It was an excellent morning for a grouch, there being a drizzle outside, and Bill Marshall's grouch was carefully nursed by the owner. He had breakfasted alone, Aunt Caroline rarely taking that meal down-stairs. It would have been a comfort to have had Pete at breakfast, for Pete was entitled to the full benefit of the grouch; but a man cannot eat with his valet and preserve caste with the remaining servants in the house. Up-stairs again in his own rooms, Bill was railing at life, which now stretched before him as cheerless as a black void.
"Society! I'm ruined if it ever gets back to the gang."
"You'll get to like it," Pete assured him. "They all do."
"Oh, stop lying. Do I look like a Rollo?"
"But you'll change, Bill. You won't keep on being uncouth. Influence of environment, you know."
"Cut out the rot, Pete. Can't you take this thing seriously? I tell you, it's going to ruin me."
"And you so young," commented Pete. "Bill, I'll admit it looks tough just now. But what the deuce can you do about it? There's Aunt Caroline, you know."
A rumbling growl from Bill.
"She cuts quite a figure in your scheme of existence, Bill. You've got to play along with her, up to a certainpoint—or go to work. And what would you work at? They wouldn't start off by making you president of anything. I know that much about business myself."
"I'm not afraid to take a chance at work."
"Not you. But how about the fellow that gives out the jobs? And, besides, Aunt Caroline hasn't said anything about your going to work, as I understand it. She's got higher ideals right now."
"Pete, I tell you I'm not going to stand for this without a fight. I haven't promised anything yet."
Pete grinned.
"Maybe you didn't promise, but you marched off the field, and Aunt Caroline didn't. You went through all the motions of taking a beating. Bill, she hung the Indian sign on you right then. They never come back after the champ puts 'em away. I'll string a little bet on Aunt Caroline."
Bill growled again, seized the morning paper, essayed to read it, then flung it across the room.
"Never on the front page, Bill," said Pete. "They always print it opposite the editorial page."
"What?"
"The society news."
"Oh, go to blazes!" Bill's grouch was as virile as himself. "And see here, Pete. I'll beat this game yet. They can't put me into society without a secretary, can they? Well, you stand by and see how long any Willy-boy secretary holds a job with me. You keep time on it. The main part of his job will be his exit. And, believe me, he'llwantto go."
Bill towered importantly in the center of the room.
"If he's my secretary he takes orders from me, doesn't he? And I have to have my daily exercise,don't I? Well, his first job every day is to put on the gloves for half an hour. After that he can open the mail, if he's able."
Pete smiled a tribute of admiration.
"It's good as far as it goes, Bill. Yes, you can lick a secretary. There isn't any doubt he'll take the air as soon as he comes to. But then you've got nothing between you and the old champ. And, as I said before, I'm stringing with Aunt Caroline."
Pete strolled to the window and observed the drizzling morning. Also, he observed something else—something that caused him to turn about with a show of genuine enthusiasm.
"Bill," he whispered loudly, "she's in again."
"Who?"
"Little Gray Eyes."
"Who?"
"Man dear, the girl. The mysterious lady. The one that took a liking to me. The one——"
Bill strode to the window.
"Oh, she's inside now," said Pete. "I heard the door closing. Bill, I must have made a hit."
He went over to the dresser, picked up Bill's brushes and began work on his hair.
"Pete, you can cut that out right now. You don't leave this room. Understand?"
"But maybe she's back to look at the ancestors again. She liked the way I talked about 'em, and——"
Bill pushed his valet violently into a chair.
"Pete, you've got to behave. I had trouble enough explaining about you yesterday. My Aunt Caroline's friends don't call here to see the servants—and you're a servant. Get me?"
"Don't be a snob, Bill."
"I'm not. But I'm your boss; that is, while you're in this house. If you don't like it, blame yourself. You invented this valet stuff. Now live up to it. Keep your own place or you'll have everything coming down in a grand smash."
Pete looked up at him sourly.
"Bill, you act jealous."
"Who? Me? Bull!"
"Bill, youarejealous."
"Don't be an ass. I don't even know the lady. She's nothing to me. But I intend to protect Aunt Caroline's guests——"
Bill was cut short by a knock and a message from a maid. Following its receipt, he walked over to the dresser and examined his scarf.
"Brush me off," he commanded.
"Go to the devil," remarked his valet. "And look here, Bill; play this square. Don't you go taking advantage of my position. Be a sport now. And if Gray Eyes——"
Bill was out of the room.
Down in the library he found Aunt Caroline—and the young woman with the gray eyes. The freckles were there, too; he saw them in a better light now and decided they were just the right shade of unobtrusiveness.
"William," said Aunt Caroline, "this is Miss Norcross."
Mary Wayne had arisen from her chair. It seemed to Bill that she lacked something of the poise that he had remarked on the afternoon before. There was uncertainty in her glance; an air of hesitation rather than of confidence was asserting itself. When he upset her chair in the reception-room she had ralliedwith discomforting assurance; now she betrayed timidity.
"Mighty glad to meet you," said Bill, with a large, amiable smile.
He found it necessary to reach for her hand, and when he had possessed himself of it he discovered that it was trembling.
She murmured something that he did not catch; evidently it was a mere formality. Bill regarded her with faint perplexity; she was behaving quite differently this morning. He wondered if it would be a good idea to say something about yesterday. Had she told Aunt Caroline? No; probably not. If she had, Aunt Caroline would certainly have chided him for working himself into a childish fury. Perhaps it would be embarrassing to mention the matter. He decided to let "Miss Norcross" take the initiative.
"Miss Norcross is ready to start this morning," explained Aunt Caroline.
Was she? thought Bill. Start what, or where?
"Too bad it should be raining," he observed. Then he could have chastised himself; it was such a futile commonplace. Pete would never have said anything so stupid.
"I think it will be more convenient for both of you to use the sun-parlor room on the second floor," said Aunt Caroline. "Here in the library there are so many interruptions."
"Er—yes; interruptions," said Bill.
