrative has there
been either proof or assertion that Smith-Parvis,
Junior, possessed the back-bone of a caterpillar. It
has been stated, however, that he was a young man of
considerable bulk. We have assumed, correctly, that
this rather impressive physique masked a craven spirit.
As a matter of fact, he was such a prodigious coward
that he practised all manner of "exercises" in order
to develop something to inspire in his fellow-men the
belief that he would be a pretty tough customer to
tackle.</p>
<p class="indent">Something is to be said for his method. It has been
successfully practised by man ever since the day that
Solomon, in all his glory, arrayed himself so sumptuously
that the whole world hailed him as the wisest man
extant.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvie took great pride in revealing his well-developed
arms; it was not an uncommon thing for him to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>[pg 217]</span>
ask you to feel his biceps, or his back muscles, or the
cords in his thigh; he did a great deal of strutting in his
bathing suit at such places as Atlantic City, Southampton
and Newport. In a way, it paid to advertise.</p>
<p class="indent">Now when Mr. McFaddan, a formidable-looking person,
made that emphatic remark, Stuyvesant realized
that there was no escape. He was trapped. Panic
seized him. In sheer terror he struck blindly at the
awful, reddish thing that filled his vision.</p>
<p class="indent">He talked a good deal about it afterwards, explaining
in a casual sort of way just how he had measured
the distance and had picked out the point of the fat
man's jaw. He even went so far as to say that he felt
sorry for the poor devil even before he delivered the
blow.</p>
<p class="indent">The fact of the matter is, Stuyvie's wild, terrified
swing,—delivered with the eyes not only closed but covered
by the left arm,—landed squarely on Mr. McFaddan's
jaw. And when the aggressor, after a moment
or two of suspense, opened his eyes and lowered his arm,
expecting to find his adversary's fist on its irresistible
approach toward his nose, there was no Mr. McFaddan
in sight;—at least, he was not where he had been
the moment before.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. McFaddan lay in a crumpled heap against a
chair, ten feet away.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvie was suddenly aware that some one was assisting
him into his coat, and that several men were hustling
him toward the door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Get out,—quick!" said one, who turned out to be
the agitated Mr. Spangler. "Before he gets up. He
is a terrible man."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>[pg 218]</span>
By this time they were in the vestibule.</p>
<p class="indent">"I will not tell him who you are," Mr. Spangler was
saying. "I will give you another name,—Jones or
anything. He must never know who you are."</p>
<p class="indent">"What's the difference?" chattered Stuyvie. "He's—he's
dead, isn't he?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id="page219"></a>[pg 219]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
<h3>SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND</h3>
<p class="indent">IT was raining hard. Stuyvesant, thoroughly
alarmed and not at all elated by his astonishing conquest,
halted in dismay. The pelting torrent swept up
against the side of the canvas awning that extended to
the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost
afloat. Headlights of automobiles drawn up to
the curb blazed dimly through the screen of water.
He peered out beyond the narrow opening left for pedestrians
and groaned.</p>
<p class="indent">"Taxi!" he frantically shouted to the doorman.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He started
as if a gun had gone off at his back. It was all up!
For once the police were on the spot when—A voice
was shouting:</p>
<p class="indent">"By thunder, I didn't think it was in you!"</p>
<p class="indent">He whirled to face, not the expected bluecoat, but
the sallow detective.</p>
<p class="indent">"My God, how you startled me!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I'd have bet my last dollar you hadn't the nerve
to—ahem! I—I—Say, take a tip from me.
Beat it! Don't hang around here waitin' for that girl.
That guy in there is beginning to see straight again,
and if he was to bust out here and find you—Well,
it would be something awful!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Get me a taxi, you infernal idiot!" roared the conqueror
in flight, addressing the starter.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>[pg 220]</span>
"Have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi
starter, grabbing up the telephone.</p>
<p class="indent">"Five minutes?" gasped Stuyvie, with a quick
glance over his shoulder. "Oh, Lord! Tell one of
those chauffeurs out there I'll give him ten dollars to
run me to the Grand Central Station. Hurry up!"</p>
<p class="indent">"The Grand Central?" exclaimed the detective.
"Great Scott, man, you don't have to beat it clear out
of town, you know. What are you going to the Station
for?"</p>
<p class="indent">"For a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted Stuyvie.
"Say, who was that man in there?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Didn't you know him?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Never saw him in my life before,—the blighter.
Who is he?"</p>
<p class="indent">The detective stared. He opened his mouth to reply,
and as suddenly closed it. He, too, knew on which
side his bread was precariously buttered.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't know," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,—and
mine, too, curse them," chattered Stuyvie.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't you think it," said the other promptly.
"There won't be a word about it, take it from me.
That guy,—whoever he is,—ain't going to have the
newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like
you."</p>
<p class="indent">The insult passed unnoticed. Stuyvie was gazing,
pop-eyed, at a man who suddenly appeared at the
mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a dripping raincoat.</p>
<p class="indent">The newcomer's eyes were upon him. They were
steady, unfriendly eyes. He advanced slowly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>[pg 221]</span>
"I sha'n't wait," said Stuyvie, and swiftly passed out
into the deluge. No other course was open to him.
There was trouble ahead and trouble behind.</p>
<p class="indent">Thomas Trotter laughed. The sallow-faced man
made a trumpet of his hands and shouted after the departing
one:</p>
<p class="indent">"Beat it! He's coming!"</p>
<p class="indent">The retreating footsteps quickened into a lively clatter.
Trotter distinctly heard the sallow-faced man
chuckle.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness and Jane went home in the big
Millidew limousine instead of in a taxi. They left the
restaurant soon after the departure of Stuyvesant
Smith-Parvis. The pensive-looking stranger from
Scotland Yard came out close upon their heels. He
was looking for his American guide.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter brought his car up to the awning and grinned
broadly as he leaned forward for "orders."</p>
<p class="indent">"Home, James," said Lady Jane, loftily.</p>
<p class="indent">"Very good, my lady," said Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">The man from Scotland Yard squinted narrowly at
the chauffeur's face. He moved a few paces nearer and
stared harder. For a long time after the car had
rolled away, he stood in the middle of the sidewalk,
frowning perplexedly. Then he shook his head and apparently
gave it up. He went inside to look for his
friend.</p>
<p class="indent">The next day, the sallow-faced detective received instructions
over the telephone from one who refused to
give his name to the operator. He was commanded
to keep close watch on the movements of a certain
party, and to await further orders.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>[pg 222]</span>
"I shall be out of town for a week or ten days," explained
young Mr. Smith-Parvis.</p>
<p class="indent">"I see," said the sallow-faced man. "Good idea.
That guy—" But the receiver at the other end
clicked rudely and without ceremony.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant took an afternoon train for Virginia Hot
Springs. At the Pennsylvania Station he bought all
of the newspapers,—morning, noon and night. There
wasn't a line in any one of them about the fracas. He
was rather hurt about it. He was beginning to feel
proud of his achievement. By the time the train
reached Philadelphia he had worked himself into quite
a fury over the way the New York papers suppress
things that really ought to be printed. Subsidized,
that's what they were. Jolly well bribed. He had
given the fellow,—whoever he was,—a well-deserved
drubbing, and the world would never hear of it! Miss
Emsdale would not hear of it. He very much wished
her to hear of it, too. The farther away he got from
New York the more active became the conviction that
he owed it to himself to go back there and thrash the
fellow all over again, as publicly as possible,—in front
of the Public Library at four o'clock in the afternoon,
while he was about it.</p>
<p class="indent">He had been at Hot Springs no longer than forty-eight
hours when a long letter came from his mother.
She urged him to return to New York as soon as
possible. It was imperative that he should be present
at a very important dinner she was giving on Friday
night. One of the most influential politicians in
New York was to be there,—a man whose name was a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>[pg 223]</span>
household word,—and she was sure something splendid
would come of it.</p>
<p class="indent">"You must not fail me, dear boy," she wrote. "I
would not have him miss seeing you for anything in the
world. Don't ask me any questions. I can't tell you
anything now, but I will say that a great surprise is in
store for my darling boy."</p>
<p class="indent">Meanwhile the nosy individual from Scotland Yard
had not been idle. The fleeting, all too brief glimpse
he had had of the good-looking chauffeur in front of
Spangler's spurred him to sudden energy in pursuit of
what had long since shaped itself as a rather forlorn
hope. He got out the photograph of the youngster in
the smart uniform of the Guard, and studied it with
renewed intensity. Mentally he removed the cocky little
moustache so prevalent in the Army, and with equal
arrogance tried to put one on the smooth-faced chauffeur.
He allowed for elapsed time, and the wear and
tear of three years knocking about the world, and altered
circumstances, and still the resemblance persisted.</p>
<p class="indent">For a matter of ten months he had been seeking the
young gentleman who bore such a startling resemblance
to the smiling chauffeur. He had traced him to Turkey,
into Egypt, down the East Coast of Africa, over
to Australia, up to Siam and China and Japan, across
the Pacific to British Columbia, thence to the United
States, where the trail was completely lost. His quarry
had a good year and a half to two years the start of
him.</p>
<p class="indent">Still, a chap he knew quite well in the Yard, after
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>[pg 224]</span>
chasing a man twice around the world, had nabbed him
at the end of six years. So much for British perseverance.</p>
<p class="indent">Inquiry had failed to produce the slightest enlightenment
from the doorman or the starter at Spangler's.
He always remembered them as the stupidest asses
he had ever encountered. They didn't recognize the
chauffeur, nor the car, nor the ladies; not only were
they unable to tell him the number of the car, but they
couldn't, for the life of them, approximate the number
of ladies. All they seemed to know was that some one
had been knocked down by a "swell" who was "hot-footing
it" up the street.</p>
<p class="indent">His sallow-faced friend, however, had provided him
with an encouraging lead. That worthy knew the
ladies, but somewhat peevishly explained that it was
hardly to be expected that he should know all of the
taxi-cab drivers in New York,—and as he had seen
them arrive in a taxi-cab it was reasonable to assume
that they had departed in one.</p>
<p class="indent">"But it wasn't a taxi-cab," the Scotland Yard man
protested. "It was a blinking limousine."</p>
<p class="indent">"Then, all I got to say is that they're not the women
I mean. If I'd been out here when they left I probably
could have put you wise. But I was in there listenin'
to what Con McFaddan was sayin' to poor old
Spangler. The woman I mean is a dressmaker. She
ain't got any more of a limo than I have. Did you
notice what they looked like?"</p>
<p class="indent">The Scotland Yard man, staring gloomily up the
rain-swept street, confessed that he hadn't noticed anything
but the chauffeur's face.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>[pg 225]</span>
"Well, there you are," remarked the sallow-faced
man, shrugging his shoulders in a patronizing, almost
pitying way.</p>
<p class="indent">The Londoner winced.</p>
<p class="indent">"I distinctly heard the chauffeur say 'Very good,
my lady,'" he said, after a moment. "That was a
bit odd, wasn't it, now? You don't have any such
things as titles over 'ere, do you?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sure. Every steamer brings one or two of 'em
to our little city."</p>
<p class="indent">The Englishman scratched his head. Suddenly his
face brightened.</p>
<p class="indent">"I remember, after all,—in a vague sort of way,
don't you know,—that one of the ladies had white hair.
I recall an instant's speculation on my part. I remember
looking twice to be sure that it was hair and
not a bit of lace thrown—"</p>
<p class="indent">"That's the party," exclaimed the sallow-faced man.
"Now we're getting somewhere."</p>
<p class="indent">The next afternoon, the man from Scotland Yard
paid a visit to Deborah's. Not at all abashed at finding
himself in a place where all save angels fear to
tread, he calmly asked to be conducted into the presence
of Mrs. Sparflight. He tactfully refrained from
adding "alias Deborah, Limited. London, Paris and
New York." He declined to state his business.</p>
<p class="indent">"Madam," said he, coming straight to the point the
instant he was ushered into the presence of the white-haired
proprietress, "I sha'n't waste your time,—and
mine, I may add,—by beating about the bush, as you
Americans would say. I represent—"</p>
<p class="indent">"If you are an insurance agent or a book agent, you
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>[pg 226]</span>
need not waste any time at all," began Mrs. Sparflight.
He held up his hand deprecatingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"—Scotland Yard," he concluded, fixing his eyes
upon her. The start she gave was helpful. He went
on briskly. "Last night you were at a certain restaurant.
You departed during the thunder-storm in a
limousine driven by a young man whose face is familiar
to me. In short, I am looking for a man who bears a
most startling resemblance to him. May I prevail upon
you to volunteer a bit of information?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Sparflight betrayed agitation. A hunted,
troubled look came into her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I don't quite understand," she stammered.
"Who—who did you say you were?"</p>
<p class="indent">"My name is Chambers, Alfred Chambers, Scotland
Yard. In the event that you are ignorant of the character
of the place called Scotland Yard, I may explain
that—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I know what it is," she interrupted hastily.
"What is it that you want of me, Mr. Chambers?"
She was rapidly gaining control of her wits.</p>
<p class="indent">"Very little, madam. I should very much like to
know whose car took you away from Sprinkler's last
night."</p>
<p class="indent">She looked him straight in the eye. "I haven't the
remotest idea," she said.</p>
<p class="indent">He nodded his head gently. "Would you, on the
other hand, object to telling me how long James has
been driving for her ladyship?"</p>
<p class="indent">This was a facer. Mrs. Sparflight's gaze wavered.</p>
<p class="indent">"Her ladyship?" she murmured weakly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>[pg 227]</span>
"Yes, madam,—unless my hearing was temporarily
defective," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't know what you mean."</p>
<p class="indent">"Your companion was a young lady of—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My good man," interrupted the lady sharply, "my
companion last night was my own private secretary."</p>
<p class="indent">"A Miss Emsdale, I believe," said he.</p>
<p class="indent">She gulped. "Precisely."</p>
<p class="indent">"Um!" he mused. "And you do not know whose
car you went off in,—is that right?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I have no hesitancy in stating, Mr. Chambers, that
the car does not belong to me or to my secretary," she
said, smiling.</p>
<p class="indent">"I trust you will pardon a seemingly rude question,
Mrs. Sparflight. Is it the custom in New York for
people to take possession of private automobiles—"</p>
<p class="indent">"It is the custom for New York chauffeurs to pick up
an extra dollar or two when their employers are not
looking," she interrupted, with a shrug of her shoulders.
She was instantly ashamed of her mendacity.
She looked over her shoulder to see if Mr. Thomas
Trotter's sweetheart was anywhere within hearing, and
was relieved to find that she was not. "And now, sir,
if it is a fair question, may I inquire just what this
chauffeur's double has been doing that Scotland Yard
should be seeking him so assiduously?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He has been giving us a deuce of a chase, madam,"
said Mr. Chambers, as if that were the gravest crime a
British subject could possibly commit. "By the way,
did you by any chance obtain a fair look at the man who
drove you home last night?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>[pg 228]</span>
"Yes. He seemed quite a good-looking fellow."</p>
<p class="indent">"Will you glance at this photograph, Mrs. Sparflight,
and tell me whether you detect a resemblance?"
He took a small picture from his coat pocket and held
it out to her.</p>
<p class="indent">She looked at it closely, holding it at various angles
and distances, and nodded her head in doubtful acquiescence.</p>
<p class="indent">"I think I do, Mr. Chambers. I am not surprised
that you should have been struck by the resemblance.
This man was a soldier, I perceive."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers restored the photograph to his pocket.</p>
<p class="indent">"The King's Own," he replied succinctly. "Perhaps
your secretary may be able to throw a little more
light on the matter, madam. May I have the privilege
of interrogating her?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not today," said Mrs. Sparflight, who had anticipated
the request. "She is very busy."</p>
<p class="indent">"Of course I am in no position to insist," said he
pleasantly. "I trust you will forgive my intrusion,
madam. I am here only in the interests of justice,
and I have no desire to cause you the slightest annoyance.
Permit me to bid you good day, Mrs. Sparflight.
Thank you for your kindness in receiving me. Tomorrow,
if it is quite agreeable to you, I shall call to
see Miss Emsdale."</p>
<p class="indent">At that moment, the door opened and Miss Emsdale
came into the little office.</p>
<p class="indent">"You rang for me, Mrs. Sparflight?" she inquired,
with a quick glance at the stranger.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Sparflight blinked rapidly. "Not at all,—not
at all. I did not ring."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>[pg 229]</span>
Miss Emsdale looked puzzled. "I am sure the
buzzer—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Pardon me," said Mr. Chambers, easily. "I fancy
I can solve the mystery. Accidentally,—quite accidentally,
I assure you,—I put my hand on the button
on your desk, Mrs. Sparflight,—while you were glancing
at the photograph. Like this,—do you see?"
He put his hand on the top of the desk and leaned forward,
just as he had done when he joined her in studying
the picture a few moments before.</p>
<p class="indent">A hot flush mounted to Mrs. Sparflight's face, and
her eyes flashed. The next instant she smiled.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are most resourceful, Mr. Chambers," she said.
"It happens, however, that your cleverness gains you
nothing. This young lady is one of our stenographers.
I think I said that Miss Emsdale is my private secretary.
