Well, he had done his best. A rather childish effort, but what else was there to attempt? Poor old Jephson!
"Nonsense," said the Gaiety lady, and continued to play.
"Nothing of the sort," Minot replied. "Why, I can produce the man himself."
Might as well go the limit while he was about it. That should be his consolation when Jephson lost. Might as well—but what was this?
Gabrielle Rose had turned livid with anger. Her lips twitched, her china-blue eyes flashed fire. If only her lawyer had been by her side then! But he wasn't. And so she cried hotly:
"He's told! The little brute's told!"
Good lord! Minot felt his knees weaken. A shot in the dark—had it hit the target after all?
"If you refer to your husband," said Minot, "he has done just that."
"He's not my husband," she snapped.
Oh, what was the use? Providence was with Jephson.
"No, of course not—not since the divorce," Minot answered. "But he was when those letters were written."
The Gaiety lady's chin began to tremble.
"And he promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn't tell. But I suppose you found him easy. What honor could one expect in a Persian carpet dealer?"
A Persian carpet dealer? Into Minot's mind floated a scrap of conversation heard at Mrs. Bruce's table.
"But you must remember," he ventured, "that he is also a prince."
"Yes," said the woman, "that's what I thought when I married him. He's the prince of liars—that's as far as his royal blood goes."
A silence, while Miss Gabrielle Rose felt in her sleeve for her handkerchief.
"I suppose," Minot suggested, "you will abandon the suit—"
She looked at him. Oh, the pathos of that baby stare!
"You are acting in this matter simply as Harrowby's friend?" she asked.
"Simply as his friend."
"And—so far—only you know of my—er—ex-husband?"
"Only I know of him," smiled Minot. The smile died from his face. For he saw bright tears on the long lashes of the Gaiety lady. She leaned close.
"Mr. Minot," she said, "it is I who need a friend. Not Harrowby. I am here in a strange country—without funds—alone. Helpless. Mr. Minot. You could not be so cruel."
"I—I—I'm sorry," said Minot uncomfortably.
The lady was an actress, and she acted now, beautifully.
"I—I feel so desolate," she moaned, dabbing daintily at her eyes. "You will help me. It can not be I am mistaken in you. I thought—did I imagine it—this morning when I sang for you—you liked me—just a little?"
Nervously Minot rose from his chair and stood looking down at her. He tried to answer, but his voice seemed lost.
"Just a very little?" She, too, rose and placed her butterfly hands on his shoulders. "You do like me—just a little, don't you?"
Her pleading eyes gazed into his. It was a touching scene. To be besought thus tenderly by a famous beauty in the secluded parlor of a southern hotel! The touch of her hands on his shoulders thrilled him. The odor of Jockey Club—
It was at this instant that Mr. Minot, looking past the Gaiety lady's beautiful golden coiffure, beheld Miss Cynthia Meyrick standing in the doorway of that parlor, a smile on her face. She disappeared on the instant, but Gabrielle Rose's "big scene" was ruined beyond repair.
"My dear lady"—gently Minot slipped from beneath her lovely hands—"I assure you I do like you—more than a little. But unfortunately my loyalty to Harrowby—no, I won't say that—circumstances are such that I can not be your friend in this instance. Though, if I could serve you in any other way—"
Gabrielle Rose snapped her fingers.
"Very well." Her voice had a metallic ring now. "We shall see what we shall see."
"Undoubtedly. I bid you good day."
As Minot, somewhat dazed, walked along the veranda of the De la Pax he met Miss Meyrick. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.
"Really, it was so tactless of me, Mr. Minot," she said. "A thousand apologies."
He pretended not to understand.
"My untimely descent on the parlor." She beamed on him. "I presume it happened because romance draws me—like a magnet. Even other people's."
Minot smiled wanly, and for once sought to end their talk.
"Oh, do sit down just a moment," she pleaded. "I want to thank you for the great service you did Harrowby and me—last night."
"Wha—what service?" asked Minot, sinking into a chair.
She leaned close, and spoke in a whisper.
"Your part in the kidnaping. Harrowby has told me. It was sweet of you—so unselfish."
"Damn!" thought Minot. And then he thought two more.
"To put yourself out that our wedding may be a success!" Was this sarcasm, Minot wondered. "I'm so glad to know about it, Mr. Minot. It shows me at last—just what you think is"—she looked away—"best for me."