Well, what interruptions? What was all this about, anyhow? From Aunt Caroline he turned to the girl. Evidently she did not think it was for her to explain; she avoided his glance.
"Oh, perhaps I forgot to explain, William." AuntCaroline smiled at her own omission. "Miss Norcross is your secretary."
Bill started to whistle, but it died on his lips. Truth, out in the light at last, was overwhelming him. He looked again at his secretary; this time she did not avoid his eyes, but her expression puzzled him. As nearly as he could read it, there was a pleading there. As for Bill himself, he knew that his face was growing red. This girl—his secretary! All his hastily conceived plans were crashing. Aunt Caroline had spiked a gun.
"Miss Norcross has some remarkably fine references, William, and I see no reason why you should not get along very well," added Aunt Caroline.
"Ah—none whatever," he said clumsily.
"I think now you might show her the way up-stairs, William."
Without a word, Bill turned and led the way. He wondered if his ears were red, too, and if she could notice them from the back. He had a mad desire to run. He actually did start taking the stairs two at a time, then remembered and fell into a dignified pace.
A girl secretary! Oh, Aunt Caroline!
"How'll I get rid of her?" thought Bill. "I can't beat her up. I can't swear at her. And why does she have to be a secretary, anyhow? It isn't a square deal. If this ever gets out—oh, boy!"
Mary Wayne followed primly, although she was in a tumultuous state of mind. Of course she had had a night to dwell upon it, but now that she was really entering upon the adventure it seemed more formidable than ever. What an amazingly large person he was; it seemed contradictory, somehow, that a brilliant society man, such as described by Aunt Caroline, shouldrun so aggressively to bulk. And he seemed embarrassed; he was not at all like the man who kicked her chair across the room.
Bill, with the air of a man about to face a firing squad, moved grimly along the upper hall in the direction of the sun-parlor room. There was nothing heroic in his bearing; rather, there was the resignation of despair. And then something happened to awaken him.
Pete Stearns, coming down from the third floor, spotted him.
"Say, listen——"
Then Pete spotted the girl and the sentence froze. He stood with his mouth agape, staring at the procession.
Bill jerked his head higher and set his shoulders. Pete Stearns wouldn't get any satisfaction out of this, if he knew it. He eyed his valet coldly.
"Don't forget to sponge and press those suits, and hurry up about it," he ordered roughly. "When you've done that I may have some errands for you. Look sharp."
He strode past Pete, and Mary Wayne followed. She did not even glance at the amazed valet. Pausing at a door, Bill opened it and held it wide.
"This way, if you please, Miss Norcross," he said, with a bow whose courtliness astonished himself.
She entered the sun-parlor room. Bill followed—and closed the door.
Out in the hall Pete Stearns was leaning against the wall.
"I'll be damned!" he whispered. "The lucky stiff."
Beyond the door Bill was facing Nemesis. Shelooked neither perilous nor forbidding; she was just a girl with a lot of nice points, so far as he could see. The encounter with Pete had braced him; perhaps it had even elevated him somewhat in her eyes. He felt the need of elevation; Aunt Caroline had managed to give him a sense of pampered unmanliness. Evidently the girl was waiting for him to begin.
"I guess you didn't tell Aunt Caroline how I booted you across the room last night," said Bill.
"No," she answered.
"That's good."
And he felt that it was good. This mutual reticence, so far as Aunt Caroline was concerned, tentatively served as a bond. He waved her gallantly to a chair, and she sat first on the edge of it; then, remembering that a social secretary should be a person of ease, she settled back.
"What has my aunt been telling you about me?" he demanded suddenly.
"Why—er—nothing. That is, she told me you wanted a social secretary."
"She did, eh? She said Iwantedone?"
Mary hesitated for a second.
"Perhaps she did not put it exactly that way—Mr. Marshall. But of course I understand that you wanted one. I was engaged for that purpose."
"Did she tell you I was in society?"
"I don't remember that she did. But I took that for granted."
"Do I look as if I was in society?"
"I—I can't say." She found the young man somewhat disconcerting. "Aren't you?"
"No!" Bill thundered it.
"Oh!"
"I'm not in society, and I'm not going in. I wouldn't go into society if they closed up everything else."
Mary experienced a pang of dismay.
"Then I'm afraid there's some mistake," she faltered. "I'm sorry."
"Wait a minute," said Bill, drawing up a chair for himself and facing her. "Don't worry, now. Let's get this straightened out. I'll explain. My aunt wants me to go into society. I want to stay out. She's got a lot of ideas about keeping up the family reputation. I'd sooner go get a new one. So she hires a social secretary for me—and take it from me, Miss Norcross, I don't need a social secretary any more than I need crutches. I don't need any kind of a secretary."
Mary's heart was sinking. This was the end of her job; it had all been too good to be true. He must have read this thought in her eyes, for he continued hastily:
"Now, don't get scared. I'm trying to figure this thing out so it'll suit all hands. You see, this has sort of taken me by surprise. I wasn't expecting you as a secretary; I was expecting a man."
"Oh," said Mary faintly.
"And I was going to get rid of him—pronto. I had it all doped out. But——" Bill grinned—"I can't get rid of you that way."
Mary suddenly stiffened. She was not accustomed to having men get rid of her; she would get rid of herself. She arose from her chair.
Bill reached forth a long arm and calmly pushed her back into it. She flushed angrily. No matter how badly she needed work she did not intend to be treated as a child. But again he was employing that disarming grin.
"Easy now—please. I guess I'm rough, but I don't mean it that way. I suppose you need a job, don't you?"
Mary considered for an instant.
"Of course," she said, with a touch of dignity, "I should not have applied for a place I did not need."
"Sure; I get you. Listen, now: You can hold this job as long as you like; you can be social secretary or any other kind—only I'm not going into society."
"Will you please explain that?"
"It's easy. So long as my aunt thinks I'm going into society—fine. So long as I stay out of it—fine. I haven't any objections to having a secretary, on that basis."
Mary shook her head.
"That would be practicing a deception on your aunt," she said.
Oh, Mary!