She has no connection whatever with the business
office. The button you inadvertently pressed simply
disturbed one of the girls in the next room. You
may return to your work, Miss Henry."</p>
<p class="indent">She carried it off very well. Jane, sensing danger,
was on the point of retiring,—somewhat hurriedly, it
must be confessed,—when Mr. Chambers, in his most
apologetic manner, remarked:</p>
<p class="indent">"May I have a word with you, your ladyship?"</p>
<p class="indent">It was a bold guess, encouraged by his discovery that
the young lady was not only English but of a class distinctly
remote from shops and stenography.</p>
<p class="indent">Under the circumstances, Jane may be forgiven for
dissembling, even at the cost of her employer's honour.
She stopped short, whirled, and confronted the stranger
with a look in her eyes that convicted her immediately.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>[pg 230]</span>
Her hand flew to her heart, and a little gasp broke from
her parted lips.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers was smiling blandly. She looked
from him to Mrs. Sparflight, utter bewilderment in her
eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, Lord!" muttered that lady in great dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">The man from Scotland Yard hazarded another and
even more potential stroke while the iron was hot.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am from Scotland Yard," he said. "We make
some mistakes there, I admit, but not many." He proceeded
to lie boldly. "I know who you are, my lady,
and—But it is not necessary to go into that at present.
Do not be alarmed. You have nothing to fear
from me,—or from Scotland Yard. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I should hope <i>not</i>!" burst out Mrs. Sparflight
indignantly.</p>
<p class="indent">"What does he want?" cried Jane, in trepidation.
She addressed her friend, but it was Mr. Chambers
who answered.</p>
<p class="indent">"I want you to supply me with a little information
concerning Lord Eric Temple,—whom you addressed
last evening as James."</p>
<p class="indent">Jane began to tremble. Scotland Yard!</p>
<p class="indent">"The man is crazy," said Mrs. Sparflight, leaping
into the breach. "By what right, sir, do you come
here to impose your—"</p>
<p class="indent">"No offence is intended, ma'am," broke in Mr.
Chambers. "Absolutely no offence. It is merely in
the line of duty that I come. In plain words, I have
been instructed to apprehend Lord Eric Temple and
fetch him to London. You see, I am quite frank about
it. You can aid me by being as frank in return, ladies."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page231" id="page231"></a>[pg 231]</span>
By this time Jane had regained command of herself.
Drawing herself up, she faced the detective, and, casting
discretion to the winds, took a most positive and
determined stand.</p>
<p class="indent">"I must decline,—no matter what the cost may be
to myself,—to give you the slightest assistance concerning
Lord Temple."</p>
<p class="indent">To their infinite amazement, the man bowed very
courteously and said:</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall not insist. Pardon my methods and my intrusion.
I shall trouble you no further. Good day,
madam. Good day, your ladyship."</p>
<p class="indent">He took his leave at once, leaving them staring
blankly at the closed door. He was satisfied. He had
found out just what he wanted to know, and he was
naturally in some haste to get out before they began
putting embarrassing questions to him.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear," murmured Jane, distractedly. "What
<i>are</i> we to do? Scotland Yard! That can mean but
one thing. His enemies at home have brought some
vile, horrible charge against—"</p>
<p class="indent">"We must warn him at once, Jane. There is no
time to be lost. Telephone to the garage where Mrs.
Millidew—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But the man doesn't know that Eric is driving for
Mrs. Millidew," broke in Jane, hopefully.</p>
<p class="indent">"He <i>will</i> know, and in very short order," said the
other, sententiously. "Those fellows are positively
uncanny. Go at once and telephone." She hesitated a
moment, looking a little confused and guilty. "Lay
aside your work, dear, for the time being. There is
nothing very urgent about it, you know."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page232" id="page232"></a>[pg 232]</span>
In sheer desperation she had that very morning set
her restless charge to work copying names out of the
<i>Social Register</i>,—names she had checked off at random
between the hours of ten and two the previous
night.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane's distress increased to a state bordering on
anguish.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear! He—he is out of town for two or three
days."</p>
<p class="indent">"Out of town?"</p>
<p class="indent">"He told me last night he was to be off early this
morning for Mrs. Millidew's country place somewhere
on Long Island. Mrs. Millidew had to go down to see
about improvements or repairs or something before the
house is opened for the season."</p>
<p class="indent">"Mrs. Millidew was in the shop this morning for a
'try-on,'" said the other. "She has changed her
plans, no doubt."</p>
<p class="indent">Jane's honest blue eyes wavered slightly as she met
her friend's questioning gaze.</p>
<p class="indent">"I think he said that young Mrs. Millidew was
going down to look after the work for her mother-in-law."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page233" id="page233"></a>[pg 233]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2>
<h3>FRIDAY FOR LUCK</h3>
<p class="indent">THE "drawing-room" that evening lacked not
only distinction but animation as well. To begin
with, the attendance was small. The Marchioness,
after the usual collaboration with Julia in advance of
the gathering, received a paltry half-dozen during the
course of the evening. The Princess was there, and
Count Antonio,—(he rarely missed coming), and the
Hon. Mrs. Priestley-Duff. Lord Eric Temple and
Lady Jane Thorne were missing, as were Prince Waldemar
de Bosky, Count Wilhelm von Blitzen and the
Countess du Bara. Extreme dulness prevailed. The
Princess fell asleep, and, on being roused at a seasonable
hour, declared that her eyes had been troubling
her of late, so she kept them closed as much as possible
on account of the lights.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Priestley-Duff, being greatly out-of-sorts, caustically
remarked that the proper way to treat bothersome
eyes is to put them to bed in a sound-proof room.</p>
<p class="indent">Cricklewick yawned in the foyer, Moody yawned in
the outer hall, and McFaddan in the pantry. The latter
did not yawn luxuriously. There was something
half-way about it.</p>
<p class="indent">"Why don't you 'ave it out?" inquired Moody, sympathetically,
after solicitous inquiry. "They say the
bloomin' things are the cause of all the rheumatism
we're 'aving nowadays. Is it a wisdom tooth?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page234" id="page234"></a>[pg 234]</span>
"No," said McFaddan, with a suddenness that
startled Moody; "it ain't. It's a whole jaw. It's a
dam' fool jaw at that."</p>
<p class="indent">"Now that I look at you closer," said Moody critically,
"it seems to be a bit discoloured. Looks as
though mortification had set in."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ye never said a truer thing," said McFaddan.
"It set in last night."</p>
<p class="indent">The man from Scotland Yard waited across the
street until he saw the lights in the windows of the third,
fourth and fifth floors go out, and then strolled
patiently away. Queer looking men and women came
under his observation during the long and lonely vigil,
entering and emerging from the darkened doorway
across the street, but none of them, by any chance, bore
the slightest resemblance to the elusive Lord Temple,
or "her ladyship," the secretary. He made the quite
natural error of putting the queer looking folk down
as tailors and seamstresses who worked far into the
night for the prosperous Deborah.</p>
<p class="indent">Two days went by. He sat at a window in the hotel
opposite and waited for the young lady to appear.
On three separate occasions he followed her to Central
Park and back. She was a brisk walker. She had the
free stride of the healthy English girl. He experienced
some difficulty in keeping her in sight, but even
as he puffed laboriously behind, he was conscious of
a sort of elation. It was good to see some one who
walked as if she were in Hyde Park.</p>
<p class="indent">For obvious reasons, his trailing was in vain. Jane
did not meet Lord Temple for the excellent reason that
Thomas Trotter was down on Long Island with the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235" id="page235"></a>[pg 235]</span>
beautiful Mrs. Millidew. And while both Jane and
Mrs. Sparflight kept a sharp lookout for Mr. Chambers,
they failed to discover any sign of him. He
seemed to have abandoned the quest. They were not
lured into security, however. He would bob up, like
Jack-in-the-box, when least expected.</p>
<p class="indent">If they could only get word to Trotter! If they
could only warn him of the peril that stalked him!</p>
<p class="indent">Jane was in the depths. She had tumbled swiftly
from the great height to which joy had wafted her;
her hopes and dreams, and the castles they had built
so deftly, shrunk up and vanished in the cloud that hung
like a pall about her. Her faith in the man she loved
was stronger than ever; nothing could shatter that.
No matter what Scotland Yard might say or do, actuated
by enemy injustice, she would never believe evil of
him. And she would not give him up!</p>
<p class="indent">"Marchioness," she said at the close of the second
day, her blue eyes clouded with the agony of suspense,
"is there not some way to resist extradition? Can't
we fight it? Surely it isn't possible to take an innocent
man out of this great, generous country—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear child," said the Marchioness, putting down
her coffee cup with so little precision that it clattered in
the saucer, "there isn't <i>anything</i> that Scotland Yard
cannot do." She spoke with an air of finality.</p>
<p class="indent">"I have been thinking," began Jane, haltingly. She
paused for a moment. An appealing, wistful note was
in her voice when she resumed, and her eyes were tenderly
resolute. "He hasn't very much money, you
know, poor boy. I have been thinking,—oh, I've been
thinking of so many things," she broke off confusedly.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page236" id="page236"></a>[pg 236]</span>
"Well, what have you been thinking?" inquired the
other, helpfully.</p>
<p class="indent">"It has occurred to me that I can get along very
nicely on half of what you are paying me,—or even
less. If it were not for the fact that my poor brother
depends solely upon me for support, I could spare practically
all of my salary to—for—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Go on," said the Marchioness gently.</p>
<p class="indent">"In any case, I can give Eric half of my salary if it
will be of any assistance to him,—yes, a little more
than half," said Jane, a warm, lovely flush in her
cheeks.</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness hastily pressed the serviette to her
lips. She seemed to be choking. It was some time
before she could trust herself to say:</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless your heart, my dear, he wouldn't take it. Of
course," she went on, after a moment, "it would please
him beyond words if you were to suggest it to him."</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall do more," said Jane, resolutely. "I shall
insist."</p>
<p class="indent">"It will tickle him almost to death," said the Marchioness,
again raising the napkin to her lips.</p>
<p class="indent">At twelve o'clock the next day, Trotter's voice came
blithely over the telephone.</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you there, darling? Lord, it seems like a century
since I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Listen, Eric," she broke in. "I have something
very important to tell you. Now, <i>do</i> listen—are you
there?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Right-o! Whisper it, dear. The telephone has a
million ears. I want to hear you say it,—oh, I've
been wanting—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page237" id="page237"></a>[pg 237]</span>
"It isn't that," she said. "You know I do, Eric.
But this is something perfectly terrible."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I say, Jane, you haven't changed your mind
about—about—"</p>
<p class="indent">"As if I <i>could</i>," she cried. "I love you more than
ever, Eric. Oh, what a silly thing to say over the telephone.
I am blushing,—I hope no one heard—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Listen!" said he promptly, music in his voice.
"I'm just in from the country. I'll be down to see
you about five this afternoon. Tell you all about the
trip. Lived like a lord,—homelike sort of feeling,
eh?—and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't care to hear about it," said Jane stiffly.
"Besides, you must not come here today, Eric. It is
the very worst thing you could do. He would be sure
to see you."</p>
<p class="indent">"He? What he?" he demanded quickly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't explain. Listen, dear. Mrs. Sparflight
and I have talked it all over and we've decided on the
best thing to do."</p>
<p class="indent">And she poured into the puzzled young man's ear the
result of prolonged deliberations. He was to go to
Bramble's Bookshop at half-past four, and proceed at
once to the workshop of M. Mirabeau upstairs. She
had explained the situation to Mr. Bramble in a letter.
At five o'clock she would join him there. In the meantime,
he was to keep off of the downtown streets as
much as possible.</p>
<p class="indent">"In the name of heaven, what's up?" he cried for
the third time,—with variations.</p>
<p class="indent">"A—a detective from Scotland Yard," she replied
in a voice so low and cautious that he barely caught
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238" id="page238"></a>[pg 238]</span>
the words. "I—I can't say anything more now,"
she went on rapidly. "Something tells me he is just
outside the door, listening to every word I utter."</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait!" he ordered. "A detective? Has that
beastly Smith-Parvis crowd dared to insinuate that
you—that you—Oh, Lord, I can't even say it!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I said 'Scotland Yard,' Eric," she said. "Don't
you understand?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, I'm hanged if I do. But don't worry, dear.
I'll be at Bramble's and, by the lord Harry, if they're
trying to put up any sort of a—Hello! Are you
there?"</p>
<p class="indent">There was no answer.</p>
<p class="indent">Needless to say, he was at Bramble's Bookshop on
the minute, vastly perturbed and eager for enlightenment.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't stop down here an instant," commanded Mr.
Bramble, glancing warily at the front door. "Do as I
tell you. Don't ask questions. Go upstairs and wait,—and
don't show yourself under any circumstance.
Did you happen to catch a glimpse of him anywhere
outside?"</p>
<p class="indent">"The street is full of 'hims,'" retorted Mr. Trotter
in exasperation. "What the devil is all this about,
Bramby?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She will be here at five. There's nothing suspicious
in her coming in to buy a book. It's all been
thought out. Most natural thing in the world that she
should buy a book, don't you see? Only you must
not be buying one at the same time. Now, run along,—lively.
Prince de Bosky is with Mirabeau. And
don't come down till I give you the word."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page239" id="page239"></a>[pg 239]</span>
"See here, Bramble, if you let anything happen to
her I'll—" Mr. Bramble relentlessly urged him up
the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">Long before Jane arrived, Trotter was in possession
of the details. He was vastly perplexed.</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay one of those beastly cousins of mine has
trumped up some charge that he figures will put me
out of the running for ever," he said gloomily. He sat,
slack and dejected, in a corner of the shop farthest removed
from the windows. "I shouldn't mind so much
if it weren't for Lady Jane. She—you see, M'sieur,
she has promised to be my wife. This will hurt her
terribly. The beastly curs!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sit down!" commanded M. Mirabeau. "You must
not go raging up and down past those windows."</p>
<p class="indent">"Confound you, Mirabeau, he doesn't know this
place exists. He never will know unless he follows
Lady Jane. I'll do as I jolly well please."</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky, inspired, produced a letter he had just
received from his friend, the cracksman. He had read
it to the bookseller and clockmaker, and now re-read it,
with soulful fervour, for the benefit of the new arrival.
He interrupted himself to beg M. Mirabeau to unlock
the safe and bring forth the treasure.</p>
<p class="indent">"You see what he says?" cried he, shaking the
letter in front of Trotter's eyes. "And here is the
money! See! Touch it, my friend. It is real. I
thought I was also dreaming. Count them. Begin
with this one. Now,—one hundred, two hundred—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking
about," said Trotter, staring blankly at the money.</p>
<p class="indent">"What a fool I am!" cried de Bosky. "I begin
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240" id="page240"></a>[pg 240]</span>
at the back-end of the story. How could you
know? Have you ever known such a fool as I, Mirabeau?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Never," said M. Mirabeau, who had his ear cocked
for sounds on the stairway.</p>
<p class="indent">"And so," said the Prince, at the end of the hastily
told story of the banknotes and the man up the river,
"you see how it is. He replies to my carefully worded
letter. Shall I read it again? No? But, I ask you,
my dear Trotter, how am I to carry out his instructions?
Naturally he is vague. All letters are read at
the prison, I am informed. He says: 'And anything
you may have come acrosst among my effects is so
piffling that I hereby instructs you to burn it up, sos I
won't have to be bothered with it when I come out,
which ain't fer some time yet, and when I do get out I
certainly am not coming to New York, anyhow. I
am going west and start all over again. A feller has
got a better chance out there.' That is all he has
to say about this money, Trotter. I cannot burn it.
What am I to do?"</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter had an inspiration.</p>
<p class="indent">"Put it into American Tobacco," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">De Bosky stared. "Tobacco?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Simplest way in the world to obey instructions.
The easiest way to burn money is to convert it into tobacco.
Slip down to Wall Street tomorrow and invest
every cent of this money in American Tobacco, register
the stock in the name of Henry Loveless and put it away
for him. Save out enough for a round-trip ticket to
Sing Sing, and run up there some day and tell him what
you've done."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page241" id="page241"></a>[pg 241]</span>
"By Jove!" exclaimed de Bosky, his eyes dancing.
"But," he added, doubtfully, "what am I to do if he
doesn't approve?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the
resourceful Mr. Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"You know," said the other admiringly, "I have
never been one of those misguided persons who claim
that the English have no sense of humour. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Sh!" warned M. Mirabeau from the top of the
steps. And then, like a true Frenchman, he bustled de
Bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door,
leaving Trotter alone among the ticking clocks.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued.
Mr. Bramble was pledging something, in a
squeaky undertone, from the store below.</p>
<p class="indent">"He may not have followed me," Jane called back
in guarded tones, "but if he has, Mr. Bramble, you
must be sure to throw him off the trail."</p>
<p class="indent">"Trust me,—trust me implicitly," came in a strangled
sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh,—Eric, dearest! How you startled me!"
cried Lady Jane a moment later. She gasped the
words, for she was almost smothered in the arms of
her lover.</p>
<p class="indent">"Forgive me," he murmured, without releasing her,—an
oversight which she apparently had no immediate
intention of resenting.</p>
<p class="indent">A little later on, she suddenly drew away from him,
with a quick, embarrassed glance around the noisy
little shop. He laughed.</p>
<p class="indent">"We are quite alone, Jane dear,—unless you count
the clocks. They're all looking at us, but they never
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242" id="page242"></a>[pg 242]</span>
tell anything more than the time of day. And now,
dear, what is this beastly business?"</p>
<p class="indent">She closed the door to the stairway, very cautiously,
and then came back to him. The frown deepened in
his eyes as he listened to the story she told.</p>
<p class="indent">"But why should I go into hiding?" he exclaimed, as
she stopped to get her breath. "I haven't done anything
wrong. What if they have trumped up some rotten
charge against me? All the more reason why I
should stand out and defend—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, dear, Scotland Yard is such a dreadful place,"
she cried, blanching. "They—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Rubbish! I'm not afraid of Scotland Yard."</p>
<p class="indent">"You—you're not?" she gasped, blankly. "But,
Eric dear, you <i>must</i> be afraid of Scotland Yard. You
don't know what you are saying."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, yes, I do. And as for this chap they've sent
after me,—where is he? In two seconds I can tell him
what's what. He'll go humping back to London—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I knew you would say something like that," she declared,
greatly perturbed. "But I sha'n't let you.