"Best for you? What do you mean?"
"Can't you understand? From some things you've said I have thought—perhaps—you didn't just approve of my—marriage. And now I see I misconstrued you—utterly. You want me to marry Harrowby. You're working for it. I shouldn't be surprised if you were on that train last Monday just to make sure that—I'd—get here—safely."
Really, it was inhuman. Did she realize how inhuman it was? One glance at Minot might have told her. But she was still looking away.
"So I want to thank you, Mr. Minot," she went on. "I shall always remember your—kindness. I couldn't understand at first, but now—I wonder? You know, it's an old theory that as soon as one has one's own affair of the heart arranged, one begins to plan for others?"
Minot made a little whistling sound through his clenched teeth. The girl stood up.
"Your thoughtfulness has made me very happy," she laughed. "It shows that perhaps you care for me—just a little—too."
She was gone! Minot sat swearing softly to himself, banging the arm of his chair with his fist. He raged at Thacker, Jephson, the solar system. Gradually his anger cooled. Underneath the raillery in Cynthia Meyrick's tone he had thought he detected something of a serious note—as though she were a little wistful—a little hurt.
Did she care? Bitter-sweet thought! In the midst of all this farce and melodrama, had she come to care?—just a little?—
Just a little! Bah!
Minot rose and went out on the avenue.
Prince Navin Bey Imno was accustomed to give lectures twice daily on the textures of his precious rugs, at his shop in the Alameda courtyard. His afternoon lecture was just finished as Mr. Minot stepped into the shop. A dozen awed housewives from the Middle West were hurrying away to write home on the hotel stationery that they had met a prince. When the last one had gone out Minot stepped forward.
"Prince—I've dropped in to warn you. A very angry woman will be here shortly to see you."
The handsome young Persian shrugged his shoulders, and took off the jacket of the native uniform with which he embellished his talks.
"Why is she angry? All my rugs—they are what I say they are. In this town are many liars selling oriental rugs. Oriental! Ugh! In New Jersey they were made. But not my rugs. See! Only in my native country, where I was a prince of the—"
"Yes, yes. But this lady is not coming about rugs. I refer to your ex-wife."
"Ah. You are mistaken. I have never married."
"Oh, yes, you have. I know all about it. There's no need to lie. The whole story is out, and the lady's game in San Marco is queered. She thinks you told. That's why she'll be here for a chat."
"But I did not tell. Only this morning did I see her first. I could not tell—so soon. Who could I tell—so soon?"
"I know you didn't tell. But can you prove it to an agitated lady? No. You'd better close up for the evening."
"Ah, yes—you are right. I am innocent—but what does Gabrielle care for innocence? We are no longer married—still I should not want to meet her now. I will close. But first—my friend—my benefactor—could I interest you in this rug? See! Only in my native country, where—"
"Prince," said Minot, "I couldn't use a rug if you gave me one."
"That is exactly what I would do. You are my friend. You serve me. I give you this. Fifty dollars. That is giving it to you. Note the weave. Only in my—"
"Good night," interrupted Minot. "And take my advice. Hurry!"
Gloomy, discouraged, he turned back toward his own hotel. It was true, Gabrielle Rose's husband at the time of the letters was in San Marco. The emissary of Jephson was serving a cause that could not lose. That afternoon he had hoped. Was there anything dishonorable in that? Jephson and Thacker could command his service, they could not command his heart. He had hoped—and now—
At a corner a negro gave him a handbill. He read:
WHO HAS KIDNAPEDTHE REALLORD HARROWBY?AT THE OPERA-HOUSE TO-NIGHT!!Mr. Henry Trimmer Will Appear inPlace of His Unfortunate Friend, LordHarrowby, and Will Make a FewWARM AND SIZZLINGREMARKS.NO ADVANCE IN PRICES.
Mr. Minot tossed the bill into the street. Into his eyes came the ghostlike semblance of a smile. After all, the famous Harrowby wedding had not yet taken place.
After dinner Minot lighted a cigar and descended into the hotel gardens for a stroll. Farther and farther he strayed down the shadowy gravel paths, until only the faint far suggestion of music at his back recalled the hotel's lights and gaiety. It was a deserted land he penetrated; just one figure did he encounter in a fifteen minutes' walk—a little man clad all in white scurrying like a wraith in the black shade of the royal palms.