But what Mary had in her mind was not the drawing of a fine distinction between one deception and another. She had not forgotten that already she was a deceiver. What troubled her was this: She liked Aunt Caroline. Thus far she had done that nice old lady no harm, even though she posed as Nell Norcross. But to take Aunt Caroline's money and give nothing in return was very different. That would be stealing. And, besides, she felt that the acceptance of Bill's idea would put her in an equivocal position toward him.
"But Aunt Caroline will never know," said Bill, who had no scruples on this point. "And you will be able to keep right on in your job."
Again Mary shook her head. She would have risen but for the fear that he would push her back into the chair a second time.
"I would be accepting charity," she declared firmly. "I do not need to do that."
Even her thought of the sick girl in the boarding-house did not prevent her from making this renunciation. Not even to supply Nell Norcross with a doctor, a nurse and medicine would she accept charity.
"I had better go down and explain the situation to Miss Marshall and then go," she added.
When she said that she did not realize how vulnerable was the spot in which she attacked him. Bill sensed the blow instantly.
"No, no!" he almost shouted. "You can't do that. You couldn't explain it to her in a million years."
Bill was worried. He did not know that young women were so difficult to please. He was worried about what Aunt Caroline would say. He knew that she was not only determined he should have a social secretary, but he divined that she wished him to have this particular secretary. More than that, on his own account, he was not yet ready to see the last of this young person. Still further, there was the desirable project of humiliating Pete Stearns in even greater degree.
"Then you may explain it to her," suggested Mary, clinging desperately to her remnant of conscience.
"I can't explain it any better than you can," groaned Bill. "I tried to, yesterday, and flivvered."
There was half a minute of silence, conversation having ended in acul de sac. Both turned toward the door with a breath of relief when it opened softly, after a premonitory knock. Pete Stearns stood on the threshold.
He glanced not at all at Bill; his eyes were for Mary alone.
"Well?" demanded Bill.
"I thought, sir," said Pete, still watching Mary, "that unless you were in a hurry about your clothes——"
Bill cut him short with a gesture.
"I am in a hurry," he snapped, glaring at his valet. "What's more, I do not wish to be interrupted when I am busy with my secretary."
Pete's eyebrows went up nearly an inch. The news was staggering—but it solved a mystery. Unmistakable hints of a smile lurked on his lips. Then he bowed deeply—at Mary.
"Very good, sir," he said, and closed the door.
Bill turned again toward his secretary.
"Ultimately, I'm going to assassinate that valet," he said. "I'm only waiting in order to get my alibi perfected."
Mary found herself smiling.
"Now," said Bill, "let's talk business again. I think I know a way to straighten this out."
When half an hour had passed Bill was still talking, and Mary had confirmed certain tentative impressions concerning his respect for the opinions of Aunt Caroline; or, rather, not so much for her opinions as for her authority. She saw that Bill had substantial reasons for at least an outward semblance of acquiescence in his aunt's plans.
Bill found that it was quite easy to talk to his secretary. She was an attentive, accurate listener; she seldom interrupted him with questions. She simply sat and absorbed things, with her hands folded in her lap and her whole posture that of trained concentration. Out of her gray eyes she would watch him steadily, but not in a disconcerting way. There was nothing in her eyes that should not have been there, not even one of those quizzical flashes that had temporarily unsettled him the afternoon before. To say that she was demure might, perhaps, suggest the artificiality of a pose; therefore, she was not demure. She was simply decorous, in a perfectly natural way.
"So, then," Bill was saying, "my idea is this: Not being in society, and never having been there, naturally I can't take a running jump into the middle of it. An outsider has to be eased in, I don't care who his family is, unless he's a foreigner. In my case it ought to take some time to fight my way through the preliminaries.Now, I'm not saying yet that I'll go in, mind you. But I'm willing to see the thing started. I don't want you to get the idea that I'm pigheaded. I might change my mind."
He knew that he wouldn't, but Mary nodded.
"So, why not go ahead with the job and see what comes of it? That's playing square with Aunt Caroline, I'm sure. Later on, if the time comes when it's all off, we'll go and tell her so and ask for a new deal. How about it? Fair enough?"
"Yes," said Mary, slowly, "that seems to be fair—provided you're sincere."
"Miss Norcross, I'm the soul of sincerity."
For that protestation she suspected him, yet she did not feel justified in pressing scruples too far. She was not a hypocrite.
"If you are really going to try it, then, I suppose you will have need of a secretary."
"My idea exactly," said Bill heartily. "Shake."
She shook.
"I'm glad that's settled," he declared, with a comfortable stretch. "Now we can talk about something else."
Mary's eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly.
"Seen the 'Follies' yet?" asked Bill. "No? Say don't miss it. I've been twice. Think I'll go again, too. Lot of good shows in town, but I'm 'way behind on them."
He was regarding her with such a speculative eye that Mary felt the need of a change of subject. She arose and began removing her hat.
"I think I had better go to work," she said.
"Work? Oh, sure; I forgot. Certainly. Er—what at?"
"We might start on your correspondence," she suggested.
"I'm game. Who'll we write to?"
"Why—how should I know, Mr. Marshall? That's for you to say."
Bill rubbed his ear.
"Hanged if I know who to write to," he mused. "I never had the habit. I suppose it's done regularly—in society."
"It is considered quite important to attend promptly to all correspondence," said Mary. That was a safe generalization, she thought, applicable to society as well as business.
Bill began fumbling in a coat-pocket and eventually drew forth some papers.
"I haven't had a letter in a week," he said. "You see, what I get mostly is bills. Aunt Caroline attends to those. But here's a letter I got last week; we could begin on that, I suppose."
He drew it out of the envelope and then shook his head.
"Too late, I'm afraid. The party was last night. I had another date and didn't go."
"But you sent them word, of course."
"No, indeed; never bothered about it."
Mary looked disturbed; her sense of order was really offended.
"I think that was very wrong," she observed.
"Oh, they'll get over it," said Bill easily. "It was only a poker outfit, anyhow."
"Oh."