Do you hear, Eric? I sha'n't let you. You <i>must</i> hide.
You must go away from New York,—tonight."</p>
<p class="indent">"And leave you?" he scoffed. "What can you be
thinking of, darling? Am I—
Sit down, dear,—here
beside me. You are frightened. That infernal brute
has scared you almost out of—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I <i>am</i> frightened,—terribly frightened. So is the
Marchioness,—and Mr. Bramble." She sat beside him
on the bench. He took her cold hands in his own and
pressed them gently, encouragingly. His eyes were
very soft and tender.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page243" id="page243"></a>[pg 243]</span>
"Poor little girl!" For a long time he sat there
looking at her white, averted face. A slow smile slowly
struggled to the corners of his mouth. "I can't afford
to run away," he said at last. "I've just got to
stick by my job. It means a lot to me now, Jane dear."</p>
<p class="indent">She looked up quickly, her face clearing.</p>
<p class="indent">"I love you, Eric. I know you are innocent of anything
they may charge you with. I <i>know</i> it. And I
would give all I have in the world to help you in your
hour of trouble. Listen, dear. I want you to accept
this in the right spirit. Don't let pride stand in the
way. It is really something I want to do,—something
that will make me—oh, so happy, if you will just let
me do it. I am earning five guineas a week. It is more
than I need. Now, dear, just for a little while,—until
you have found another place in some city far away
from New York,—you must let me share my—What
is there to laugh at, Eric?" she cried in a hurt voice.</p>
<p class="indent">He grew sober at once.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm—I'm sorry," he said. "Thank you,—and
God bless you, Jane. It's fine. You're a brick. But,—but
I can't accept it. Please don't say anything
more about it, dear. I just <i>can't</i>,—that's all."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear," she sighed. "And—and you refuse
to go away? You will not escape while there is yet—"</p>
<p class="indent">"See here, dear," he began, his jaw setting, "I am
not underrating the seriousness of this affair. They
may have put up a beast of a job on me. They fixed it
so that I hadn't a chance three years ago. Perhaps
they've decided to finish the job and have done with me
for ever. I don't put it above them, curse them. Here's
the story in a nutshell. I have two cousins in the Army,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244" id="page244"></a>[pg 244]</span>
sons of my mother's sisters. They're a pair of rotters.
It was they who hatched up the scheme to disgrace
me in the service,—and, by gad, they did it to
the queen's taste. I had to get out. There wasn't a
chance for me to square myself. I—I sha'n't go into
that, dear. You'll understand why. It—it hurts.
Cheating at cards. That's enough, isn't it? Well,
they got me. My grandfather and I—he is theirs as
well as mine,—we never hit it off very well at best.
My mother married Lord Temple. Grandfather was
opposed to the match. Her sisters did everything in
their power to widen the breach that followed the marriage.
It may make it easier for you to understand
when I remind you that my grandfather is one of the
wealthiest peers in England.</p>
<p class="indent">"Odd things happen in life. When my father died,
I went to Fenlew Hall with my mother to live. Grandfather's
heart had softened a little, you see. I was
Lord Eric Temple before I was six years old. My
mother died when I was ten. For fifteen years I lived
on with Lord Fenlew, and, while we rowed a good deal,—he
is a crotchety old tyrant, bless him!—he undoubtedly
preferred me to either of my cousins. God
bless him for that! He showed his good sense, if I do
say it who shouldn't.</p>
<p class="indent">"So they set to work. That's why I am here,—without
going into details. That's why I am out of
the Army. And I loved the Army, Jane,—God bless
it! I used to pray for another war, horrible as it may
sound, so that I could go out and fight for England as
those lads did who went down to the bottom of Africa.
I would cry myself to sleep because I was so young then,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245" id="page245"></a>[pg 245]</span>
and so useless. I am not ashamed of the tears you
see in my eyes now. You can't understand what it
means to me, Jane."</p>
<p class="indent">He drew a deep breath, cleared his throat, and then
went on.</p>
<p class="indent">"Lord Fenlew turned me out,—disowned me. Don't
blame the old boy. They made out a good enough case
against me. I was given the choice of resigning from
the regiment or—well, the other thing. My father
was practically penniless when he died. I had nothing
of my own. It was up to me to earn an honest living,—or
go to the devil. I thought I'd try out the former
first. One can always go to the devil, you know. So
off into the far places of the earth I wandered,—and
I've steered pretty clear of the devil up to date.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's easy to earn a living, dear, if you just half
try.</p>
<p class="indent">"And now for this new complication. For the three
years that I have been away from England, not a
single word have I sent home. I daresay they know
that I am alive, and that I'll turn up some day like the
bad penny. I was named in my grandfather's will.
He once told me he intended to leave the bulk of the unentailed
property to me,—not because he loved me well
but because he loved my two cousins not at all. For
all I know, he may never have altered his will. In that
case, I still remain the chief legatee and a source of
tremendous uneasiness to my precious aunts and their
blackguard sons. It is possible, even probable, that
they have decided the safest place to have me is behind
the bars,—at least until Lord Fenlew has changed his
will for the last time and lies securely in the family
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246" id="page246"></a>[pg 246]</span>
vault. I can think of no other explanation for the action
of Scotland Yard. But, don't worry, dear. I
haven't done anything wrong, and they can't stow me
away in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"The beasts!" cried Jane, furiously.</p>
<p class="indent">He stroked her clenched fingers.</p>
<p class="indent">"I wouldn't call 'em names, dear," he protested.
"They're honest fellows, and simply doing—"</p>
<p class="indent">"They are the most despicable wretches on earth."</p>
<p class="indent">"You must be referring to my cousins. I
thought—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, Eric," she broke in firmly, "I sha'n't let you
give yourself up. You owe something to me. I love
you with all my soul. If they were to take you back
to London and—and put you in prison,—I'd—I'd
die. I could not endure—" She suddenly broke down
and, burying her face on his shoulder, sobbed chokingly.</p>
<p class="indent">He was deeply distressed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I say, dearest, don't—don't go under like
this. I—I can't stand it. Don't cry, darling. It
breaks my heart to see you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I can't help it," she sobbed. "Give—give
me a little—time. I'll be all right in a—minute."</p>
<p class="indent">He whispered consolingly: "That's right. Take
your time, dear. I never dreamed you cared so much."</p>
<p class="indent">She looked up quickly, her eyes flashing through the
tears.</p>
<p class="indent">"And do you care less for me, now that you see what
a weak, silly—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Good Lord, no! I adore you more than ever.
I—
Who's there?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>[pg 247]</span>
M. Mirabeau, coughing considerately, was rattling
the latch of the door that separated the shop from the
store-room beyond. A moment later he opened the
door slowly and stuck his head through the aperture.
Then, satisfied that his warning cough had been properly
received, he entered the shop. The lovers were
sitting bolt upright and some distance apart. Lady
Jane was arranging a hat that had been somehow forgotten
up to that instant.</p>
<p class="indent">"A thousand pardons," said the old Frenchman, his
voice lowered. "We must act at once. Follow me,—quickly,
but as quietly as possible. He is downstairs.
I have listened from the top of the steps. Poor old
Bramble is doing his best to divert him. I have just
this instant heard the villain announce that his watch
needs looking into, and from that I draw a conclusion.
He will come to my shop in spite of all that Bramble
can do. Come! I know the way to safety."</p>
<p class="indent">"But I'm not going to hide," began Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane seized his arm and dragged him toward the
door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, you are," she whispered fiercely. "You belong
to me, Eric Temple. I shall do what I like with
you. Don't be mulish, dear. I sha'n't leave you,—not
for anything in the world."</p>
<p class="indent">"Bravo!" whispered M. Mirabeau.</p>
<p class="indent">Swiftly they stole through the door and past the
landing. Scraps of conversation from below reached
their ears. Jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm.
She recognized the voice of Mr. Alfred Chambers.</p>
<p class="indent">"De Bosky will do the rest," whispered the clockmaker,
as they were joined by the musician at the far
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>[pg 248]</span>
end of the stock-room. "I must return to the shop.
He will suspect at once if I am not at work when he
appears,—for appear he will, you may be sure."</p>
<p class="indent">He was gone in a second. De Bosky led them into
the adjoining room and pointed to a tall step-ladder
over in the corner. A trap-door in the ceiling was
open, and blackness loomed beyond.</p>
<p class="indent">"Go up!" commanded the agitated musician, addressing
Trotter. "It is an air-chamber. Don't
break your head on the rafters. Follow close behind,
Lady Jane. I will hold the ladder. Close the trap
after you,—and do not make a sound after you are
once up there. This is the jolliest moment of my life!
I was never so thrilled. It is beautiful! It is ravishing!
Sh! Don't utter a word, I command you! We
will foil him,—we will foil old Scotland Yard. Be
quick! Splendid! You are wonderful, Mademoiselle.
Such courage,—such grace,—such—
Sh! I take
the ladder away! Ha, he will never suspect. He—"</p>
<p class="indent">"But how the deuce are we to get down from here?"
groaned Trotter in a penetrating whisper from aloft.</p>
<p class="indent">"You can't get down,—but as he can't get up, why
bother your head about that? Close the trap!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh-h!" shuddered Jane, in an ecstasy of excitement.
She was kneeling behind her companion, peering
down through the square little opening into which he
had drawn her a moment before.</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter cautiously lowered the trap-door,—and they
were in Stygian darkness. She repeated the exclamation,
but this time it was a sharp, quick gasp of dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">For a long time they were silent, listening for sounds
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>[pg 249]</span>
from below. At last he arose to his feet. His head
came in contact with something solid. A smothered
groan escaped his lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good Lord!—
Be careful, dear! There's not
more than four feet head-room. Sit still till I find a
match."</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you hurt? What a dreadful bump it was. I
wonder if he could have heard?"</p>
<p class="indent">"They heard it in heaven," he replied, feeling his
head.</p>
<p class="indent">"How dark it is," she shuddered. "Don't you dare
move an inch from my side, Eric. I'll scream."</p>
<p class="indent">He laughed softly. "By Jove, it's rather a jolly
lark, after all. A wonderful place this is for sweethearts."
He dropped down beside her.</p>
<p class="indent">After a time, she whispered: "You mentioned a
match, Eric."</p>
<p class="indent">"So I did," said he, and proceeded to go through the
pocket in which he was accustomed to carry matches.
"Thunderation! The box is empty."</p>
<p class="indent">She was silent for a moment. "I really don't mind,
dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"I remember saying this morning that I never have
any luck on Friday," said he resignedly. "But," he
added, a happy note in his voice, "I never dreamed
there was such luck as this in store for me."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>[pg 250]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2>
<h3>FRIDAY FOR BAD LUCK</h3>
<p class="indent">SPEAKING of Friday and the mystery of luck.
Luck is supposed to shift in one direction or
another on the sixth day of every week in the year. It
is supposed to shift for everybody. A great many
people are either too ignorant or too supercilious to
acknowledge this vast and oppressive truth, however.
They regard Friday as a plain, ordinary day, and go
on being fatuously optimistic.</p>
<p class="indent">On the other hand, when it comes Friday, the capable
and the far-seeing are prone to accept it as it was intended
by the Creator, who, from confidential reports,
paused on the sixth day (as we reckon it) of his labours
and looked back on what already had been accomplished.
He was dissatisfied. He set to work again.
Right then and there Friday became an unlucky day,
according to a great many philosophers. If the Creator
had stopped then and let well-enough alone, there
wouldn't have been any cause for complaint. He would
have failed to create Adam (an afterthought), and the
human race, lacking existence, would not have been
compelled to put up with life,—which is a mess, after
all.</p>
<p class="indent">If more people would pause to consider the futility
of living between Thursday and Saturday, a great deal
of woe and misfortune might be avoided.</p>
<p class="indent">For example, when Mrs. Smith-Parvis called on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id="page251"></a>[pg 251]</span>
Mrs. McFaddan on the Monday of the week that is
now making history through these pages, she completely
overlooked the fact that there was a Friday
still to be reckoned with.</p>
<p class="indent">True, she had in mind a day somewhat more remote
when, after coming face to face with the blooming Mrs.
MCFaddan who happened to open her own front door,—it
being Maggie's day out,—she had been compelled
to substitute herself in person for the cards she meant
to leave. Mrs. McFaddan had cordially sung out to
her from the front stoop, over the head of the shocked
footman, that she was at home and would Mrs. Smith-Parvis
please step in.</p>
<p class="indent">Thursday, two weeks hence, was the day Mrs. Smith-Parvis
had in mind. She had not been in the McFaddan
parlour longer than a minute and a half before she
realized that an invitation by word of mouth would do
quite as well as an expensively engraved card by post.
There was nothing formal about Mrs. McFaddan.
She was sorry that Con wasn't home; he would hate like
poison to have missed seeing Mrs. Smith-Parvis when
she did them the honour to call. But Con was not
likely to be in before seven,—he was that busy, poor
man,—and it would be asking too much of Mrs. Smith-Parvis
to wait till then.</p>
<p class="indent">So, the lady from the upper East Side had no hesitancy
in asking the lady from the lower West Side to
dine with her on Thursday the nineteenth.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am giving a series of informal dinners, Mrs.
McFad-<i>dan</i>," she explained graciously.</p>
<p class="indent">"They're the nicest kind," returned Mrs. McFaddan,
somewhat startled by the pronunciation of her husband's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>[pg 252]</span>
good old Irish name. She knew little or nothing
of French, but somehow she rather liked the emphasis,
crisply nasal, her visitor put upon the final syllable.
Before the visit came to an end, she was mentally repeating
her own name after Mrs. Smith-Parvis, and
wondering whether Con would stand for it.</p>
<p class="indent">"What date did you say?" she inquired, abruptly
breaking in on a further explanation. The reply
brought a look of disappointment to her face. "We
can't come," she said flatly. "We're leaving on Saturday
this week for Washington to be gone till the thirtieth.
Important business, Con says."</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis thought quickly. Washington,
eh?</p>
<p class="indent">"Could you come on Friday night of this week,
Mrs. McFad-<i>dan</i>?"</p>
<p class="indent">"We could," said the other. "Don't you worry
about Con cooking up an excuse for not coming, either.
He does just about what I tell him."</p>
<p class="indent">"Splendid!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, arising.
"Friday at 8:30."</p>
<p class="indent">"Have plenty of fish," said Mrs. McFaddan gaily.</p>
<p class="indent">"Fish?" faltered the visitor.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's Friday, you know."</p>
<p class="indent">Greatly to Mrs. Smith-Parvis's surprise,—and in
two or three cases, irritation,—every one she asked
to meet the McFaddans on Friday accepted with
alacrity. She asked the Dodges, feeling confident that
they couldn't possibly be had on such short notice,—and
the same with the Bittinger-Stuarts. They <i>did</i>
have previous engagements, but they promptly cancelled
them. It struck her as odd,—and later on significant,—that,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>[pg 253]</span>
without exception, every woman she
asked said she was just dying for a chance to have a
little private "talk" with the notorious Mr. McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">People who had never arrived at a dinner-party on
time in their lives, appeared on Friday at the Smith-Parvis
home all the way from five to fifteen minutes
early.</p>
<p class="indent">The Cricklewicks were not asked. Mr. Smith-Parvis
remembered in time that the Irish hate the English, and
it wouldn't do at all.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. McFaddan and his wife were the last to arrive.
They were so late that not only the hostess but most of
her guests experienced a sharp fear that they wouldn't
turn up at all. There were side glances at the clock
on the mantel, surreptitious squints at wrist-watches,
and a queer, unnatural silence while the big clock in
the upper hall chimed a quarter to nine.</p>
<p class="indent">"Really, my dear," said Mrs. Dodge, who had the
New York record for tardiness,—an hour and three-quarters,
she claimed,—"I can't understand people being
late for a dinner,—unless, of course, they mean to
be intentionally rude."</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't imagine what can have happened to them,"
said Mrs. Smith-Parvis nervously.</p>
<p class="indent">"Accident on the Subway, no doubt," drawled Mr.
Bittinger-Stuart, and instantly looked around in a
startled sort of way to see if there was any cause for
repenting the sarcasm.</p>
<p class="indent">"Where is Stuyvesant?" inquired Mrs. Millidew the
elder, who had arrived a little late. She had been
obliged to call a taxi-cab at the last moment on account
of the singular defection of her new chauffeur,—who,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>[pg 254]</span>
she proclaimed on entering, was to have his walking
papers in the morning. Especially as it was raining
pitchforks.</p>
<p class="indent">"He is dressing, my dear," explained Stuyvesant's
mother, with a maternal smile of apology.</p>
<p class="indent">"I should have known better," pursued Mrs. Millidew,
still chafing, "than to let him go gallivanting off
to Long Island with Dolly."</p>
<p class="indent">"I said he was dressing, Mrs. Millidew," said Mrs.