At a distant corner of the grounds near the tennis-courts was a summer-house in which tea was served of an afternoon. Into this Minot strolled, to finish his cigar and ponder the day's developments in the drama he was playing. As he drew a comfortable chair from moonlight into shadow he heard a little gasp at his elbow, and turning, beheld a beautiful vision.
Gabrielle Rose was made for the spotlight, and that being absent, moonlight served as well. Under its soft merciful rays she stood revealed—the beauty thousands of playgoers knew and worshiped. Dick Minot gazed at her in awe. He was surprised that she held out her hand to him, a smile of the utmost friendliness on her face.
"How fortunate," she said, as though speaking the cue for a lovely song. "I stand here, the wonder of this old Spanish night getting into my very blood—and the only thing lacking in the picture is—a man. And then, you come."
"I'm glad to be of service," said Minot, tossing away his cigar.
"What an unromantic way to put it! Really, this chance meeting—it was a chance meeting, I suppose?—"
"A lucky chance," he agreed.
She pouted.
"Then you did not follow? Unromantic to the last! But as I was saying, this chance meeting is splendid. My train goes in an hour—and I wanted so very much to see you—once again."
"You flatter me."
"Ah—you don't understand." She dropped into a chair. "I wanted to see you—to put your conscience at rest. You were so sorry when you had to be—cruel—to me to-day. You will be so glad to know that it has all turned out happily, after all."
"What do you mean?" asked Minot, new apprehensions rising in his mind.
"Alas, if I could only tell you." She was laughing at him now—an experience he did not relish. "But—my lips are sealed, as we say on the stage. I can only give you the hint. You thought you left me a broken vanquished woman. How the thought did pain you! Well, your victory was not absolute. Let that thought console you."
"You are too kind," Minot answered.
"And—you are glad I am not leaving San Marco quite beaten?"
"Oh, yes—I'm wild with pleasure."
"Really—that is sweet of you. I am so sorry we must part. The moonlight, the palms, the distant music—all so romantic. But—we shall meet again?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? How unkind—when it all depends on you. You will look me up in New York, won't you? New York is not so romantic—but I shall try to make it up to you. I shall sing for you.Just a Little."
She stood up, and held out a slim white hand.
"Good-by, Mr. Minot." Still she laughed. "It has been so good to know you."
"Er—good-by," said Minot. He took the hand. He heard her humming beneath her breath—hummingJust a Little. "I've enjoyed your singing immensely."
She laughed outright now—a silvery joyous laugh. And, refusing the baffled Minot's offer to take her back to the hotel, she fled away from him down the dark path.
He fell back into his chair, and lighted another cigar. Exit the Gaiety lady, laughing merrily. What was the meaning of that? What new complication must he meet and solve?
For his answer, he had only to return to the hotel. On the steps he was met by Lord Harrowby's man, agitated, puffing.
"Been looking all about for you, sir," he announced. "'Is lordship wishes to see you at once—most h'important."
"More trouble, Minot," was Lord Harrowby's gloomy greeting. "Sit down, old chap. Just had a very nasty visitor."
"Sorry to hear it."
"Little brown monkey of a man—Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of theSan Marco Mail. I say, old boy, there's a syllable missing in the name of that paper. Do you get me?"
"You mean it should be theSan Marco Blackmail? Pretty good, Harrowby, pretty good." And Minot added to himself "for you."
"That's exactly what I do mean. Gabrielle has sold out her bunch of letters to Mr. Gonzale. And it appears from the chap's sly hints that unless I pay him ten thousand dollars before midnight, the best of those letters will be in to-morrow'sMail."
"He's got his nerve—working a game like that," said Minot.
"Nerve—not at all," replied Harrowby. "He's as safe as a child in its own nursery. He knows as well as anybody that the last thing I'd do would be to appeal to the police. Too much publicity down that road. Well?"
"His price is a bit cheaper than Gabrielle's."
"Yes, but not cheap enough. I'm broke, old boy. The governor and I are on very poor terms. Shouldn't think of appealing to him."
"We might pawn Chain Lightning's Collar," Minot suggested.
"Never! There must be some way—only three days before the wedding. We mustn't lose on the stretch, old boy."
A pause. Minot sat glumly.
"Have you no suggestion?" Harrowby asked anxiously.
"I have not," said Minot, rising. "But I perceive clearly that it now devolves on little Dicky Minot to up and don his fighting armor once more."