Bill finished examining his papers and tossed them into the fireplace.
"Not a thing in the world that needs an answer,"he sighed contentedly. "Ever occur to you, Miss Norcross, that there's a lot of paper wasted? If people would only put letters in their pockets and carry them for a couple of weeks, nine-tenths of them wouldn't need to be answered."
Mary was frowning.
"After this I hope you'll let me take charge of your mail," she said.
"It's all yours," said Bill generously. "I never get anything interesting, anyhow. Now, what'll we do?"
The situation was perplexing to her. She could not sit all morning simply talking to him; that might be social but not secretarial. There was a business relation to be preserved.
"You might plan out things," she suggested. "Give me your ideas about your—your——"
"Career?" he asked, with elaborate irony, and she nodded.
"Not for anything," said Bill. "I haven't any ideas. That's your part of it. I'm going to let you handle the planning along with the correspondence. You've got more dope on it than I have. You're the manager, or maybe the chaperon. I'm only the débutante."
As Mary regarded this large and impossible débutante the mere suggestion of chaperoning him appalled her.
"But surely you've got some suggestions," she said.
"Not a solitary one. Where would I get any? I've been on the outside all my life, not even looking in. Is it all right for me to smoke? Thanks. No; it's up to you. But remember—there's no rush. Don't get the idea I'm driving you. Why, you can take allthe time in the world. Take six months; take a year. Think it over."
"A year!" echoed Mary. "But you ought to start right away."
"Why?"
"Why—so you can enjoy the—er—advantages of society."
"Well, Mr. Bones—I mean Miss Norcross, of course—what are the advantages of society?"
He stood against the mantel, his feet spread wide, his hands deep in his pockets, staring down at her with a challenging grin.
Mary became confused. Her soul was crying out in protest at the unfairness of it. What did she know about the advantages of society? And yet she must know. Was it possible he suspected her? Any social secretary ought to have the advantages of society at the tip of her tongue.
"It seems to me they're obvious," she said, with desperate carelessness. "I shouldn't think it would be necessary to make a list of them."
"It is with me," said Bill mercilessly. "I've got to be shown. Come on, now; you're an expert. We'll take them one at a time. What's the first?"
"—I wouldn't know which to put first."
"Take 'em in any order you like, then. Name the first you happen to think of."
Mary was growing pink under the freckles. Never in her life had she felt so helpless or so absurd. It was deliberate teasing, she knew; but she must not permit herself to be teased. She must have poise and self-possession; literally, she must know everything he asked, or at any rate have an answer.
"Shoot," said Bill cheerfully. "I'm all attention."
That was just the trouble, thought Mary. She was fearing now that she would fly into a temper, which would ruin everything.
"Well," she said slowly. "I would say that one of the advantages is in meeting people who are trained to be considerate of your feelings."
Nor was she ready to bite off her tongue after she said it. He had no right to treat her that way. She hoped he would understand.
And Bill did. His eyes widened for an instant and his cheeks reddened. Then he laughed.
"That one landed good and plenty," he said admiringly. "I like the way you snap your punches. Next time I'll know when it's coming. A second ago I wasn't sure whether you were going to continue the footwork or step in and hang one on me."
"What in the world——" Mary faltered in her bewilderment.
"It's just a way of apologizing," he explained. "It's what you might call an allegorical apology. I don't know just how they would say it in society, but whatever they say goes. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings by teasing you."
"Oh, it's all right," said Mary hastily, although she noted that he was sorry for hurting her feelings, not because he had been teasing.
"I'll try to remember after this," continued Bill. "Of course, you really stirred things up yourself by saying I ought to start right away. You don't seem to realize what a job it's going to be. I can't help you any. When I think of the amount of creative work that's falling on your shoulders I stagger in sympathy, Miss Norcross. Honestly I do. No; I'm not joshing you again. I'm serious. Where do you begin to get a guylike me into society? How do I pry in? What have I got to do to be saved?"
Mary smiled in spite of a determination to maintain a dignified view-point.
"It will not be so difficult as you think. I'm quite sure of that, Mr. Marshall. If I may suggest——"
As she stopped she was looking in the direction of the door. Bill turned and beheld his valet, standing well inside the threshold. Pete was meek and smug, his hands clasped in front of him, as he fetched an obsequious bow.
"Knock before you enter a room," said Bill sharply.
"I did, sir."
Bill knew that he lied, but the point was not worth arguing.
"I have finished with your clothes, sir."
"Well, why disturb me about it."
"You said you were in a hurry, sir."
Pete gave the "sir" an annoying twist. Also, he had a way of fixing his gaze upon Mary, not boldly or offensively, but with a sort of mild persistence that had an even more irritating effect upon Bill Marshall.
"You said something about errands, sir, after I finished with your clothes," Pete reminded him.
"I'll talk to you about that later. You needn't wait."
But Pete lingered. The social secretary turned away and began examining a book that lay on a table. As she did so, Bill made a violent gesture to his valet. It was intended to convey a demand for instant exit, also a threat of events to come if it was not obeyed. Pete favored him with a wide smile and a wink. Mary moved across the room to examine a picture, bringing the valet again within her range of vision. The smile vanished instantly.
"May I make a suggestion, sir?"
"Well?" Bill demanded.
"I could not help but overhear a part of the conversation, sir," said Pete. "It was about the difficulties of getting a social introduction."
Both Bill and Mary were regarding him speculatively, and each was wondering how long he had been listening. But the valet remained unabashed.
"Well?" repeated Bill ominously.
"I might say, sir, that I agree with the young lady—that it will not be so difficult as you think. If I may make bold, sir——"
Bill halted him with a sternly raised hand. He would have preferred to choke him, but valets were not commonly choked in the presence of young ladies. He could do it much better later.
"That will be all from you," barked Bill. "I do not wish any advice from the servants. Leave the room."
But Pete lingered. He even sent an appealing look in the direction of Mary, who showed obvious signs of puzzled interest in the encounter.
"Leave the room!"