Smith-Parvis stiffly.</p>
<p class="indent">"If I could have five minutes alone with Mr. McFaddan,"
one of the ladies was saying to the host, "I
know I could interest him in our plan to make Van
Cortlandt Park the most attractive and the most exclusive
country club in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear," interrupted another of her sex, "if you
get him off in a corner and talk to him all evening
about that ridiculous scheme of yours, I'll murder you.
You know how long Jim has been working to get his
brother appointed judge in the United States District
Court,—his brother Charlie, you know,—the one who
doesn't amount to much,—and I'll bet my last penny
I can fix it if—"</p>
<p class="indent">"It's an infernal outrage," boomed Mr. Dodge, addressing
no one in particular. "Yes, sir, a pernicious
outrage."</p>
<p class="indent">"As I said before, the more you do for them the worse
they treat you in return," agreed Mrs. Millidew. "It
doesn't pay. Treat them like dogs and they'll be decent.
If you try to be kind and—"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Dodge expanded.</p>
<p class="indent">"You see, it will cut straight through the centre of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>[pg 255]</span>
the most valuable piece of unimproved property in New
York City. It isn't because I happen to be the owner
of that property that I'm complaining. It's the high-handed
way—Now, look! This is the Grand Concourse,
and here is Bunker Avenue." He produced an
invisible diagram with his foot, jostling Mr. Smith-Parvis
off of the rug in order to extend the line beyond
the intersection to a point where the proposed street
was to be opened. "Right smack through this section
of—"</p>
<p class="indent">At that instant Mr. and Mrs. McFaddan were announced.</p>
<p class="indent">"Where the deuce is Stuyvie?" Mr. Smith-Parvis
whispered nervously into the ear of his wife as the new
arrivals approached.</p>
<p class="indent">"Diplomacy," whispered she succinctly. "All for
effect. Last but not least. He—Good evening,
dear Mrs. McFad-dán!"</p>
<p class="indent">In the main hall, a moment before, Mr. McFaddan
had whispered in <i>his</i> wife's ear. He transmitted an
opinion of Peasley the footman.</p>
<p class="indent">"He's a mutt." He had surveyed Peasley with a
discriminating and intensely critical eye, taking him in
from head to foot. "Under-gardener or vicar's man-of-all-work.
Trained in a Sixth Avenue intelligence
office. Never saw livery till he—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Hush, Con! The man will hear you."</p>
<p class="indent">"And if he should, he can't accuse me of betrayin'
a secret."</p>
<p class="indent">To digress for a moment, it is pertinent to refer to
the strange cloud of preoccupation that descended upon
Mr. McFaddan during the ride uptown,—not in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>[pg 256]</span>
Subway, but in his own Packard limousine. Something
back in his mind kept nagging at him,—something
elusive yet strangely fresh, something that had
to do with recent events. He could not rid himself
of the impression that the Smith-Parvises were in
some way involved.</p>
<p class="indent">Suddenly, as they neared their destination, the fog
lifted and his mind was as clear as day. His wife's
unctuous reflections were shattered by the force of the
explosion that burst from his lips. He remembered
everything. This was the house in which Lady Jane
Thorne was employed, and it was the scion thereof who
had put up the job on young Trotter. Old Cricklewick
had come to see him about it and had told him a
story that made his blood boil. It was all painfully
clear to him now.</p>
<p class="indent">Their delay in arriving was due to the protracted
argument that took place within a stone's throw of the
Smith-Parvis home. Mr. McFaddan stopped the car
and flatly refused to go an inch farther. He would be
hanged if he'd have anything to do with a gang like
that! His wife began by calling him a goose. Later
on she called him a mule, and still later, in sheer exasperation,
a beast. He capitulated. He was still
mumbling incoherently as they mounted the steps and
were admitted by the deficient Peasley.</p>
<p class="indent">"What shall I say to the dirty spalpeen if he tries
to shake hands with me?" Mr. McFaddan growled,
three steps from the top.</p>
<p class="indent">"Say anything you like," said she, "but, for God's
sake, say it under your breath."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>[pg 257]</span>
However: the party was now complete with one
notable exception. Stuyvie was sound asleep in his
room. He had reached home late that afternoon and
was in an irascible frame of mind. He didn't know the
McFad-dáns, and he didn't care to know them. Dragging
him home from Hot Springs to meet a cheap
bounder,—what the deuce did she mean anyhow, entertaining
that sort of people? And so on and so forth
until his mother lost her temper and took it out on
the maid who was dressing her hair.</p>
<p class="indent">Peasley was sent upstairs to inform Mr. Stuyvesant
that they were waiting for him.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis met her son at the foot of the
stairs when he came lounging down. He was yawning
and making futile efforts to smooth out the wrinkles
in his coat, having reposed soundly in it for the better
part of an hour.</p>
<p class="indent">"You must be nice to Mr. McFad-dán," said she
anxiously. "He has a great deal of influence with
the powers that be."</p>
<p class="indent">He stopped short, instantly alert.</p>
<p class="indent">"Has a—a warrant been issued?" he demanded,
leaping to a very natural and sickening conclusion as to
the identity of the "powers."</p>
<p class="indent">"Not yet, of course," she said, benignly. "It is a
little too soon for that. But it will come, dear boy, if
we can get Mr. McFad-dán on our side. That is to
be the lovely surprise I spoke about in my—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You—you call <i>that</i> lovely?" he snapped.</p>
<p class="indent">"If everything goes well, you will soon be at the
Court of St. James. Wouldn't you call that lovely?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>[pg 258]</span>
He was perspiring freely. "My God, that's just the
thing I'm trying to avoid. If they get me into court,
they'll—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You do not understand. The diplomatic court,—corps,
I mean. You are to go to London,—into the
legation. The rarest opportunity—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, Lord!" gasped Stuyvesant, passing his hand
over his wet brow. A wave of relief surged over him.
He leaned against the banister, weakly. "Why didn't
you say that in the first place?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You must be very nice to Mr. McFad-dán," she
said, taking his arm. "And to Mrs. McFad-dán also.
She is rather stunning—and quite young."</p>
<p class="indent">"That's nice," said Stuyvie, regaining a measure of
his tolerant, blasé air.</p>
<p class="indent">Now, while the intelligence of the reader has long
since grasped the fact that the expected is about to
happen, it is only fair to state that the swiftly moving
events of the next few minutes were totally unexpected
by any one of the persons congregated in Mrs. Smith-Parvis's
drawing-room.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant entered the room, a forced, unamiable
smile on his lips. He nodded in the most casual, indifferent
manner to those nearest the door. It was going
to be a dull, deadly evening. The worst lot of he-fossils
and scrawny-necked—</p>
<p class="indent">"For the love o' Mike!"</p>
<p class="indent">Up to that instant, one could have dropped a ten-pound
weight on the floor without attracting the slightest
attention. For a second or two following the
shrill ejaculation, the crash of the axiomatic pin could
have been heard from one end of the room to the other.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>[pg 259]</span>
Every eye, including Stuyvie's, was fixed upon the
shocked, surprised face of the lady who uttered the involuntary
exclamation.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. McFaddan was staring wildly at the newcomer.
Stuyvesant recognized her at once. The dashing, vivid
face was only too familiar. In a flash the whole appalling
truth was revealed to him. An involuntary "Oh,
Lord!" oozed from his lips.</p>
<p class="indent">Cornelius McFaddan suddenly clapped his hand to
his mouth, smothering the words that surged up from
the depths of his injured soul. He became quite purple
in the face.</p>
<p class="indent">"This is my son Stuyvesant, Mr. McFaddan," said
Mrs. Smith-Parvis, in a voice strangely faint and faltering.
And then, sensing catastrophe, she went on
hurriedly: "Shall we go in to dinner? Has it been
announced, Rogers?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. McFaddan removed his hand.</p>
<p class="indent">The hopes and ambitions, the desires and schemes of
every one present went hurtling away on the hurricane
of wrath that was liberated by that unfortunate action
of Cornelius McFaddan. An unprejudiced observer
would have explained, in justice to poor Cornelius, that
the force of the storm blew his hand away, willy-nilly,
despite his heroic efforts to check the resistless torrent.</p>
<p class="indent">I may be forgiven for a confessed inadequacy to cope
with a really great situation. My scope of delivery is
limited. In a sense, however, short-comings of this nature
are not infrequently blessings. It would be a pity
for me or any other upstart to spoil, through sheer
feebleness of expression, a situation demanding the incomparable
virility of a Cornelius McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page260" id="page260"></a>[pg 260]</span>
Suffice to say, Mr. McFaddan left nothing to the
imagination. He had the stage to himself, and he stood
squarely in the centre of it for what seemed like an
age to the petrified audience. As a matter of fact,
it was all over in three minutes. He was not profane.
At no time did he forget there were ladies present.
But from the things he said, no one doubted, then or
afterwards, that the presence of ladies was the only
thing that stood between Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis and
an unhallowed grave.</p>
<p class="indent">It may be enlightening to repeat his concluding remark
to Stuyvie.</p>
<p class="indent">"And if I thought ye'd even dream of settin' foot
outside this house I'd gladly stand on the sidewalk in
the rain, without food or drink, for forty-eight hours,
waitin' for ye."</p>
<p class="indent">And as that was the mildest thing he said to Stuyvie,
it is only fair to state that Peasley, who was listening
in the hall, hastily opened the front door and looked
up and down the street for a policeman. With commendable
foresight, he left it ajar and retired to the
foot of the stairs, hoping, perhaps, that Stuyvesant
might undertake to throw the obnoxious guest into the
street,—in which case it would be possible for him
to witness the whirlwind without being in the path
of it.</p>
<p class="indent">To Smith-Parvis, Senior, the eloquent McFaddan addressed
these parting words:</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't know what you had in mind when you invited
me here, Mr. Smith-Parvis, but whatever it was
you needn't worry about it,—not for a minute. Put
it out of your mind altogether, my good man. And
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>[pg 261]</span>
if I've told you anything at all about this pie-faced
son of yours that ye didn't already know or suspect,
you're welcome to the information. He's a bad egg,—and
if ye don't believe me, ask Lady Jane Thorne,—if
she happens to be about."</p>
<p class="indent">He spoke without thinking, but he did no harm.
No one there had the remotest idea who he meant when
he referred to Lady Jane Thorne.</p>
<p class="indent">"Come, Peggy, we'd better be going," he said to his
wife. "If we want a bite o' dinner, I guess we'll have
to go over to Healy's and get it."</p>
<p class="indent">Far in the night, Mrs. Smith-Parvis groaned. Her
husband, who sat beside her bed and held her hand with
somnolent devotion, roused himself and inquired if the
pain was just as bad as ever.</p>
<p class="indent">She groaned again.</p>
<p class="indent">He patted her hand soothingly. "There, there, now,—go
to sleep again. You'll be all right—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Again?" she cried plaintively. "How can you
say such a thing? I haven't closed my eyes."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, my dear," he expostulated. "You've been
sound asleep for—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I have not!" she exclaimed. "My poor head is
splitting. You know I haven't been asleep, so why
will you persist in saying that I have?"</p>
<p class="indent">"At any rate," said he, taking up a train of thought
that had become somewhat confused and unstable by
passing through so many cat-naps, "we ought to be
thankful it isn't worse. The dear boy might have gone
to the electric chair if we had permitted him to follow
the scoundrel to the sidewalk."</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Smith-Parvis turned her face toward him. A
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262" id="page262"></a>[pg 262]</span>
spark of enthusiasm flashed for an instant in her tired
eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"How many times did he knock him down at Spangler's?"
she inquired.</p>
<p class="indent">"Four," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, proudly.</p>
<p class="indent">"And that dreadful woman was the cause of it all,
writing notes to Stuyvesant and asking him to meet
her—What was it Stuyvesant called them?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Crush-notes, Angie. Now, try to go to sleep,
dearie."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page263" id="page263"></a>[pg 263]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
<h3>FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT</h3>
<p class="indent">"GOODNESS! What's that?" whispered Lady
Jane, starting violently.</p>
<p class="indent">For what seemed to them many hours, she and
Thomas Trotter had sat, quite snugly comfortable, in
the dark air-chamber. Comfortable, I say, but I fear
that the bewildering joy of having her in his arms rendered
him impervious to what under other conditions
would most certainly have been a severe strain upon
his physical endurance. In other words, she rested
very comfortably and cosily in the crook of his arm, her
head against his shoulder, while he, sitting bolt upright
with no support whatsoever—But why try to provide
him with cause for complaint when he was so obviously
contented?</p>
<p class="indent">Her suppressed exclamation followed close upon the
roar and crash of an ear-splitting explosion. The reverberation
rolled and rumbled and dwindled away into
the queerest silence. Almost immediately the clatter of
falling debris assailed their ears. She straightened up
and clutched his arm convulsively.</p>
<p class="indent">"Rain," he said, with a short laugh. For an instant
his heart had stood still. So appalling was the crash
that he involuntarily raised an arm to shield his beloved
companion from the shattered walls that were so
soon to tumble about their ears. "Beating on the tin
roof," he went on, jerkily.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page264" id="page264"></a>[pg 264]</span>
"Oh,—wasn't it awful?" she gasped, in smothered
tones. "Are you sure?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I am now," he replied, "but, by Jove, I wasn't a
second or two ago. Lord, I thought it was all over."</p>
<p class="indent">"If we could only see!" she cried nervously.</p>
<p class="indent">"Any how," he said, with a reassuring chuckle, "we
sha'n't get wet."</p>
<p class="indent">By this time the roar of rain on the roof so close
to their heads was deafening.</p>
<p class="indent">"Goodness, Eric,—it's—it's leaking here," she
cried out suddenly, after a long silence.</p>
<p class="indent">"That's the trouble with these ramshackle old—Oh,
I say, Jane, your frock! It will be ruined. My
word! The confounded roof's like a sieve."</p>
<p class="indent">He set out,—on all fours,—cautiously to explore.</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I am frightfully afraid of thunder," she cried
out after him, a quaver in her voice. "And, Eric,
wouldn't it be dreadful if the building were to be struck
by lightning and we should be found up here in this—this
unexplainable loft? What <i>could</i> we say?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing, dearest," he replied, consolingly. "That
is, provided the lightning did its work properly. Ouch!
It's all right! Don't bother, dear. Nothing but a
wall. Seems dry over here. Don't move. I'll come
back for you."</p>
<p class="indent">"It's—it's rather jolly, isn't it?" she cried nervously
as his hand touched her shoulder. She grasped
it eagerly. "Much jollier than if we could see." A
few moments later: "Isn't it nice and dry over here.
How clever of you, Eric, to find it in the dark."</p>
<p class="indent">On their hands and knees they had crept to the place
of shelter, and were seated on a broad, substantial beam
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265" id="page265"></a>[pg 265]</span>
with their backs against a thin, hollow-sounding partition.
The journey was not without incident. As they
felt their way over the loose and sometimes widely separated
boards laid down to protect the laths and plaster
of the ceiling below, his knee slipped off and before
he could prevent it, his foot struck the lathing with
considerable force.</p>
<p class="indent">"Clumsy ass!" he muttered.</p>
<p class="indent">After a long time, she said to him,—a little pathetically:</p>
<p class="indent">"I hope M. Mirabeau doesn't forget we are up here."</p>
<p class="indent">"I should hope not," he said fervently. "Mrs. Millidew
is going out to dinner this evening. I'd—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh-h!" she whispered tensely. "Look!"</p>
<p class="indent">A thin streak of light appeared in front of them.
Fascinated, they watched it widen, slowly,—relentlessly.</p>
<p class="indent">The trap-door was being raised from below. A hand
and arm came into view,—the propelling power.</p>
<p class="indent">"Is that you, de Bosky?" called out Trotter, in a
penetrating whisper.</p>
<p class="indent">Abruptly the trap flew wide open and dropped back
on the scantlings with a bang.</p>
<p class="indent">The head and shoulders of a man,—a bald-headed
man, at that,—rose quickly above the ledge, and an
instant later a lighted lantern followed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear!" murmured Lady Jane, aghast. "It—it
isn't Mr. de Bosky, Eric. It's that man."</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg your pardon, Lord Temple," said Mr. Alfred
Chambers, setting the lantern down in order to brush
the dust off of his hands. "Are you there?"</p>
<p class="indent">"What is the meaning of this, sir?" demanded the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266" id="page266"></a>[pg 266]</span>
young man on the beam, blinking rapidly in the unaccustomed
glare.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers rested his elbows on the ledge. The
light of the lantern shone full on his face, revealing the
slow but sure growth of a joyous grin.</p>
<p class="indent">"Permit me to introduce myself, your lordship. Mr.
Alfred Chambers, of—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I know,—I know!" broke in the other impatiently.
"What the devil do you want?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Good evening, Miss Emsdale," said Mr. Chambers,
remembering his manners. "That is to say,—your
ladyship. 'Pon my word, you can't possibly be more
surprised than I am,—either of you. I shouldn't have
dreamed of looking in this—this stuffy hole for—for
anything except bats." He chortled.</p>
<p class="indent">"I can't understand why some one below there doesn't
knock that ladder from under you," said Mr. Trotter
rudely.</p>
<p class="indent">"I was on the point of giving up in despair," went on
Mr. Chambers, unoffended. "You know, I shouldn't
have thought of looking up here for you."</p>
<p class="indent">His quarry bethought himself of the loyal, conspiring
friends below.</p>
<p class="indent">"See here, Mr. Chambers," he began earnestly, "I
want you to understand that those gentlemen downstairs
are absolutely innocent of any criminal complicity in—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I understand perfectly," interrupted the man from
Scotland Yard. "Perfectly. And the same applies to
her ladyship. Everything's as right as rain, your
lordship. Will you be so good, sir, as to come down
at once?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page267" id="page267"></a>[pg 267]</span>
"Certainly," cried the other. "With the greatest
pleasure. Come, Jane,—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Wait!" protested Jane. "I sha'n't move an inch
until he promises to—to listen to reason. In the first
place, this gentleman is a Mr. Trotter," she went on
rapidly, addressing the head and shoulders behind the
lantern. "You will get yourself into a jolly lot of
trouble if you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Thanks, Jane dear," interrupted her lover gently.