"Really, old boy, I'm sorry," said Harrowby. "I'm hoping things may quiet down a bit after a time."
"So am I," replied Minot with feeling. "If they don't I can see nervous prostration and a hospital cot ahead for me. You stay here and study the marriage service—I'm going out on the broad highway again."
He went down into the lobby and tore Jack Paddock away from the side of one of the Omaha beauties. Mr. Paddock was resplendent in evening clothes, and thoughtful, for on the morrow Mrs. Bruce was to give an important luncheon.
"Jack," Minot said, "I'm going to confide in you. I'm going to tell you why I am in San Marco."
"Unbare your secrets," Paddock answered.
Crossing the quiet plaza Minot explained to his friend the matter of the insurance policy written by the romantic Jephson in New York. He told of how he had come south with the promise to his employer that Miss Cynthia Meyrick would change her mind only over his dead body. Incredulous exclamations broke from the flippant Paddock as he listened.
"Knowing your love of humor," Minot said, "I hasten to add the crowning touch. The moment I saw Cynthia Meyrick I realized that if I couldn't marry her myself life would be an uninteresting blank forever after. Every time I've seen her since I've been surer of it. What's the answer, Jack?"
Paddock whistled.
"Delicious," he cried. "Pardon me—I'm speaking as a rank outsider. She is a charming girl. And you adore her! Bless my soul, how the plot does thicken! Why don't you resign, you idiot?"
"My first idea. Tried it, and it wouldn't work. Besides, if I did resign, I couldn't stick around and queer Jephson's chances—even supposing she'd listen to my pleading, which she wouldn't."
"Children, see the very Christian martyr! If it was me I'd chuck the job and elope with—oh, no, you couldn't do that, of course. It would be a low trick. You are in a hole, aren't you?"
"Five million fathoms deep. There's nothing to do but see the wedding through. And you're going to help me. Just now, Mr. Manuel Gonzale has a packet of love-letters written by Harrowby in his salad days, which he proposes to print on the morrow unless he is paid not to to-night. You and I are on our way to take 'em away from him."
"Um—but if I help you in this I'll be doing you a mean trick. Can't quite make out, old boy, whether to stand by you in a business or a personal way."
"You're going to stand by me in a business way. I want you along to-night to lend your moral support while I throttle that little blackmailer.".
"Ay, ay, sir. I've been hearing some things about Gonzale myself. Go to it!"
They groped about in a dark hallway hunting theMailoffice.
"Shady are the ways of journalism," commented Paddock. "By the way, I've just thought of one for Mrs. Bruce to spring to-morrow. In case we fail and the affinity letters are published, she might say that Harrowby's epistles got into theMailonce too often. It's only a rough idea—ah—I see you don't like it. Well, here's success to our expedition."
They opened the door of theMailoffice. Mr. O'Neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. Mr. Howe hammered at a typewriter. Both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion.
"Ah, gentlemen," said O'Neill, coming forward. "What can I do for you?"
"Who are you?" Minot asked.
"What? Can it be? Is my name not a household word in San Marco? I am managing editor of theMail." His eyes lighted on Mr. Paddock's giddy attire. "We can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want."
"Very humorous," said Minot. "But our wants are far different. I won't beat around the bush. You have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored—at the moment. You are going to print them in to-morrow'sMailunless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. He isn't going to pay you anything. We've come for those letters—and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours—you raw little blackmailers!"
"Blackmailers!" Mr. O'Neill's eyes seemed to catch fire from his hair. His face paled. "I've been in the newspaper business seventeen years, and nobody ever called me a blackmailer and got away with it. I'm in a generous mood. I'll give you one chance to take that back—"
"Nonsense. It happens to be true—" put in Paddock.
"I'm talking to your friend here." O'Neill's breath came fast. "I'll attend to you, you lily of the field, in a minute. You—you liar—are you going to take that back?"
"No," cried Minot.
He saw a wild Irishman coming for him, breathing fire. He squared himself to meet the attack! But the man at the typewriter leaped up and seized O'Neill from behind.
"Steady, Bob," he shouted. "How do you know this fellow isn't right?"
Unaccountably the warlike one collapsed into a chair.
"Damn it, I know he's right," he groaned. "That's what makes me rave. Why didn't you let me punch him? It would have been some satisfaction. Of course he's right. I had a hunch this was a blackmailing sheet from the moment my hot fingers closed on Gonzale's money. But so long as nobody told us, we were all right."