Bill followed the remark with a stride. He felt both angry and ridiculous. But Pete was holding his ground with an air of sleek and pious fortitude.
"Your aunt, sir, thought there was much promise in the idea," he said.
Bill halted.
"What idea?"
"A suggestion that I made about you, sir."
Bill groaned in the depths of his soul. Now what had happened? What new devilment had been set afoot by Pete Stearns? Well, he would soon findout, but not here—not in the presence of his social secretary. He must brazen it out for the moment:
"You mean to tell me you have dared discuss my affairs with my aunt?"
"At her request, sir," answered Pete, lifting a deprecating hand. "I should not have dreamed of volunteering, sir."
Bill was almost ready to believe him; yes, in all probability it was a horrible truth. Doubtless Aunt Caroline had actually asked for his advice. She was capable of that folly since she had acquired the notion that Pete Stearns was an uplifting influence.
"Well, you won't discuss them with me," roared Bill. "Get out!"
The valet shrugged and looked sorrowful.
"Perhaps if I talked the matter over with the young lady, sir——"
Bill made a rush, but his valet was several jumps in the lead as he sped out into the hall. The pursuer stopped at the threshold and turned back into the room.
"Oh, damnation!" he cried. "Oh, why in—— Say, wait a minute! Please, Miss Norcross. Awfully sorry; forgot you were here. I apologize. I didn't mean——"
But she, too, was gone. Not for the reason that Bill feared, however. She was hurrying to see Aunt Caroline. She wanted an idea.
She never needed an idea so badly in her life.
Bill hunted for his valet with commendable industry. He searched his own rooms, the servants' quarters and every part of the house where Pete by any possibility might be concealed. He went out to the stable and garage. He made inquiries among the maids. But he did not find Pete, which was an excellent turn of fortune for that young man. Bill was more than angry; he was primed for conflict.
"I'll stand anything within reason," he told himself, "but if Pete Stearns thinks he can ruin me offhand he's got to lick me first."
He gloomed around in his room until it was time for luncheon, and went down-stairs to find Aunt Caroline and Mary already at the table. Bill held them both under suspicion as he took his seat. He glanced from one to the other, searching for some sign that would betray a conspiracy. But Aunt Caroline appeared to be her usual placid self, while Mary Wayne neither avoided his glance nor sought to meet it, nor did she in any wise behave as might a young woman who had guilt on her soul.
Bill ate stoically. Curiosity was burning within him; he wanted to know what Pete Stearns had been saying to Aunt Caroline. But he feared to ask; somewhere there was a flaw in his moral courage whenever he was in the presence of his aunt.
He really had a morbid desire to know the worst, but lacked the hardihood to seek the knowledge boldly. So for a while there was nothing but perfunctory conversation between Aunt Caroline and the social secretary, with Bill affecting preoccupation but listening to every word.
"Miss Norcross tells me you have been discussing plans, William," said his aunt, suddenly turning the talk.
"Huh? Oh, yes; certainly."
He directed a sharp glance at Mary, but it did not reveal to him anything that suggested an uneasy conscience.
"I am glad that you are losing no time," continued Aunt Caroline. "Have you decided on anything definite?"
"Why—nothing's positively settled, Aunt Caroline. Takes time to get started, you know. It's a sort of closed season in society, anyhow. Isn't that so, Miss Norcross?"
"It is not as active as it might be—in town," said Mary diplomatically.
"I suppose it is true," observed Aunt Caroline. "Yet, of course, opportunities can be found. I had what seemed a really excellent suggestion this morning."
Bill laid his fork on his plate and waited grimly.
"It came from that nice young man of yours, Peter."
The social secretary was diligently buttering a piece of toast; she did not appear to be interested. Bill knew what that meant—Aunt Caroline had already told her. Everybody was taking a hand in planning his career except himself. It was enough to make a red-blooded American explode.
"Well, I'll bite, Aunt Caroline. What did he say?"
"William, please avoid slang. Why, he spoke about the social possibilities that lie in charitable and religious work."
Bill gripped the edge of the table and held on. He felt certain that his brain had flopped clear over and was now wrong side up.
"What he had in mind," continued Aunt Caroline, "was killing two birds with one stone. It would give you an opportunity to combine society with other worthy enterprises. As I myself know, there are many people of very fine standing who are interested in the various religious and charitable organizations, while the extent of Peter's knowledge of the matter really surprised me. Through the medium of such organizations he assured me that it would be possible for you to meet some of the most socially desirable families. Of course, you would also meet other persons whom it is not so important for you to know, but that is a detail which would regulate itself. At the same time, you would have an opportunity to do some morally uplifting work."
Bill moistened his lips and stole a horrified glance at Mary Wayne. This time she was stirring her tea.
"Well, William, what do you think of the idea?"
"Preposterous!"
Aunt Caroline was frankly surprised.
"Absolute nonsense! Drivel!"
"William!"
"Well, it is. It's nothing but sanctimonious bunk."
"Now, William, control yourself. Consider for a moment——"
"Aunt Caroline, I can't consider it. Gee whiz, if I've got to go into society I'm not going to use the family entrance. I'm going in through the swingingdoors or I don't go in at all. And I'd like to know what business my valet has butting into my affairs."
Aunt Caroline displayed a mild frown of disapproval.
"You must remember, William, that he is something more than a valet. He has been a companion in college and is a young man of very high ideals."
"I don't care what his ideals are—high up or low down. Let him mind his own business."
"But William, he has your very best interests at heart," persisted Aunt Caroline. "I consider him a very fine influence."
"Well, he can't meddle with me."
"Nobody is meddling, William. We are all trying to help you—Miss Norcross, Peter, myself—everybody."
"Say, who's trying to run me, anyhow? What is this—a League of Nations, or what?"
"William!"
But Bill was becoming reckless. The more he heard of this diabolical plot the more he was determined to wipe Pete Stearns summarily out of his life. How many were there in this scheme? He glared accusingly at his secretary.