"It's no use. He knows I am Eric Temple,—so we'll
just have to make the best of it."</p>
<p class="indent">"He doesn't know anything of the kind," said she.
"He noticed a resemblance, that's all."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers beamed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite so, your ladyship. I noticed it at once. If
I do say it myself, there isn't a man in the department
who has anything on me when it comes to that sort of
thing. The inspector has frequently mentioned—"</p>
<p class="indent">"By the way, Mr. Snooper, will you be kind enough
to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Chambers, your lordship," interrupted the detective.</p>
<p class="indent">"Kind enough to explain how you discovered that
we were up here?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, you see we were having our coffee,—after a
most excellent dinner, your lordship, prepared, I am
bound to say, for your discussion by the estimable Mr.
Bramble,—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Dinner? By George, you remind me that I am ravenously
hungry. It must be quite late."</p>
<p class="indent">"Half-past eight, sir,—approximately. As I was
saying, we were enjoying our coffee,—the three of us
only,—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page268" id="page268"></a>[pg 268]</span>
Trotter made a wry face. "In that case, Mrs. Millidew
will sack me in the morning, Jane. I had orders
for eight sharp."</p>
<p class="indent">"It really shouldn't matter, your lordship," said
Mr. Chambers cheerfully. "Not in the least, if I may
be so bold as to say so. However, to continue, sir.
Or rather, to go back a little if I may. You see, I
was rather certain you were hiding somewhere about
the place. At least, I was certain her ladyship was.
She came in and she didn't go out, if you see what I
mean. I insisted on my right to search the premises.
Do you follow me, sir?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Reluctantly."</p>
<p class="indent">"In due time, I came to the little dining-room, where
I discovered the cook preparing dinner. You were
not in evidence, your ladyship. I do not mind in the
least confessing that I was ordered out by the cook. I
retired to the clock-shop of M. Mirabeau and sat down
to wait. The Polish young gentleman was there. As
time went on, Mr. Bramble joined us. They were extremely
ill-at-ease, your lordship, although they tried
very hard to appear amused and unconcerned. The
slightest noise caused them to fidget. Once, to test
them, I stealthily dropped my pocket knife on the floor.
Now, you would say, wouldn't you, that so small an
object as a pen-knife—but that's neither here nor
there. They jumped,—every blessed one of them.
Presently the young Polish gentleman, whose face is
strangely familiar to me,—I must have seen him in
London,—announced that he was obliged to depart.
A little later on,—you see, it was quite dark by this
time,—the clockmaker prepared to close up for the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page269" id="page269"></a>[pg 269]</span>
night. Mr. Bramble looked at his watch two or three
times in rapid succession, notwithstanding the fact
that he was literally surrounded by clocks. He said
he feared he would have to go and see about the dinner,—and
would I kindly get out. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"They should have called in the police," interrupted
his male listener indignantly. "That's what I should
have done, confound your impudence."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ah, now <i>there</i> is a point I should have touched upon
before," explained Mr. Chambers, casting an uneasy
glance down into the room below. "I may as well confess
to you,—quite privately and confidentially, of
course, your lordship,—that I—er—rather deceived
the old gentlemen. Do not be alarmed. I am quite
sure they can't hear what I am saying. You see. I
told them in the beginning that I had surrounded the
place with policemen and plain-clothes men. They—"</p>
<p class="indent">"And hadn't you?" demanded Mr. Trotter quickly,
a reckless light appearing in his eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Not at all, sir,—not at all. Why should I? I am
quite capable of handling the case single-handed. The
less the police had to do with it the better for all parties
concerned. Still, it was necessary to frighten them a
little. Otherwise, they <i>might</i> have ejected me—er—bodily,
if you know what I mean. Or, for that matter,
they might have called in the police, as you suggest. So
I kept them from doing either by giving them to understand
that if there was to be any calling of the police it
would be I who would do it with my little whistle."</p>
<p class="indent">He paused to chuckle.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are making a long story of it," growled Mr.
Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page270" id="page270"></a>[pg 270]</span>
"I beg your pardon, sir. The interruptions, you
see,—ahem! I followed Mr. Bramble to the dining-room.
He was very nervous. He coughed a great
deal, and very loudly. I was quite convinced that you
were secreted somewhere about the place, but, for the
life of me, I couldn't imagine where."</p>
<p class="indent">"I suppose it hadn't occurred to you that we might
have gone down the back stairway and escaped into the
side-street," said Mr. Trotter sarcastically.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers cleared his throat and seemed curiously
embarrassed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Perhaps I should have stated before that a—er—a
chap from a local agency was posted at the bottom of
the kitchen stairway,—as a favour to me, so to speak.
A chap who had been detailed to assist me,—But I
shall explain all that in my report. So, you see, you
couldn't have gone out that way without—Yes, yes,—as
I was saying, I accompanied Mr. Bramble to the
dining-room. The cook was in a very bad temper.
The dinner was getting cold. I observed that three
places had been laid. Fixing my eye upon Mr. Bramble
I inquired who the third place was for. I shall never
forget his expression, nor the admirable way in which
he recovered himself. He was quite wonderful. He
said it was for <i>me</i>. Rather neat of him, wasn't it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You don't mean to say you had the brass to—Well,
'pon my soul, Chambers, that <i>was</i> going it a bit
strong."</p>
<p class="indent">"Under the circumstances, your lordship, I couldn't
very well decline," said Mr. Chambers apologetically.
"He is such a decent, loyal old chap, sir, that it would
have been cruel to let him see that I knew he was lying."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page271" id="page271"></a>[pg 271]</span>
"But, confound you, that was <i>my</i> dinner," exclaimed
Trotter wrathfully.</p>
<p class="indent">"So I suspected, your lordship. I knew it <i>couldn't</i>
be her ladyship's. Well, we had got on to the coffee,
and I was just on the point of asking Mr. Bramble for
the loan of an umbrella, when there was a loud thump
on the ceiling overhead. An instant later a large piece
of plaster fell to the floor, not three feet behind my
chair. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"By Jove! What a pity it didn't fall three feet
nearer," exclaimed Trotter, a note of regret in his
voice.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers generously overlooked the remark.</p>
<p class="indent">"After that it was plain sailing," said he, quite
pleasantly. "Now you know how I came to discover
you, and how I happen to be here."</p>
<p class="indent">"And those poor old dears," cried Lady Jane in distress;
"where are they? What have you done to
them?"</p>
<p class="indent">"They are—" he looked downward again before answering—"yes,
they are holding the ladder for me.
Coming, gentlemen!" he called out. "We'll all be
down in a jiffy."</p>
<p class="indent">"Before we go any farther," said Trotter seriously,
"I should like to know just what the charge is against
me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Beg pardon?"</p>
<p class="indent">"The charge. What are you going to chuck me into
prison for?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Prison? My God, sir! Who said anything about
prison?" gasped Mr. Chambers, staring wide-eyed at
the young man.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page272" id="page272"></a>[pg 272]</span>
Trotter leaned forward, his face a study in emotions.
Lady Jane uttered a soft little cry.</p>
<p class="indent">"Then,—then they haven't trumped up some rotten
charge against me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"They? Charge? I say!" He bellowed the last
to the supporters below. "Hold this bally thing
steady, will you? Do you want me to break my neck?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, don't jiggle it like that," came the voice of
Mr. Bramble from below. "We can't hold it steady if
you're going to <i>dance</i> on it."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers once more directed his remarks to Mr.
Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"So far as I am aware, Lord Temple, there is no—er—charge
against you. The only complaint I know
of is that you haven't kept your grandfather informed
as to your whereabouts. Naturally he is a bit annoyed
about it. You see, if you had dropped him a line occasionally—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Get on, man,—get on," urged Trotter excitedly.</p>
<p class="indent">"He wouldn't have been put to the expense of having
a man detached from Scotland Yard to look the world
over for you. Personal influence did it, of course. He
went direct to the chief and asked for the best man in
the service. I happened to be on another case at the
time," explained Mr. Chambers modestly, "but they
took me off at once and started me out. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"In a nutshell, you represent my grandfather and
not the King of England," interrupted Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"On detached duty," said Mr. Chambers.</p>
<p class="indent">"And you do not intend to arrest him?" cried Lady
Jane.</p>
<p class="indent">"Bless me, no!" exclaimed Mr. Chambers.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page273" id="page273"></a>[pg 273]</span>
"Then, what the deuce do you mean by frightening
Miss Emsdale and my friends downstairs?" demanded
Lord Fenlew's grandson. "Couldn't you have said
in the beginning that there was no criminal charge
against me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I hadn't the remotest idea, your lordship, that any
one suspected you of crime," said Mr. Chambers, with
dignity.</p>
<p class="indent">"But, confound you, why didn't you explain the situation
to Bramble? That was the sensible,—yes, the
intelligent thing to do, Mr. Chambers."</p>
<p class="indent">"That is precisely what I did, your lordship, while
we were at dinner,—we had a bottle of the wine Mr.
Bramble says you are especially partial to,—but it
wasn't until your heel came through the ceiling that
they believed <i>anything</i> at all. Subsequently I discovered
that her ladyship had prepared them for all sorts
of trickery on my part. She had made them promise
to die rather than give you up. Now that I see things
as they are in a clear light, it occurs to me that your
ladyship must have pretty thoroughly convinced the old
gentlemen that Lord Temple is a fit subject for the
gallows,—or at the very least, Newgate Prison. I
fancy—"</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane laughed aloud, gaily, unrestrainedly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, dear! What a mess I've made of things!" she
cried. "Can you ever forgive me, Eric?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Never!" he cried, and Mr. Chambers took that very
instant to stoop over for a word with the men at the
foot of the ladder. He went farther and had several
words with them. Indeed, it is not unlikely that he, in
his eagerness to please, would have stretched it into a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274" id="page274"></a>[pg 274]</span>
real chat if the object of his consideration had not
cried out:</p>
<p class="indent">"And now let us get down from this stuffy place,
Eric. I am sure there must be rats and all sorts of
things up here. And it was such a jolly place before
the lantern came."</p>
<p class="indent">"Can you manage it, sir?" inquired Mr. Chambers
anxiously, as Eric prepared to lower her through the
trap-door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Perfectly, thank you," said the young man. "If
you will be good enough to stand aside and make room
at the top of the ladder," he added, with a grin.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers also grinned. "There's a difference
between walking on air and standing on it," said he,
and hurriedly went down the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">Presently they were all grouped at the foot of the
ladder. Mr. Bramble was busily engaged in brushing
the dust and cobwebs from the excited young lady's
gown.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau rattled on at a prodigious rate. He
clapped Trotter on the back at least half-a-dozen times,
and, forgetting most of his excellent English, waxed eloquent
over the amazing turn of affairs. The literal,
matter-of-fact Mr. Bramble after a time succeeded in
stemming the flow of exuberance.</p>
<p class="indent">"If you don't mind, Mirabeau, I have a word I'd like
to get in edgewise," he put in loudly, seizing an opportunity
when the old Frenchman was momentarily out of
breath.</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau threw up his hands.</p>
<p class="indent">"At a time like this?" he gasped incredulously.</p>
<p class="indent">"And why not?" said Mr. Bramble stoutly. "It's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275" id="page275"></a>[pg 275]</span>
time we opened that last bottle of Chianti and drank
to the health of Lord Eric Temple,—and the beautiful
Lady Jane."</p>
<p class="indent">"The most sensible thing that has been uttered this
evening," cried M. Mirabeau, with enthusiasm.</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple took this occasion to remind them,—and
himself as well,—that he was still Thomas Trotter
and that the deuce would be to pay with Mrs. Millidew.</p>
<p class="indent">"By George, she'll skin me alive if I've been the cause
of her missing a good dinner," he said ruefully.</p>
<p class="indent">"That reminds me,—" began Mr. Bramble, M. Mirabeau
and Mr. Chambers in unison. Then they all
laughed uproariously and trooped into the dining-room,
where the visible signs of destruction were not
confined to the floor three feet back of the chair lately
occupied by the man from Scotland Yard. A very
good dinner had been completely wrecked.</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. O'Leary, most competent of cooks, was already
busily engaged in preparing another!</p>
<p class="indent">"Now, Mr. Chambers," cried Jane, as she set her
wine glass down on the table and touched her handkerchief
to her lips, "tell us everything, you dear good
man."</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Chambers, finding himself suddenly out of employment
and with an unlimited amount of spare time on
his hands, spent the better part of the first care-free
hour he had known in months in the telling of his story.</p>
<p class="indent">In a ruthlessly condensed and deleted form it was as
follows: Lord Fenlew, quietly, almost surreptitiously,
had set about to ascertain just how much of truth and
how much of fiction there was in the unpublished charges
that had caused his favourite grandson to abandon the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276" id="page276"></a>[pg 276]</span>
Army and to seek obscurity that inevitably follows
real or implied disgrace for one too proud to fight.
His efforts were rewarded in a most distressing yet
most satisfactory manner. One frightened and half-decent
member of the little clique responsible for the
ugly stories, confessed that the "whole bally business"
was a put-up job.</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew lost no time in putting his grandsons
on the grill. He grilled them properly; when they
left his presence they were scorched to a crisp, unsavoury
mess. Indeed, his lordship went so far as to
complain of the stench, and had the windows of Fenlew
Hall opened to give the place a thorough airing
after they had gone forth forevermore. With characteristic
energy and promptness, he went to the head
of the War Office, and laid bare the situation. With
equal forethought and acumen he objected to the
slightest publicity being given the vindication of Eric
Temple. He insisted that nothing be said about the
matter until the maligned officer returned to England
and to the corps from which he had resigned. He refused
to have his grandson's innocence publicly advertised!
That, he maintained, would be to start more
tongues to wagging, and unless the young man himself
were on the ground to make the wagging useless,
speculation would have a chance to thrive on winks and
head-shakings, and the "bally business" would be in a
worse shape than before. Moreover, he argued, it
wasn't Eric's place to humiliate himself by <i>admitting</i>
his innocence. He wouldn't have that at all.</p>
<p class="indent">Instead of beginning his search for the young man
through the "lost," "wanted" or "personal" columns
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>[pg 277]</span>
of an international press, he went to Scotland Yard.
He abhorred the idea of such printed insults as these:
"If Lord Eric Temple will communicate with his grandfather
he will learn something to his advantage" or
"Will the young English nobleman who left London
under a cloud in 1911 please address So-and-So";
or "Eric: All is well. Return at once and be forgiving";
or "£5,000 reward will be paid for information
concerning the present whereabouts of one Eric Temple,
grandson of Lord Fenlew, of Fenlew Hall"; etc., etc.</p>
<p class="indent">"And now, Lord Temple," said Mr. Alfred Chambers,
after a minute and unsparing account of his own
travels and adventures, "your grandfather is a very
old man. I trust that you can start for England at
once. I am authorized to draw upon him for all the
money necessary to—"</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple held up his hand. His eyes were
glistening, his breast was heaving mightily, and his
voice shook with suppressed emotion as he said, scarcely
above a whisper:</p>
<p class="indent">"First of all, I shall cable him tonight. He'd like
that, you know. Better than anything."</p>
<p class="indent">"A word direct from you, dear," said Jane softly,
happily. "It will mean more to him than anything
else in the world."</p>
<p class="indent">"As you please, sir," said Mr. Chambers. "The
matter is now entirely in your hands. I am, you understand,
under orders not to return to England without
you,—but, I leave everything to you, sir. I was
only hoping that it would be possible for me to get back
to my wife and babies before,—er,—well, I was about
to say before they forget what I look like, but that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>[pg 278]</span>
would have been a stupid thing to say. They're not
likely to forget a mug like mine."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am sorry to say, Mr. Chambers, that you and I
will have to be content to leave the matter of our departure
entirely to the discretion of a third party,"
said Eric, and blushed. A shy, diffident smile played
about his lips as he turned his wistful eyes upon Lady
Jane Thorne.</p>
<p class="indent">"Leave that to me, sir," said the man from Scotland
Yard promptly and with decision, but with absolutely
no understanding. "I shall be happy to attend to any
little—Ow! Eh, what?"</p>
<p class="indent">M. Mirabeau's boot had come violently in contact
with his ankle. By a singular coincidence, Mr. Bramble,
at precisely the same instant, effected a sly but
emphatic prod in the ribs.</p>
<p class="indent">"Ignoramus!" whispered the latter fiercely.</p>
<p class="indent">"Imbecile!" hissed the former, and then, noting the
bewildered look in the eyes of Mr. Chambers, went on to
say in his most suave manner: "Can't you see that you
are standing in the presence of the Third Party?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Any fool could see that," said Mr. Chambers
promptly, and bowed to Lady Jane. Later on he
wanted to know what the deuce M. Mirabeau meant by
kicking him on the shin.</p>
<p class="indent">"How soon can <i>you</i> be ready to start home, dear?"
inquired Eric, ignoring the witnesses.</p>
<p class="indent">Jane's cheeks were rosy. Her blue eyes danced.</p>
<p class="indent">"It depends entirely on Mrs. Sparflight," said she.</p>
<p class="indent">"What has Mrs. Sparflight to do with it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You dear silly, I can't go to Fenlew Hall with absolutely
nothing to wear, can I?"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>[pg 279]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2>
<h3>AN EXCHANGE OF COURTESIES</h3>
<p class="indent">LATER in the evening, Mr. Thomas Trotter—(so
far as he knew he was still in the service of
Mrs. Millidew, operating under chauffeur's license No.
So-and-So, Thomas Trotter, alien)—strode briskly
into a Western Union office and sent off the following
cablegram, directed to Lord Fenlew, Fenlew Hall, Old-marsh,
Blightwind Banks, Surrey:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="indent">"God bless you. Returning earliest possible date.
Will wire soon as wedding day is set. Eric."</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="indent">It was a plain, matter-of-fact Britannical way of
covering the situation. He felt there was nothing
more that could be said at the moment, and his interest
being centred upon two absorbing subjects he touched
firmly upon both of them and let it go at that.</p>
<p class="indent">Quite as direct and characteristic was the reply that
came early the next day.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="indent">"Do nothing rash. Who and what is she? Fenlew."</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="indent">This was the beginning of a sharp, incisive conversation
between two English noblemen separated by three
thousand miles of water.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="indent">"Loveliest girl in the world. You will be daffy over
her. Take my word for it. Eric."</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="indent">(While we are about it, it is just as well to set forth
the brisk dialogue now and get over with it. Something
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>[pg 280]</span>
like forty-eight hours actually were required to
complete the transoceanic conversation. We save time
and avoid confusion, to say nothing of interrupted activities,
by telling it all in a breath, so to speak, disregarding
everything except sequence.)</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "I repeat, who and
what is she?"</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Forgive oversight.
She is daughter of late Earl of Wexham. I told you
what she is."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "What is date
of wedding? Must know at once."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "I will ask her and
let you know."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew—(the next day):
"Still undecided. Something to do with gowns."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Nonsense. I cannot
wait."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Gave her your
message. She says you'll have to."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Tell her I can't.
I am a very old man."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Thanks. That
brought her round. May fifteenth in this city."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "My blessings.
Draw on me for any amount up to ten thousand pounds.
Wedding present on the way."</p>
<p class="indent">Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Happiness complete."</p>
<p class="indent">An ordinary telegram signed "Eric Temple" was
delivered on board one of the huge American cruisers
at Hampton Roads during this exchange of cablegrams.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>[pg 281]</span>
It was directed to Lieut. Samuel Pickering Aylesworth,
who promptly replied: "Heartiest congratulations.
Count on me for anything. Nothing could give me
greater happiness than to stand up with you on the
momentous occasion. It is great to know that you
are not only still in the land of the living but that you
are living in the land that I love best. My warmest
felicitations to the future Lady Temple."</p>
<p class="indent">Now, to go back to the morning on which the first
cablegram was received from Lord Fenlew. At precisely
ten minutes past nine o'clock we take up the
thread of this narrative once more and find Thomas
Trotter standing in the lower hall of Mrs. Millidew's
home, awaiting the return of a parlour-maid who had
gone to inform her mistress that the chauffeur was
downstairs and wanted to see her when it was convenient.
The chauffeur did not fail to observe the anxious, concerned
look in the maid's eyes, nor the glance of sympathy
she sent over her shoulder as she made the turn
at the top of the stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">Presently she came back. She looked positively distressed.</p>
<p class="indent">"My goodness, Tommie," she said, "I'd hate to be
you."</p>
<p class="indent">He smiled, quite composedly. "Think I'd better
beat it?" he inquired.</p>
<p class="indent">"She's in an awful state," said the parlour-maid,
twisting the hem of her apron.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't blame her," said Trotter coolly.</p>
<p class="indent">"What was you up to?" asked she, with some severity.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>[pg 282]</span>
He thought for a second or two and then puzzled her
vastly by replying:</p>
<p class="indent">"Up to my ears."</p>
<p class="indent">"Pickled?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Permanently intoxicated," he assured her.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, all I got to say is you'll be sober when she
gets through with you. I've been up against it myself,
and I <i>know</i>. I've been on the point of quittin' half a
dozen times."</p>
<p class="indent">"A very sensible idea, Katie," said he, solemnly.</p>
<p class="indent">She stiffened. "I guess you don't get me. I mean
quittin' my job, Mr. Fresh."</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay I'll be quitting mine," said he and smiled
so engagingly that Katie's rancour gave way at once to
sympathy.</p>
<p class="indent">"You poor kid! But listen. I'll give you a tip.
You needn't be out of a job ten minutes. Young Mrs.
Millidew is up there with the old girl now. They've
been havin' it hot and heavy for fifteen minutes. The
old one called the young one up on the 'phone at seven
o'clock this morning and gave her the swellest tongue-lashin'
you ever heard. Said she'd been stealin' her
chauffeur, and—a lot of other things I'm ashamed to
tell you. Over comes the young one, hotter'n fire, and
they're havin' it out upstairs. I happened to be passin'
the door a little while ago and I heard young Mrs.
Millidew tell the Missus that if she fired you she'd take
you on in two seconds. So, if you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Thanks, Katie," interrupted Trotter. "Did Mrs.
Millidew say when she would see me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Soon as she gets something on," said Katie.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>[pg 283]</span>
At that moment, a door slammed violently on the
floor above. There was a swift swish of skirts, and
then the vivid, angry face of Mrs. Millidew, the younger,
came suddenly into view. She leaned far out over the
banister rail and searched the hallway below with quick,
roving eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Are you there, Trotter?" she called out in a voice
that trembled perceptibly.</p>
<p class="indent">He advanced a few paces, stopping beside the newel
post. He looked straight up into her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, Mrs. Millidew."</p>
<p class="indent">"You begin driving for me today," she said hurriedly.
"Do you understand?"</p>
<p class="indent">"But, madam, I am not open to—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You don't
know it, but you are out of a job, Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">"I am not surprised," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't care what you were doing last night,—that
is your affair, not mine. You come to me at once at
the same wages—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg your pardon," he broke in. "I mean to say
I am not seeking another situation."</p>
<p class="indent">"If it is a question of pay, I will give you ten dollars
a week more than you were receiving here. Now, don't
haggle. That is sixty dollars a week. Hurry up!
Decide! She will be out here in a minute. Oh, thunder!"</p>
<p class="indent">The same door banged open and the voice of Mrs.
Millidew, the elder, preceded its owner by some seconds
in the race to the front.</p>
<p class="indent">"You are not fired, Trotter," she squealed. Her
head, considerably dishevelled, appeared alongside the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>[pg 284]</span>
gay spring bonnet that bedecked her daughter-in-law.
"You ought to be fired for what you did last night, but
you are not. Do you understand? Now, shut up,
Dolly! It doesn't matter if I <i>did</i> say I was going to
fire him. I've changed my mind."</p>
<p class="indent">"You are too late," said the younger Mrs. Millidew
coolly. "I've just engaged him. He comes to me
at—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You little snake!"</p>
<p class="indent">"Ladies, I beg of you—"</p>
<p class="indent">"The next time I let him go gallivanting off with
you for a couple of days—and <i>nights</i>,—you'll know
it," cried the elder Mrs. Millidew, furiously. "I can
see what you've been up to. You've been doing everything
in your power to get him away from me—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Just what do you mean to insinuate, Mother Millidew?"
demanded the other, her voice rising.</p>
<p class="indent">"My God!" cried Trotter's employer, straightening
her figure and facing the other. Something like horror
sounded in her cracked old voice. "Could—my God!—could
it be possible?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Speak plainly! What do you mean?"</p>
<p class="indent">Mrs. Millidew, the elder, advanced her mottled face
until it was but a few inches from that of her daughter-in-law.</p>
<p class="indent">"Where were <i>you</i> last night?" she demanded
harshly.</p>
<p class="indent">There was a moment of utter silence. Trotter,
down below, caught his breath.</p>
<p class="indent">Then, to his amazement, Mrs. Millidew the younger,
instead of flying into a rage, laughed softly, musically.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, you are too rich for words," she gurgled. "I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>[pg 285]</span>
wish,—heavens, how I wish you could see what a fool
you look. Go back, quick, and look in the mirror before
it wears off. You'll have the heartiest laugh
you've had in years."</p>
<p class="indent">She leaned against the railing and continued to laugh.
Not a sound from Mrs. Millidew, the elder.</p>
<p class="indent">"Do come up a few steps, Trotter," went on the
younger gaily,—"and have a peep. You will—"</p>
<p class="indent">The other found her voice. There was now an agitated
note, as of alarm, in it.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't you dare come up those steps, Trotter;—I
forbid you, do you hear!"</p>
<p class="indent">Trotter replied with considerable dignity. He had
been shocked by the scene.</p>
<p class="indent">"I have no intention of moving in any direction except
toward the front door," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't go away," called out his employer. "You
are not dismissed."</p>
<p class="indent">"I came to explain my unavoidable absence last—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Some other time,—some other time. I want the
car at half-past ten."</p>
<p class="indent">Young Mrs. Millidew was descending the stairs. Her
smiling eyes were upon the distressed young man at the
bottom. There was no response in his.</p>
<p class="indent">"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Millidew," he said, raising
his voice slightly. "I came not only to explain, but to
notify you that I am giving up my place almost immediately."</p>
<p class="indent">"What!" squeaked the old lady, coming to the top
of the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"It is imperative. I shall, of course, stay on for
a day or two while you are finding—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>[pg 286]</span>
"Do you mean to say you are quitting of your own
accord?" she gasped.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, madam."</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't call me 'madam'! I've told you that before.
So—so, you are going to work for her in spite
of me, are you? It's all been arranged, has it? You
two have—"</p>
<p class="indent">"He is coming to me today," said young Mrs. Millidew
sweetly. "Aren't you, Trotter?"</p>
<p class="indent">"No, I am not!" he exploded.</p>
<p class="indent">She stopped short on the stairs, and gave him a
startled, incredulous look. Any one else but Trotter
would have been struck by her loveliness.</p>
<p class="indent">"You're not?" cried Mrs. Millidew from the top
step. It was almost a cry of relief. "Do you mean
that?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Absolutely."</p>
<p class="indent">His employer fumbled for a pocket lost among the
folds of her dressing-gown.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, you can't resign, my man. Don't think for a
minute you can resign," she cried out shrilly.</p>
<p class="indent">He thought she was looking for a handkerchief.</p>
<p class="indent">"But I insist, Mrs. Millidew, that I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"You can't resign for the simple reason that you're
already fired," she sputtered. "I never allow any one
to give <i>me</i> notice, young man. No one ever left me
without being discharged, let me tell you that. Where
the dev—Oh, here it is!" She not only had found
the pocket but the crisp slip of paper that it contained.
"Here is a check for your week's wages. It isn't up
till next Monday, but take it and get out. I never
want to see your ugly face again."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>[pg 287]</span>
She crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and threw
the ball in his direction. Its flight ended half-way
down the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"Come and get it, if you want it," she said.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good day, madam," he said crisply, and turned on
his heel.</p>
<p class="indent">"How many times must I tell you not to call me—Come
back here, Dolly! I want to see you."</p>
<p class="indent">But her tall, perplexed daughter-in-law passed out
through the door, followed by the erect and lordly Mr.
Trotter.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye, Tommie," whispered Katie, as he donned
his grey fedora.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye, Katie," he said, smiling, and held out his
hand to her. "You heard what she said. If you
should ever think of resigning, I'd suggest you do it in
writing and from a long way off." He looked behind
the vestibule door and recovered a smart little walking-stick.
"Something to lean upon in my misfortune,"
he explained to Katie.</p>
<p class="indent">Young Mrs. Millidew was standing at the top of the
steps, evidently waiting for him. Her brow wrinkled
as she took him in from head to foot. He was wearing
spats. His two-button serge coat looked as though it
had been made for him,—and his correctly pressed
trousers as well. He stood for a moment, his head
erect, his heels a little apart, his stick under his arm,
while he drew on,—with no inconsiderable effect—a
pair of light tan gloves. And the smile with which he
favoured her was certainly not that of a punctilious
menial. On the contrary, it was the rather bland,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>[pg 288]</span>
casual smile of one who is very well satisfied with his
position.</p>
<p class="indent">In a cheery, off-hand manner he inquired if she was
by any chance going in his direction.</p>
<p class="indent">The metamorphosis was complete. The instant he
stepped outside of Mrs. Millidew's door, the mask was
cast aside. He stood now before the world,—and before
the puzzled young widow in particular,—as a
thoroughbred, cocksure English gentleman. In a moment
his whole being seemed to have undergone a
change. He carried himself differently; his voice and
the manner in which he used it struck her at once as
remarkably altered; more than anything else, was she
impressed by the calm assurance of his inquiry.</p>
<p class="indent">She was nonplussed. For a moment she hesitated between
resentment and the swift-growing conviction that
he was an equal.</p>
<p class="indent">For the first time within the range of her memory,
she felt herself completely rattled and uncertain of
herself. She blushed like a fool,—as she afterwards
confessed,—and stammered confusedly:</p>
<p class="indent">"I—yes—that is, I am going home."</p>
<p class="indent">"Come along, then," he said coolly, and she actually
gasped.</p>
<p class="indent">To her own amazement, she took her place beside
him and descended the steps, her cheeks crimson. At
the bottom, she cast a wild, anxious look up and down
the street, and then over her shoulder at the second-story
windows of the house they had just left.</p>
<p class="indent">Queer little shivers were running all over her. She
couldn't account for them,—any more than she could
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289" id="page289"></a>[pg 289]</span>
account for the astonishing performance to which she
was now committed: that of walking jauntily through
a fashionable cross-town street in the friendliest, most
intimate manner with her mother-in-law's discharged
chauffeur! Fifth Avenue but a few steps away, with
all its mid-morning activities to be encountered! What
on earth possessed her! "Come along, then," he had
said with all the calmness of an old and privileged acquaintance!
And obediently she had "come along"!</p>
<p class="indent">His chin was up, his eyes were sparkling; his body
was bent forward slightly at the waist to co-ordinate
with the somewhat pronounced action of his legs; his
hat was slightly tilted and placed well back on his
head; his gay little walking-stick described graceful
revolutions.</p>
<p class="indent">She was suddenly aware of a new thrill—one of
satisfaction. As she looked at him out of the corner
of her eye, her face cleared. Instinctively she grasped
the truth. Whatever he may have been yesterday, he
was quite another person today,—and it was a pleasure
to be seen with him!</p>
<p class="indent">She lengthened her stride, and held up her head.
Her red lips parted in a dazzling smile.</p>
<p class="indent">"I suppose it is useless to ask you to change your
mind,—Trotter," she said, purposely hesitating over
the name.</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite," said he, smiling into her eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">She was momentarily disconcerted. She found it
more difficult than she had thought to look into his
eyes.</p>
<p class="indent">"Why do you call yourself Trotter?" she asked,
after a moment.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page290" id="page290"></a>[pg 290]</span>
"I haven't the remotest idea," he said. "It came
to me quite unexpectedly."</p>
<p class="indent">"It isn't a pretty name," she observed. "Couldn't
you have done better?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay I might have called myself Marjoribanks
with perfect propriety," said he. "Or Plantagenet,
or Cholmondeley. But it would have been quite a waste
of time, don't you think?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Would you mind telling me who you really are?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You wouldn't believe me."</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, yes, I would. I could believe anything of you."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I am the Prince of Wales."</p>
<p class="indent">She flushed. "I believe you," she said. "Forgive
my impertinence, Prince."</p>
<p class="indent">"Forgive mine, Mrs. Millidew," he said soberly.
"My name is Temple, Eric Temple. That does not
convey anything to you, of course."</p>
<p class="indent">"It conveys something vastly more interesting than
Trotter,—Thomas Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">"And yet I am morally certain that Trotter had a
great deal more to him than Eric Temple ever had,"
said he. "Trotter was a rather good sort, if I do say
it myself. He was a hard-working, honest, intelligent
fellow who found the world a very jolly old thing. I
shall miss Trotter terribly, Mrs. Millidew. He used
to read me to sleep nearly every night, and if I got
a headache or a pain anywhere he did my complaining
for me. He was with me night and day for three years
and more, and that, let me tell you, is the severest test.
I've known him to curse me roundly, to call me nearly
everything under the sun,—and yet I let him go on
doing it without a word in self-defence. Once he saved
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page291" id="page291"></a>[pg 291]</span>
my life in an Indian jungle,—he was a remarkably
good shot, you see. And again he pulled me through
a pretty stiff illness in Tokio. I don't know how I
should have got on without Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">"You are really quite delicious, Mr. Eric Temple.
By the way, did you allow the admirable Trotter to
direct your affairs of the heart?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I did," said he promptly.</p>
<p class="indent">"That is rather disappointing," said she, shaking
her head. "Trotter may not have played the game
fairly, you know. With all the best intentions in the
world, he may have taken advantage of your—shall I
say indifference?"</p>
<p class="indent">"You may take my word for it, Mrs. Millidew, good
old Trotter went to a great deal of pains to arrange a
very suitable match for me," said he airily. "He was
a most discriminating chap."</p>
<p class="indent">"How interesting," said she, stiffening slightly.