This time she met his glance steadily. There was something so purposeful in her gaze that it held his attention. Her gray eyes seemed to be telegraphing, but he could not read the message. She flashed a side glance toward Aunt Caroline. With no apparent purpose she lifted her napkin, but instead of putting it to her lips she laid her finger across them.
Bill raged. So they had dragged her into the plot, too. Her part, it seemed, was to put a soft pedal on protests.
"I'm not going to be charitable and I'm not going to be religious," said Bill, defiantly. "And if you don't lay off me I'm not going into society, either. I'd sooner go to the devil; all by myself, if I have to."
"William Marshall!"
Bill was not looking to see how much Aunt Caroline was shocked; he was again looking at his secretary. Her finger went to her lips once more, and this time she also shook her head. She was slightly frowning, too. Well, what was the idea? What difference did it make to her whether he spoke his mind or kept a craven silence? Probably she was afraid of losing her job.
"Society!" jeered Bill. "Personally conducted by my valet! Me—hopping around in a pair of patent-leather pumps, lugging lemonade for a lot of giggling boneheads and saying 'Ain't it great!'"
Aunt Caroline was passing the point where her sensibilities were merely outraged; she was growing angry. Her fingers were drumming nervously on the cloth and in her eyes was an expression that Bill had seen there before. But this time he seemed to miss it. Mary Wayne did not miss it, however. She sent him a frown of warning. And then she spoke.
"Miss Marshall, wouldn't it be a good idea if your nephew and I discussed this matter up-stairs?"
Aunt Caroline sternly regarded Bill and hesitated. Bill began bracing himself for combat.
"I think perhaps he doesn't fully understand the idea," continued Mary, hastily. "Perhaps there are some features of it that can be—modified. I'd like to have a chance to explain it to him more fully."
Aunt Caroline arose from the table.
"Very well," she said. "But you needn't go up-stairsto discuss it, my dear. You can discuss it right here; that is, if you are able to talk to him at all, which I am not."
She walked stiffly out of the dining-room, leaving Mary and Bill facing each other from opposite sides of the table.
"Well?" demanded Bill.
She leaned forward and regarded him with complete disapproval.
"You nearly spoiled everything," she said. "Oh, please—please can't you be more reasonable, Mr. Marshall?"
"Reasonable! Do you call that stuff reason?"
"I haven't called it anything. But don't you see that it only makes these things worse to quarrel about them?"
"You don't even want to give me a chance to defend myself," accused Bill. "You tried to shut me up."
"I was trying to warn you to be more diplomatic."
"What's the sense of being diplomatic when somebody sticks you up with a gun? That's what it was; it was a stick-up."
Mary made a patient gesture of dissent.
"I don't think you handled it in the right way at all," she said, firmly. "You didn't accomplish anything, except to offend your aunt."
"Well, I'm not going to stand for it, anyhow. So what was the use of pussy footing? You're all against me—the whole three of you."
Mary studied him for several seconds.
"Whose secretary am I?" she demanded.
"Why—mine. That is, you're supposed to be."
"Well, am I or am I not?"
"Of, if it comes to that, you are." He said it reluctantly and suspiciously.
"Very well. Then whose interests do I look after?"
Bill hesitated. He was by no means certain on that point.
"You're supposed to look after mine, I should say."
"I'm not only supposed to, but I do," declared Mary. "And I don't think that thus far you have any good reason to doubt it. I don't think it's fair for you to doubt it."
Bill was beginning to feel uneasy. It would be very embarrassing if she started to scold him.
"I'm not doubting it," he said, but none too graciously.
"All right, then," said Mary. "As your secretary I am looking after your interests first of all in this matter."
"But you've got a wrong idea of my interests, Miss Norcross. They've got you in on this scheme and——"
"Who said I was in on it?" she interrupted.
"But aren't you?"
"I am not."
Bill stared incredulously.
"But you're in favor of it, anyhow."
"I am not."
He spent a few seconds trying to grasp that.
"You're against it? On the level?" he gasped.
"On the level," she said calmly.
"Then why in blazes didn't you say so?" he cried.
"Because it wasn't the time or the place to say so, Mr. Marshall."
He was rubbing his ear in a puzzled way.
"Does my Aunt Caroline know you're against it?"
"I think not. We merely discussed it. I didn't express any opinion."
Bill rose and took a turn about the room. He stretched comfortably. He was breathing normally again.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad they haven't got you hooked up on it. But you certainly had me guessing for a while."
Mary was smiling faintly as she watched him.
"You stick by me and I'll stick by you," he said, walking back to the table. "We'll put rollers under Aunt Caroline yet."
"Oh, no, Mr. Marshall. Remember, you promised to make a beginning."
"Well, we'll put that valet on skids, anyhow."
Mary pursed her lips and considered.
"He has a certain ingenuity," she remarked judicially.
"What?"
"I think so. And when you come to think of it, there are really possibilities in his idea."
"Oh, glory! And you just told me you were against it."
"I am—in your case," said Mary. "But that doesn't condemn the idea. It simply means it might not work in a particular instance."
"I take it you couldn't quite see me breaking in from the religious angle."
"Not quite," she answered, and Bill thought her emphasis was unnecessary. But he did not dwell upon the matter of emphasis, because he was still overwhelmed with gratitude at the discovery that she did not belong to the cabal that had been organized against him.
"You see," explained Mary, "I did not take any side in the matter because I felt it was necessary first to find out what you thought about it. But you ought not to have been so emphatic. I haven't been here very long, of course, but I have already learned that that is not the best way to deal with your aunt, Mr. Marshall."
Bill was studying his secretary with new respect. He knew that she spoke the truth about Aunt Caroline, but he had never been able to put into practice the best method of dealing with her.
"I think we can let the matter rest for a while," she added. "Although, of course, it depends a good deal on whether we can make progress in some other direction. It's imperative to make a start."
"Keep me out of the charitable and religious game and I'll leave it all to you," said Bill, fervently. "But listen: don't start in with the idea that that valet is any friend of mine. He's dangerous."
"Then why do you keep him, Mr. Marshall?"
"Why? Oh, I'm—well, I'm sorry for him, you know. And I knew him in college, which makes it hard to turn him down. He sticks around in spite of me."