"Am I permitted to inquire just what opportunities
Thomas Trotter has had to select a suitable companion
for the rather exotic Mr. Temple?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Fortunately," said he, "the rather exotic Mr.
Temple approves entirely of the choice made by Thomas
Trotter."</p>
<p class="indent">"I wouldn't trust a chauffeur too far, if I were you,"
said she, a little maliciously.</p>
<p class="indent">"Just how far <i>would</i> you trust one?" he inquired,
lifting his eyebrows.</p>
<p class="indent">She smiled. "Well,—the length of Long Island,"
she said, with the utmost composure.</p>
<p class="indent">"Mr. Trotter's late employer would not, it appears,
share your faith in the rascal," said he.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page292" id="page292"></a>[pg 292]</span>
"She is a rather evil-minded old party," said Mrs.
Millidew, the younger, bowing to the occupants of an
automobile which was moving slowly in the same direction
down the Avenue.</p>
<p class="indent">A lady in the rear seat of the limousine leaned forward
to peer at the widow's companion, who raised his
hat,—but not in greeting. The man who slumped down
in the seat beside her, barely lifted his hat. A second
later he sat up somewhat hastily and stared.</p>
<p class="indent">The occupants of the car were Mrs. Smith-Parvis,—a
trifle haggard about the eyes,—and her son Stuyvesant.</p>
<p class="indent">Young Mrs. Millidew laughed. "Evidently they
recognize you, Mr. Temple, in spite of your spats and
stick."</p>
<p class="indent">"I thought I was completely disguised," said he,
twirling his stick.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye," said she, at the corner. She held out
her hand. "It is very nice to have known you, Mr.
Eric Temple. Our mutual acquaintance, the impeccable
Trotter, has my address if you should care to
avail yourself of it. After the end of June, I shall be
on Long Island."</p>
<p class="indent">"It is very good of you, Mrs. Millidew," he said,
clasping her hand. His hat was off. The warm spring
sun gleamed in his curly brown hair. "I hope to be in
England before the end of June." He hesitated a moment,
and then said: "Lady Temple and I will be
happy to welcome you at Fenlew Hall when you next
visit England. Good-bye."</p>
<p class="indent">She watched him stride off down the Avenue. She
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293" id="page293"></a>[pg 293]</span>
was still looking after him with slightly disturbed eyes
when the butler opened the door.</p>
<p class="indent">"Any fool should have known," she said, to herself
and not to the servant. A queer little light danced in
her eyes. "As a matter of fact, I suppose I did know
without realizing it. Is Mrs. Hemleigh at home,
Brooks?"</p>
<p class="indent">"She is expecting you, Mrs. Millidew."</p>
<p class="indent">"By the way, Brooks, do you happen to know anything
about Fenlew Hall?"</p>
<p class="indent">Brooks was as good a liar as any one. He had come,
highly recommended, from a Fifth Avenue intelligence
office. He did not hesitate an instant.</p>
<p class="indent">"The Duke of Aberdeen's county seat, ma'am? I
know it quite well. I cawn't tell you 'ow many times
I've been in the plice, ma'am, while I was valeting his
Grice, the Duke of Manchester."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page294" id="page294"></a>[pg 294]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2>
<h3>THE BRIDE-ELECT</h3>
<p class="indent">FOUR persons, a woman and three men, assembled
in the insignificant hallway at the top of the steps
reaching to the fifth floor of the building occupied by
Deborah, Limited. To be precise, they were the butler,
the parlour-maid and two austere footmen. Cricklewick
was speaking.</p>
<p class="indent">"Marriage is a most venturesome undertaking, my
dear." He addressed himself to Julia, the parlour-maid.
"So don't go saying it isn't."</p>
<p class="indent">"I didn't say it wasn't," said Julia stoutly. "What
I said was, if ever any two people were made for each
other it's him and her."</p>
<p class="indent">"In my time," said Cricklewick, "I've seen what
looked to be the most excellent matches turn out to be
nothing but fizzles."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, this one won't," said she.</p>
<p class="indent">"As I was saying to McFaddan in the back 'all a
minute ago, Mr. Cricklewick, the larst weddin' of any
consequence I can remember hattending was when Lady
Jane's mother was married to the Earl of Wexham. I
sat on the box with old 'Oppins and we ran hover a dog
drivin' away from St. George's in 'Anover Square."
It was Moody who spoke. He seemed to relish the
memory. "It was such a pretty little dog, too. I
shall never forget it." He winked at Julia.</p>
<p class="indent">"You needn't wink at me, Moody," said Julia. "I
didn't like the little beast any more than you did."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page295" id="page295"></a>[pg 295]</span>
"Wot I've always wanted to know is how the blinkin'
dog got loose in the street that day," mused McFaddan.
"He was the most obstinate dog I ever saw. It was
absolutely impossible to coax 'im into the stable-yard
when Higgins's bull terrier was avisitin' us, and you
couldn't get him into the stall with Dandy Boy,—not to
save your life. He seemed to know that hoss would
kick his bloomin' gizzard out. I used to throw little
hunks of meat into the stall for him, too,—nice little
morsels that any other dog in the world would have been
proud to risk anything for. But him? Not a bit of it.
He was the most disappointin', bull-headed animal I ever
saw. I've always meant to ask how did it happen, Julia?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I had him out for his stroll," said Julia, with a
faraway, pleased expression in her eyes. "I thought
as how he might be interested in seeing the bride and
groom, and all that, when they came out of the church,
so I took him around past Claridge's, and would you
believe it he got away from me right in the thick of
the carriages. He was that kind of a dog. He would
always have his own way. I was terribly upset, McFaddan.
You must remember how I carried on, crying
and moaning and all that till her ladyship had to send
for the doctor. It seemed to sort of get her mind off
her bereavement, my hysterics did."</p>
<p class="indent">"You made a puffeck nuisance of yourself," said
Cricklewick.</p>
<p class="indent">"I took notice, however, Mr. Cricklewick, that <i>you</i>
didn't shed any tears," said she coldly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Certainly not," said the butler. "I admit I should
have cried as much as anybody. You've no idea how
fond the little darling was of me. There was hardly a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page296" id="page296"></a>[pg 296]</span>
day he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much.
He used to go without his regular meals, he had such a
preference for my calves. I've got marks on me to this
day."</p>
<p class="indent">"And just to think, it was twenty-six years ago,"
sighed Moody. "'Ow times 'ave changed."</p>
<p class="indent">"Not as much as you'd think," said Julia, a worried
look in her eyes. "My mistress is talking of getting
another dog,—after all these years. She swore she'd
never have another one to take 'is place."</p>
<p class="indent">"Thank 'eavings," said Moody devoutly, "I am in
another situation." He winked and chuckled loudly.</p>
<p class="indent">"As 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month,"
said McFaddan. "He is a—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Ahem!" coughed the butler. "There is some one
on the stairs, Julia."</p>
<p class="indent">Silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. Cricklewick
took his place in the foyer, Julia clattered down the
stairs to the barred gate, Moody went into the big drawing-room
where sat the Marchioness, resplendent,—the
Marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned
a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy
wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing
household had been the solitary mourner. She was the
Marchioness of Camelford in those days.</p>
<p class="indent">The nobility of New York,—or such of it as existed
for the purpose of dignifying the salon,—was congregating
on the eve of the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne
and Lord Temple. Three o'clock the next afternoon
was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest
little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions
because it happened to be off in a somewhat
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page297" id="page297"></a>[pg 297]</span>
obscure cross-town street and encouraged the unconventional.</p>
<p class="indent">The bride-elect was not so proud or so self-absorbed
that she could desert the Marchioness in the preparation
of what promised to be the largest, the sprightliest
and the most imposing salon of the year. She had put
on an old gingham gown, had rolled up the sleeves, and
had lent a hand with a will and an energy that distressed,
yet pleased the older woman. She dusted and
polished and scrubbed, and she laughed joyously and
sang little snatches of song as she toiled. And then,
when the work was done, she sat down to her last dinner
with the delighted Marchioness and said she envied all
the charwomen in the world if they felt as she did after
an honest day's toil.</p>
<p class="indent">"I daresay I ought to pay you a bit extra for the
work you've done today," the Marchioness had said, a
sly glint in her eyes. "Would a shilling be satisfactory,
my good girl?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite, ma'am," said Jane, radiant. "I've always
wanted a lucky shillin', ma'am. I haven't one to me
name."</p>
<p class="indent">"You'll be having sovereigns after tomorrow, God
bless you," said the other, a little catch in her voice,—and
Jane got up from the table instantly and kissed her.</p>
<p class="indent">"I am ashamed of myself for having taken so much
from you, dear, and given so little in return," she said.
"I haven't earned a tenth of what you've paid me."</p>
<p class="indent">The Marchioness looked up and smiled,—and said
nothing.</p>
<p class="indent">"Isn't Lieutenant Aylesworth perfectly stunning?"
Lady Jane inquired, long afterwards, as she obediently
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page298" id="page298"></a>[pg 298]</span>
turned this way and that while the critical Deborah
studied the effect of her latest creation in gowns.</p>
<p class="indent">"Raise your arm, my dear,—so! I believe it is a
trifle tight—What were you saying?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Lieutenant Aylesworth,—isn't he adorable?"</p>
<p class="indent">"My dear," said the Marchioness, "it hasn't been
your good fortune to come in contact with many of the
<i>real</i> American men. You have seen the imitations.
Therefore you are tremendously impressed with the
real article when it is set before you. Aylesworth is
a splendid fellow. He is big and clean and gentle.
There isn't a rotten spot in him. But you must not
think of him as an exception. There are a million men
like him in this wonderful country,—ay, more than a
million, my dear. Give me an American every time.
If I couldn't get along with him and be happy to the
end of my days with him, it would be my fault and not
his. They know how to treat a woman, and that is
more than you can say for our own countrymen as a
class. All that a woman has to do to make an American
husband happy is to let him think that he isn't
doing quite enough for her. If I were twenty-five
years younger than I am, I would get me an American
husband and keep him on the jump from morning till
night doing everything in his power to make himself
perfectly happy over me. This Lieutenant Aylesworth
is a fair example of what they turn out over here, my
dear Jane. You will find his counterpart everywhere,
and not always in the uniform of the U. S. Navy.
They are a new breed of men, and they are full of the
joy of living. They represent the revivified strength of a
dozen run-down nations, our own Empire among them."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page299" id="page299"></a>[pg 299]</span>
"He may be all you claim for him," said Jane, "but
give me an English gentleman every time."</p>
<p class="indent">"That is because you happen to be very much in
love with one, my dear,—and a rare one into the bargain.
Eric Temple has lost nothing by being away
from England for the past three years. He is as arrogant
and as cocksure of himself as any other Englishmen,
but he has picked up virtues that most of his
countrymen disdain. Never fear, my dear,—he will be
a good husband to you. But he will not eat out of your
hand as these jolly Americans do. And when he is sixty
he will be running true to form. He will be a lordly old
dear and you will have to listen to his criticism of the
government, and the navy and the army and all the rest
of creation from morning till night and you will have to
agree with him or he won't understand what the devil
has got into you. But, as that is precisely what all
English wives love better than anything else in the
world, you will be happy."</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't believe Eric will ever become crotchety or
overbearing," said Jane stubbornly.</p>
<p class="indent">"That would be a pity, dear," said the Marchioness,
rising; "for of such is the kingdom of Britain."</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">Shortly after eleven o'clock, Julia came hurrying
upstairs in great agitation. She tried vainly for awhile
to attract the attention of the pompous Cricklewick by
a series of sibilant whispers directed from behind the
curtains in the foyer.</p>
<p class="indent">The huge room was crowded. Everybody was there,
including Count Andrew Drouillard, who rarely attended
the functions; the Princess Mariana di Pavesi,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page300" id="page300"></a>[pg 300]</span>
young Baron Osterholz (who had but recently returned
to New York after a tour of the West as a chorus-man
in "The Merry Widow"); and Prince Waldemar de
Bosky, excused for the night from Spangler's on account
of a severe attack of ptomaine poisoning.</p>
<p class="indent">"What do you want?" whispered Cricklewick, angrily,
passing close to the curtains and cocking his ear
without appearing to do so.</p>
<p class="indent">"Come out here," whispered Julia.</p>
<p class="indent">"Don't hiss like that! I can't come."</p>
<p class="indent">"You must. It's something dreadful."</p>
<p class="indent">"Is it McFaddan's wife?" whispered Cricklewick, in
sudden dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">"Worse than that. The police."</p>
<p class="indent">"My Gawd!"</p>
<p class="indent">The butler looked wildly about. He caught McFaddan's
eye, and signalled him to come at once. If
it was the police, McFaddan was the man to handle
them. All the princes and lords and counts in New
York combined were not worth McFaddan's little finger
in an emergency like this.</p>
<p class="indent">At the top of the steps Julia explained to the perspiring
Cricklewick and the incredulous McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">"They're at the gate down there, two of 'em in full
uniform,—awful looking things,—and a man in a silk
hat and evening dress. He says if we don't let him up
he'll have the joint pulled."</p>
<p class="indent">"We'll see about <i>that</i>," said McFaddan gruffly and
not at all in the voice or manner of a well-trained footman.
He led the way down the steps, followed by
Cricklewick and the trembling Julia. At the last landing
but one, he halted, and in a superlatively respectful
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page301" id="page301"></a>[pg 301]</span>
whisper restored Cricklewick to his natural position as
a superior.</p>
<p class="indent">"You go ahead and see what they want," he said.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's wrong with your going first?" demanded
Cricklewick, holding back.</p>
<p class="indent">"I suddenly remembered that the cops wouldn't
know what to think if they saw me in this rig," confessed
McFaddan, ingratiatingly. "They might drop
dead, you know."</p>
<p class="indent">"You can explain that you're attending a fancy
dress party," said Cricklewick earnestly. "I am a respectable,
dignified merchant and I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Go on, man! If you need me I'll be waitin' at the
top of the steps. They don't know you from Adam, so
what's there to be afraid of?"</p>
<p class="indent">Fortified by McFaddan's promise, Cricklewick descended
to the barred and locked grating.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's goin' on here?" demanded the burliest policeman
he had ever seen. The second bluecoat shook
the gate till it rattled on its hinges.</p>
<p class="indent">Mr. Cricklewick was staring, open-mouthed but
speechless, at the figure behind the policemen.</p>
<p class="indent">"Open up," commanded the second officer. "Get a
move on."</p>
<p class="indent">"We got to see what kind of a joint this is, uncle.
This gentleman says something's been goin' on here for
the past month to his certain knowledge,—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Just a moment," broke in Cricklewick, hastily covering
the lower part of his face with his hand,—that
being the nearest he could come, under the circumstances,
to emulating the maladroit ostrich. "I will
call Mr.—"</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page302" id="page302"></a>[pg 302]</span>
"You'll open the gate right now, me man, or we'll
bust it in and jug the whole gang of ye," observed the
burlier one, scowling.</p>
<p class="indent">"Go ahead and bust," said Cricklewick, surprising
himself quite as much as the officers. "Hey, Mack!"
he called out. "Come down at once! Now, you'll
see!" he rasped, turning to the policemen again. The
light of victory was in his eye.</p>
<p class="indent">"What's that!" roared the cop.</p>
<p class="indent">"Break it down," ordered the young man in the rear.
"I tell you there's a card game or—even worse—going
on upstairs. I've had the place watched. All
kinds of hoboes pass in and out of here on regular
nights every week,—the rottenest lot of men and
women I've—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Hurry up, Mack!" shouted Mr. Cricklewick. He
was alone. Julia had fled to the top landing.</p>
<p class="indent">"Coming," boomed a voice from above. A gorgeous
figure in full livery filled the vision of two policemen.</p>
<p class="indent">"For the love o' Mike," gasped the burly one, and
burst into a roar of laughter. "What is it?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, of all the—" began the other.</p>
<p class="indent">McFaddan interrupted him just in time to avoid additional
ignominy.</p>
<p class="indent">"What the hell do you guys mean by buttin' in
here?" he roared, his face brick-red with anger.</p>
<p class="indent">"Cut that out," snarled the burly one. "You'll
mighty soon see what we mean by—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Beat it. Clear out!" shouted McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">"Smash the door down," shouted the young man in
full evening dress.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, my God!" gasped McFaddan, his eyes almost
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page303" id="page303"></a>[pg 303]</span>
popping from his head. He had recognized the
speaker.</p>
<p class="indent">By singular coincidence all three of the men outside
the gate recognized Mr. Cornelius McFaddan at the
same time.</p>
<p class="indent">"Holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing
for his cap. "It's—it's Mr. McFaddan or I'm a goat."</p>
<p class="indent">"You're a goat all right," declared McFaddan in a
voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen
and caused Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis to back
sharply toward the steps leading to the street.
"Where's Julia?" roared the district boss, glaring
balefully at Stuyvie. "Get the key, Cricklewick,—quick.
Let me out of here. I'll never have another
chance like this. The dirty—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Calm yourself, McFaddan," pleaded Cricklewick.
"Remember where you are—and who is upstairs. We
can't have a row, you know. It—"</p>
<p class="indent">"What's the game, Mr. McFaddan?" inquired one
of the policemen, very politely. "I hope we haven't
disturbed a party or anything like that. We were sent
over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this
gentleman, who says—"</p>
<p class="indent">"They've got a young girl up there," broke in Stuyvesant.