To Mary Wayne this explanation did not cover the situation. Peter the valet impressed her as a somewhat mysterious retainer in the Marshall household. But she did not press her inquiry. Instead, she asked Bill if it would be convenient for her to leave the house for a couple of hours that afternoon, as she had an errand to perform. Bill assured her that it would; he volunteered to drive her wherever she wanted to go, an offer that Mary declined with prim and hasty thanks.
Not long after that she was sitting at the bedside of Nell Norcross. The sick girl regarded her with feverishly bright eyes.
"I mustn't disturb you, of course," said Mary, "but the doctor says it is all right for you to talk a little. I need some advice."
"About what?" asked Nell.
"About how to get a young man into society when he doesn't want to get there. A rather violent young man, I'm afraid."
"A man!"
"I didn't explain to you last night, did I? You were too sick. Well, I'll tell you what has happened."
Mary sketched the affair as briefly as she could. Nell Norcross, rightful owner of the magnificent references, showed flashes of interest, but for the most part she lapsed into listlessness. Her head still ached and the medicine that she took every two hours tasted frightfully.
"Now, what would you do with a young man like that?" asked Mary.
"I—I don't know. I'll have to think." Nell turned wearily on the pillow and closed her eyes. "I—I'm afraid I can't think now."
"Any suggestion might help," said Mary, encouragingly.
Nell groaned and asked for a drink of water. Mary fetched it and again sat by the bedside.
"Just a single idea as a starter," she urged.
"Oh, give a party," answered Nell, irritably. "They all do that."
"What kind of a party?"
"Oh, any kind. I—oh, I'm so tired."
"Never mind," said Mary, soothingly. "I'm sorry,my dear. I won't bother you now. Perhaps I can think——" She paused as an inspiration came to her. "I know what I'll do. I'll call up one of your references on the telephone and explain that I need a little advice."
Nell turned quickly and stared at her.
"Oh, no," she muttered. "You shouldn't do that."
"But, don't you see——"
Nell was shaking her head, then groaning with the pain it caused her.
"Very bad form," she managed to say. "It's never done."
Mary subsided into a perplexed silence. If it was bad form of course she would not do it. She must be scrupulous about matters of form. More than ever she felt herself a neophyte in the social universe; she knew neither its creed nor its ritual.
"All right; I won't do it, my dear. There now, don't worry. The doctor says you're going to come out all right, but it will take a little time."
"You've—you've got to hold the job," whispered Nell.
"Of course; I'll hold it. I'll manage to get along. They're paying me very liberally and it's all yours, every cent. You see, living there I can get along quite a while without any money of my own. I don't even need to buy any clothes just yet. We can afford a nurse for you, I think."
But Nell shook her head stubbornly; she did not want a nurse. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Mary was saying good-by when something else occurred to her.
"It's just one question," she explained. "In case I should be asked about it again I ought to know. AndI'm really curious on my own account, although it isn't any of my business. What is it that they say about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones's daughter?"
Nell stared at her dully.
"The elder daughter," added Mary.
Nell was shaking her head again and reaching for the glass of water.
"Is it really something—awful?"
"Yes—awful," faltered Nell. "I—oh, please——"
"I won't say another word," declared Mary, hastily, but there was a note of disappointment in her voice. "If I should be asked again I'll give the same answer I did before."
"What was that?" mumbled the voice from the bed.
"I said I didn't care to discuss it."
"That's—best. I never did, either."
"And I said that personally I never believed it."
Nell answered with a gesture of dismissal and Mary left her. As she descended the dark staircase of the boarding house she shook her head as if dissatisfied about something.
"I'm just as curious as Aunt Caroline," she thought. "I ought to be ashamed of myself. But just the same I'd like to know what it is that they say—and some day I'm going to find out."
Matters were not going ahead to suit the liking of Mary. Aunt Caroline was displaying mild symptoms of impatience because the ship that represented Bill's society career still hung on the launching ways. Bill himself would pay no attention to the business of getting it off. He was never at home at night and it seemed to Mary that he slept very late in the mornings. Pete Stearns was also missing from the household nearly every time that Bill disappeared. He was probably taking covert advantage of his employer's absences, Mary thought.
Thus she was left very much to her own devices, save for occasions when she found it advisable to consult Aunt Caroline. In the case of the latter, Mary observed a threatening tendency to revert to the launching plans that had been conceived by Pete. Whenever she found opportunity she tried to impress upon Bill the fact that unless he helped to devise something else he would find himself forced to follow the charitable and religious route into society. But he waved all that aside in the most optimistic fashion.
"You take care of it," he said. "You're against it yourself; I'm counting on you."
The valet still puzzled Mary. He had an annoying way of appearing when Bill was not around, always ostensibly looking for Bill and always lingering when he did not find him. She could not deny that he interestedher; he possessed an element of the mysterious, whereas Bill was as transparent as air. It was not easy to establish the precise status of Pete; Aunt Caroline contributed to that difficulty by lending him a willing ear on any subject to which he chose to devote his fluent tongue. His rank was that of a domestic servant; he even ate with the servants, which was something of which he bitterly complained to Mary. She could not help feeling that there was some merit in the complaint.
Yet she could not and would not accept him on a plane of social equality, although she did not wish to appear snobbish. The relative values of their positions in the household must be preserved, if only for the sake of discipline. She would not have minded an occasional chat with her employer's valet if he did not constantly convey the idea that he was about to step out of his character. He never actually presumed upon her friendliness, but he always made her feel that he was about to presume.
She had a sense of something like espionage whenever Pete was about, coupled with an idea that he viewed her work with suspicion and even derision. Certainly the impression that he made upon Mary was quite different from that upon Aunt Caroline. He never talked theology to Mary, although to Aunt Caroline he would discourse upon it until the dear old lady actually became sleepy.
As for affairs between Bill and Pete, there had been a truce ever since the former threatened to throw his valet out of the house by way of the skylight if he dared to discuss any more social projects with Aunt Caroline. They did very well together so long as it was not necessary for them to play the parts of masterand man for the benefit of the household; it was on those occasions that the ever-lurking devil within Pete Stearns took charge of his actions and speech. Outside of the house, of course, all barriers between them were down—and they were outside a great deal.
It was late in the evening of a difficult and dissatisfying day that Mary sat alone in the library, quite vainly trying to scheme something practical for the social launching of Bill. The only thing that cheered her was a faint hope that he would bring home an idea of his own, for he had told her that he was to spend the evening at a private and very exclusive affair. Aunt Caroline had gone to bed early, as usual, and even the valet had disappeared.
"I do hope I'll be able to do something very soon," mused Mary, frowning at a book she had been trying to read. "Poor Nell! She's too sick to help, and even in her bright moments she doesn't seem to want to talk about it. I never dreamed it could be so difficult. It's not fair, either. I came here to be a secretary and they're trying to make me a manager. And he simply won't be managed and—and I don't know how to manage him, even if he would."
"Ps-s-s-st!"
Mary jumped half out of her chair as she looked up and saw the valet standing in the doorway.
"Please make a noise when you walk, or knock, or do something," she said, sharply. "You startled me."
Pete made a gesture for silence, stepped into the room and swiftly surveyed it.
"Where is Aunt—where is Miss Marshall?" he whispered.
"She went to bed long ago."
"Good! Come on, then; we need help."
"Who needs help?" demanded Mary, impressed more by the mystery of his manner than by his words. "What's the matter?"
"The boss is in the hoosegow," answered Pete, his voice tragic.
"What!"
"Mr. Marshall—he's in jail."
Mary leaped to her feet and stared with incredulity.
"In jail! What for? How?"
"Caught in a raid. Come on; we've got to hurry."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Mary. "Is he hurt?"
"Only in his feelings," said the valet. "Get your hat; you're needed."
"But—where do you want me to go? What can I do?"
"Bail him out; get him home. We can't let his aunt know about it, can we? We've got to produce him at breakfast, haven't we?"
Mary felt appalled and helpless.
"But how can I bail him?" she asked. "I haven't any property, or any money, or——"
"I'll put you wise to the ropes," said the theological valet in a hurried voice. "Come on. Aren't you willing to help?"
"Of course I am," said Mary, indignantly. "I'll be ready in a jiffy."
When she came down-stairs again Pete was waiting at the front door, which he closed gently behind them. In front of the house stood a taxi, into which he thrust her with much haste, following himself, after he spoke an order to the driver.
"Where are we going?" asked Mary, as the taxi gathered speed.
"Jefferson Market—it's a police court."
She could not repress a shiver.
"You said a raid? What—what kind?"
"Listen," said Pete. "Now this is what happened: the boss went to a scrap—a prize-fight."
Mary, sitting in the darkness of the taxi, compressed her lips. He had made her believe that he was going into society!
"Fights are against the law in this State," continued the valet. "While it was going on somebody told the police. And the police came and, among others, they got the boss. He got stuck in the window that was too small for him."
"Oh!" gasped Mary.
"They'll be taking him to the night court by the time we get there. And we've got to bail him out."
"How?"
"We get a bondsman. There'll be one of 'em there; I've got it arranged. He's in the business; professional bondsman, you know. Only he won't put up a bond on my say-so. I'm only the valet, you understand; it takes somebody higher up, like a secretary. We'll get it across all right, if you put up a good front. Got any money with you?"
"A little," said Mary. "About twenty dollars, I think."
"That'll help with what I've got. We've got to give this bird some cash down."
Mary was bracing herself as rigidly as she could in a corner of the seat. It was difficult to prevent a rising tide of indignation from overwhelming her, although she realized it was a time to keep her head. Of course, there was but one thing to do—get Bill Marshall out of jail. But after that she felt that she would be entitled to a reckoning. How awful it was!Her employer—her social climber—her débutante—in jail after a raid on a prize-fight!
At Jefferson Market she was hustled out of the taxi, across the sidewalk and up some steps that led to a badly-lighted corridor.
"Wait here; I'll get him," whispered Pete.
Mary shrank herself as small as possible against a wall and waited. The valet was not long in returning. With him was a middle-aged, stout, red-faced person who swiftly inspected Mary with a piercing pair of eyes.
"This the dame?" he asked, in a casual tone.
Mary stiffened at the question.
"This is the lady I told you about," said Pete. Then addressing Mary: "This is the gentleman who is going to bail Mr. Marshall."
"Don't travel too fast," said the bondsman. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Who are you, anyhow?"
He was looking at Mary with another critical glance. Her cheeks had become red by this time; to Pete she seemed to be growing taller.
"I am secretary to Mr. William Marshall," she said. "My name is Miss Norcross. And I do not wish to be addressed in the manner that you now assume."
There was a flash of dismay in Pete's eyes, to be succeeded by one of admiration. As for the bondsman, he stared for several seconds in a sort of dull surprise.
"Oh, no offense," he said. "Got anything to identify you?"
Mary opened her bag and drew forth some letters, which she handed to Pete. She would not permit this creature to receive them from her own hand. He seemed to sense the import of this employment of anintermediary, for he surveyed her once more, this time with what was obviously a more respectful curiosity. Then he began reading the letters.
Even a professional bondsman is permitted to have knowledge of the upper world, and this one was not wholly ignorant of names in the social register. His eyebrows went up as he read, and Mary was once more made aware of the potent magic of references. She continued to grow taller. When he made a move to return the letters she indicated that he was to hand them to the valet, which he did.
"I guess it'll be all right," he said. "The bond'll be for a thousand. The prisoner himself is good for it, but I got to have additional security. I'll want to see the prisoner when he's arranged, and if he ain't the right one, tip me off. And I'll take fifty bucks now."
Mary brought forth what she had and handed it to Pete. He played up to the situation by palming his own resources as he received Mary's contribution, and then began counting off bills that were apparently all supplied by her. The bondsman pocketed the money.
"Sign here," he said, producing a paper from his pocket.