"She's been decoyed into a den of crooks and
white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop
downstairs. I've had her watched. I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"O'Flaherty," cried McFaddan, in a pleading voice,
"will ye do me the favour of breaking this damned door
down? I'll forgive ye for everything—yes, bedad,
I'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed
thing off its hinges."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page304" id="page304"></a>[pg 304]</span>
"Ain't this guy straight?" demanded O'Flaherty,
turning upon Stuyvesant. "If he's been double-crossing
us—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I shall report you to the Commissioner of Police,"
cried Stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate
gave signs of yielding. "He is a friend of mine."</p>
<p class="indent">"He is a friend of Mr. McFaddan's also," said O'Flaherty,
scratching his head dubiously. "I guess you'll
have to explain, young feller."</p>
<p class="indent">"Ask him to explain," insisted Stuyvie.</p>
<p class="indent">"Permit me," interposed Cricklewick, in an agitated
voice. "This is a private little fancy dress party.
We—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Stuyvesant, coming
closer to a real American being than he had ever
been before in all his life. "It's old Cricklewick!
Why, you old roué!"</p>
<p class="indent">"I—I—let me help you, McFaddan," cried
Cricklewick suddenly. "If we all put our strength to
the bally thing, it may give way. Now! All together!"</p>
<p class="indent">Julia came scuttling down the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">"Be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "Whatever are we
to do? She's coming down—they're both coming
down. They are going over to the Ritz for supper.
The best man is giving a party. Oh, my soul! Can't
you do anything, McFaddan?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Not until you unlock the gate," groaned McFaddan,
perspiring freely.</p>
<p class="indent">"There she is!" cried Stuyvesant, pointing up the
stairs. "Now, will you believe me?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Get out of sight, you!" whispered McFaddan violently,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page305" id="page305"></a>[pg 305]</span>
addressing the bewildered policemen. "Get
back in the hall and don't breathe,—do you hear me?
As for <i>you</i>—" Cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his
arm checked the torrent.</p>
<p class="indent">Lady Jane was standing at the top of the steps,
peering intently downward.</p>
<p class="indent">"What is it, Cricklewick?" she called out.</p>
<p class="indent">"Nothing, my lady,—nothing at all," the butler
managed to say with perfect composure. "Merely a
couple of newspaper reporters asking for—ahem—an
interview. Stupid blighters! I—I sent them
away in jolly quick order."</p>
<p class="indent">"Isn't that one of them still standing at the top of
the steps?" inquired she.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's—it's only the night-watchman," said McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">"Oh, I see. Send him off, please. Lord Temple
and I are leaving at once, Cricklewick. Julia, will you
help me with my wraps?"</p>
<p class="indent">She disappeared from view. Julia ran swiftly up
the steps.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant, apparently alone in the hall outside,
put his hand to his head.</p>
<p class="indent">"Did—did she say Lord Temple?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Beat it!" said McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">"The chap the papers have been—What the
devil has she to do with Lord Temple?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I forgot to get the key from Julia, damn it!"
muttered McFaddan, suddenly trying the gate again.</p>
<p class="indent">"I say, Jane!" called out a strong, masculine voice
from regions above. "Are you nearly ready?"</p>
<p class="indent">Rapid footsteps came down the unseen stairway, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page306" id="page306"></a>[pg 306]</span>
a moment later the erstwhile Thomas Trotter, as fine
a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of
Sundays, stopped on the landing.</p>
<p class="indent">"Will you see if there's a taxi waiting, Cricklewick?"
he said. "Moody telephoned for one a few
minutes ago. I'll be down in a second, Jane dear."</p>
<p class="indent">He dashed back up the stairs.</p>
<p class="indent">"Officer O'Flaherty!" called out Mr. McFaddan, in
a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step
downstairs and see if Lord Temple's taxi's outside?"</p>
<p class="indent">"What'll we do with this gazabo, Mr. McFaddan?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Was—is <i>that</i> man—that chauffeur—was that
Lord Temple?" sputtered Stuyvesant.</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, it was," snapped McFaddan. "And ye'd
better be careful how ye speak of your betters. Now,
clear out. I wouldn't have Lady Jane Thorne know
I lied to her for anything in the world."</p>
<p class="indent">"Lied? Lied about what?"</p>
<p class="indent">"When I said ye were a decent night-watchman,"
said McFaddan.</p>
<p class="indent">Stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street,
puzzled and sick at heart.</p>
<p class="indent">He paused irresolutely just outside the entrance.
If they were really the Lord Temple and the Lady Jane
Thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau
at City Hall had provided a small sensation for
the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to
let them see that he was ready and willing to forget
and forgive—</p>
<p class="indent">"Move on, now! Get a move, you!" ordered
O'Flaherty, giving him a shove.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page307" id="page307"></a>[pg 307]</span></p>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2>
<h3>THE BEGINNING</h3>
<p class="indent">THE brisk, businesslike little clergyman was
sorely disappointed. He had looked forward to
a rather smart affair, so to speak, on the afternoon
of the fifteenth. Indeed, he had gone to some pains to
prepare himself for an event far out of the ordinary.
It isn't every day that one has the opportunity to perform
a ceremony wherein a real Lord and Lady plight
the troth; it isn't every parson who can say he has
officiated for nobility. Such an event certainly calls
for a little more than the customary preparations.
He got out his newest vestments and did not neglect
to brush his hair. His shoes were highly polished for
the occasion and his nails shone with a brightness that
fascinated him. Moreover, he had tuned up his voice;
it had gone stale with the monotony of countless marriages
in which he rarely took the trouble to notice
whether the responses were properly made. By dint
of a little extra exertion in the rectory he had brought
it to a fine state of unctuous mellowness.</p>
<p class="indent">Moreover, he had given some thought to the prayer.
It wasn't going to be a perfunctory, listless thing, this
prayer for Lord and Lady Temple. It was to be
a profound utterance. The glib, everyday prayer
wouldn't do at all on an occasion like this. The church
would be filled with the best people in New York.
Something fine and resonant and perhaps a little personal,—something
to do with God, of course, but, in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page308" id="page308"></a>[pg 308]</span>
the main, worth listening to. In fact, something from
the diaphragm, sonorous.</p>
<p class="indent">For a little while he would take off the well-worn
mask of humility and bask in the fulgent rays of his
own light.</p>
<p class="indent">But, to repeat, he was sorely disappointed. Instead
of beaming upon an assemblage of the elect, he found
himself confronted by a company that caused him to
question his own good taste in shaving especially for
the occasion and in wearing gold-rimmed nose-glasses
instead of the "over the ears" he usually wore when
in haste.</p>
<p class="indent">He saw, with shocked and incredulous eyes, sparsely
planted about the dim church as if separated by the
order of one who realized that closer contact would
result in something worse than passive antagonism, a
strange and motley company.</p>
<p class="indent">For a moment he trembled. Had he, by some horrible
mischance, set two weddings for the same hour?
He cudgelled his brain as he peeped through the vestry
door. A sickening blank! He could recall no other
ceremony for that particular hour,—and yet as he
struggled for a solution the conviction became stronger
that he had committed a most egregious error. Then
and there, in a perspiring panic, he solemnly resolved to
give these weddings a little more thought. He had been
getting a bit slack,—really quite haphazard in checking
off the daily grist.</p>
<p class="indent">What was he to do when the noble English pair and
their friends put in an appearance? Despite the fact
that the young American sailor-chap who came to see
him about the service had casually remarked that it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page309" id="page309"></a>[pg 309]</span>
was to be a most informal affair,—with "no trimmings"
or something like that,—he knew that so far
as these people were concerned, simplicity was merely
comparative. Doubtless, the young couple, affecting
simplicity, would appear without coronets; the guests
probably would saunter in and, in a rather dégagé
fashion, find seats for themselves without deigning to
notice the obsequious verger in attendance. And here
was the church partially filled,—certainly the best
seats were taken,—by a most unseemly lot of people!
What was to be done about it? He looked anxiously
about for the sexton. Then he glanced at his watch.
Ten minutes to spare.</p>
<p class="indent">Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He turned
to face the stalwart young naval officer. A tall young
man was standing at some distance behind the officer,
clumsily drawing on a pair of pearl grey gloves. He
wore a monocle. The good pastor's look of distress
deepened.</p>
<p class="indent">"Good afternoon," said the smiling lieutenant.
"You see I got him here on time, sir."</p>
<p class="indent">"Yes, yes," murmured the pastor. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!"
He laughed in his customary way. Not one
but a thousand "best men" had spoken those very
words to him before. The remark called for a laugh.
It had become a habit.</p>
<p class="indent">"Is everybody here?" inquired Aylesworth, peeping
over his shoulder through the crack in the door.
The pastor bethought himself and gently closed the
door, whereupon the best man promptly opened it
again and resumed his stealthy scrutiny of the dim
edifice.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page310" id="page310"></a>[pg 310]</span>
"I can't fasten this beastly thing, Aylesworth," said
the tall young man in the background. "Would you
mind seeing what you can do with the bally thing?"</p>
<p class="indent">"I see the Countess there," said Aylesworth, still
gazing. "And the Marchioness, and—"</p>
<p class="indent">"The Marchioness?" murmured the pastor, in fresh
dismay.</p>
<p class="indent">"I guess they're all here," went on the best man,
turning away from the door and joining his nervous
companion.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'd sooner face a regiment of cavalry than—" began
Eric Temple.</p>
<p class="indent">"May I have the pleasure and the honour of greeting
Lord Temple?" said the little minister, approaching
with outstretched hand. "A—er—a very happy
occasion, your lordship. Perhaps I would better explain
the presence in the church of a—er—rather unusual
crowd of—er—shall we say curiosity-seekers?
You see, this is an open church. The doors are always
open to the public. Very queer people sometimes get
in, despite the watchfulness of the attendant, usually,
I may say, when a wedding of such prominence—ahem!—er—"</p>
<p class="indent">"I don't in the least mind," said Lord Temple good-humouredly.
"If it's any treat to them, let them stay.
Sure you've got the ring, Aylesworth? I say, I'm
sorry now we didn't have a rehearsal. It isn't at all
simple. You said it would be, confound you. You—"</p>
<p class="indent">"All you have to do, old chap, is to give your arm
to Lady Jane and follow the Baroness and me to the
chancel. Say 'I do' and 'I will' to everything, and
before you know it you'll come to and find yourself
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page311" id="page311"></a>[pg 311]</span>
still breathing and walking on air. Isn't that so, Doctor?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Quite,—quite so, I am sure."</p>
<p class="indent">"Let me take a peep out there, Aylesworth. I'd
like to get my bearings."</p>
<p class="indent">"Pray do not be dismayed by the—" began the
minister.</p>
<p class="indent">"Hullo! There's Bramby sitting in the front seat,—my
word, I've never known him to look so seraphic.
Old Fogazario, and de Bosky, and—yes, there's Mirabeau,
and the amiable Mrs. Moses Jacobs. 'Gad,
she's resplendent! Du Bara and Herman and—By
Jove, they're all here, every one of them. I say,
Aylesworth, what time is it? I wonder if anything
can have happened to Jane? Run out to the sidewalk,
old chap, and have a look, will you? I—"</p>
<p class="indent">"Are all bridegrooms like this?" inquired Aylesworth
drily, addressing the bewildered minister.</p>
<p class="indent">"Here she is!" sang out the bridegroom, leaping
toward the little vestibule. "Thank heaven, Jane! I
thought you'd met with an accident or—My God!
How lovely you are, darling! Isn't she, Aylesworth?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Permit me to present you, Doctor, to Lady Jane
Thorne," interposed Aylesworth. "And to the Baroness
Brangwyng."</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">From that moment on, the little divine was in a daze.
He didn't know what to make of anything. Everything
was wrong and yet everything was right! How
could it be?</p>
<p class="indent">How was he to know that his quaint, unpretentious
little church was half-full of masked men and women?
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page312" id="page312"></a>[pg 312]</span>
How was he to know that these queer-looking people
out there were counts and countesses, barons and baronesses,
princes and princesses? Swarthy Italians,
sallow-faced Frenchmen, dark Hungarians, bearded
Russians and pompous Teutons! How was he to know
that once upon a time all of these had gone without
masks in the streets and courts of far-off lands and
had worn "purple and fine linen"? And those plainly,
poorly dressed women? Where,—oh where, were the
smart New Yorkers for whom he had furbished himself
up so neatly?</p>
<p class="indent">What manner of companions had this lovely bride,—ah,
but <i>she</i> had the real atmosphere!—What sort
of people had she been thrown with during her stay in
the City of New York? She who might have known the
best, the most exclusive,—"bless me, what a pity!"</p>
<p class="indent">Here and there in the motley throng, he espied a
figure that suggested upper Fifth Avenue. The little
lady with the snow-white hair; the tall brunette with
the rather stunning hat; the austere gentleman far in
the rear, the ruddy faced old man behind him, and the
aggressive-looking individual with the green necktie,—Yes,
any one of them might have come from uptown
and ought to feel somewhat out of place in this singular
gathering. The three gentlemen especially. He
sized them up as financiers, as plutocrats. And yet
they were back where the family servants usually sat.</p>
<p class="indent">He got through with the service,—indulgently, it
is to be feared, after all.</p>
<p class="indent">He would say, on the whole, that he had never seen
a handsomer couple than Lord and Lady Temple.
There was compensation in that. Any one with half
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page313" id="page313"></a>[pg 313]</span>
an eye could see that they came of the very best stock.
And the little Baroness,—he had never seen a baroness
before,—was somebody, too. She possessed manner,—that
indefinable thing they called manner,—there
was no mistake about it. He had no means of knowing,
of course, that she was struggling hard to make
a living in the "artist colony" down town.</p>
<p class="indent">Well, well, it is a strange world, after all. You
never can tell, mused the little pastor as he stood in
the entrance of his church with half-a-dozen reporters
and watched the strange company disperse,—some in
motors, some in hansoms, and others on the soles of
their feet. A large lady in many colours ran for a
south-bound street car. He wondered who she could
be. The cook, perhaps.</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">Lieutenant Aylesworth was saying good-bye to the
bride and groom at the Grand Central Station. The
train for Montreal was leaving shortly before ten
o'clock.</p>
<p class="indent">The wedding journey was to carry them through
Canada to the Pacific and back to New York, leisurely,
by way of the Panama Canal. Lord Fenlew had not
been niggardly. All he demanded of his grandson in
return was that they should come to Fenlew Hall before
the first of August.</p>
<p class="indent">"Look us up the instant you set foot in England,
Sammy," said Eric, gripping his friend's hand.
"Watch the newspapers. You'll see when our ship
comes home, and after that you'll find us holding out
our arms to you."</p>
<p class="indent">"When my ship <i>leaves</i> home," said the American,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page314" id="page314"></a>[pg 314]</span>
"I hope she'll steer for an English port. Good-bye,
Lady Temple. Please live to be a hundred, that's all I
ask of you."</p>
<p class="indent">"Good-bye, Sam," she said, blushing as she uttered
the name he had urged her to use.</p>
<p class="indent">"You won't mind letting the children call me Uncle
Sam, will you?" he said, a droll twist to his lips.</p>
<p class="indent">"How quaint!" she murmured.</p>
<p class="indent">"By Jove, Sammy," cried Eric warmly, "you've no
idea how much better you look in Uncle Sam's uniform
than you did in that stuffy frock coat this afternoon.
Thank God, I can get into a uniform myself before
long. You wouldn't understand, old chap, how good
it feels to be in a British uniform."</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm afraid we've outgrown the British uniform,"
said the other drily. "It used to be rather common
over here, you know."</p>
<p class="indent">"You don't know what all this means to me," said
Temple seriously, his hand still clasping the American's.
"I can hold up my head once more. I can
fight for England. If she needs me, I can fight and
die for her."</p>
<p class="indent">"You're a queer lot, you Britishers," drawled the
American. "You want to fight and die for Old England.
I have a singularly contrary ambition. I want
to <i>live</i> and <i>fight</i> for America."</p>
<hr />
<p class="indent">On the twenty-fourth of July, 1914, Lord Eric
Temple and his bride came home to England.</p>
<h3>THE END</h3>
<hr class="hr2"/>
<div class="tnote">
<h2>Transcriber Notes:</h2>
<p class="indent">Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.</p>
<p class="indent">The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus
the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in
the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the
same in the List of Illustrations and in the book.</p>
<p class="indent">Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.</p>
<p class="indent">On page 9, "Marchiness" was replaced with "Marchioness".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 18, "unforgetable" was replaced with "unforgettable".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 22, "respendent" was replaced with "resplendent".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 26, "idlness" was replaced with "idleness".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 47, "sacrified" was replaced with "sacrificed".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 53, "spooffing" was replaced with "spoofing".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 67, "shan't" was replaced with "sha'n't".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 69, "constitutency" was replaced with "constituency".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 78, "assed" was replaced with "passed".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 80, "acccepting" was replaced with "accepting".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 81, "lookingly" was replaced with "looking".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 103, "acccused" was replaced with "accused".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 107, "afternooon" was replaced with "afternoon".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 224, "limmo" was replaced with "limo".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 230, "pressent" was replaced with "present".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 233, "EOR" was replaced with "FOR".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 235, a period was placed after "in the depths".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 240, "tobaccco" was replaced with "tobacco".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 244, "crochetty" was replaced with "crotchety".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 247, "properely" was replaced with "properly".</p>
<p class="indent">On page 259, "expained" was replaced with "explained".</p>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40146 ***</div>
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