He glared angrily at Minot.
"You—you killjoy," he cried. "You skeleton at the feast. You've put us in a lovely fix."
"Well, I'm sorry," said Minot, "but I don't understand these heroics."
"It's all up now, Harry," moaned O'Neill. "The free trial is over and we've got to send the mattress back to the factory. Here in this hollow lotus land, ever to live and lie reclined—I was putting welcome on the mat for a fate like that. Back to the road for us. That human fish over in theChronicleoffice was a prophet—'You look unlucky—maybe they'll give you jobs on theMail.' Remember."
"Cool off, Bob," Howe said. He turned to Minot and Paddock. "Of course you don't understand. You see, we're strangers here. Drifted in last night broke and hungry, looking for jobs. We got them—under rather unusual circumstances. Things looked suspicious—the proprietor parted with money without screaming for help, and no regular newspaper is run like that. But—when you're down and out, you know—"
"I understand," said Minot, smiling. "And I'm sorry I called you what I did. I apologize. And I hate to be a—er—a killjoy. But as a matter of fact, your employer is a blackmailer, and it's best you should know it."
"Yes," put in Paddock. "Do you gentlemen happen to have heard where the editor of Mr. Gonzale's late newspaper, published in Havana, is now?"
"We do not," said O'Neill, "but maybe you'll tell us."
"I will. He's in prison, doing ten years for blackmail. I understand that Mr. Gonzale prefers to involve his editors, rather than himself."
O'Neill came over and held out his hand to Minot.
"Shake, son," he said. "Thank God I didn't waste my strength on you. Gonzale will be in here in a minute—"
"About those letters?" Howe inquired.
"Yes," said Minot. "They were written to a Gaiety actress by a man who is in San Marco for his wedding next Tuesday—Lord Harrowby."
"His ludship again," O'Neill remarked. "Say, I always thought the South was democratic."
"Well," said Howe, "we owe you fellows something for putting us wise. We've stood for a good deal, but never for blackmailing. As a matter of fact, Gonzale hasn't brought the letters in yet, but he's due at any minute. When he comes—take the letters away from him. I shan't interfere. How about you, Bob?"
"I'll interfere," said O'Neill, "and I'll interfere strong—if I think you fellows ain't leaving enough of little Manuel for me to caress—"
The door opened, and the immaculate proprietor of theMailcame noiselessly into the room. His eyes narrowed when they fell on the strangers there.
"Are you Manuel Gonzale?" Minot demanded.
"I—I am." The sly little eyes darted everywhere.
"Proprietor of theMail?"
"Yes."
"The gentleman who visited Lord Harrowby an hour back?"
"Man! Man! You're wasting time," O'Neill cried.
"Excuse me," smiled Minot. "Unintentional, I assure you." He seized the little Spaniard suddenly by the collar. "We're here for Lord Harrowby's letters," he said. His other hand began a rapid search of Manuel Gonzale's pockets.
"Let me go, you thief," screamed the proprietor of theMail. He squirmed and fought. "Let me go!" He writhed about to face his editors. "You fools! What are you doing, standing there? Help me—help—"
"We're waiting," said O'Neill. "Waiting for our turn. Remember your promise, son. Enough of him left for me."
Minot and his captive slid back and forth across the floor. The three others watched, O'Neill in high glee.
"Go to it!" he cried. "That's Madame On Dit you're waltzing with. I speak for the next dance, Madame."
Mr. Minot's eager hand came away from the Spaniard's inner waistcoat pocket, and in it was a packet of perfumed letters, tied with a cute blue ribbon. He released his victim.
"Sorry to be so impolite," he said. "But I had to have these to-night."
Gonzale turned on him with an evil glare.
"Thief!" he cried. "I'll have the law on you for this."
"I doubt that," smiled Minot. "Jack, I guess that about concludes our business with theMail." He turned to Howe and O'Neill. "You boys look me up at the De la Pax. I want to wish you bon voyage when you start north. For the present—good-by."
And he and Paddock departed.
"You're a fine pair," snarled Gonzale, when the door had closed. "A fine pair to take my salary money, and then stand by and see me strangled."
"You're not strangled yet," said O'Neill. He came slowly toward his employer, like a cat stalking a bird. "Did you get my emphasis on the word yet?"
Gonzale paled beneath his lemon skin, and got behind a desk.
"Now, boys," he pleaded, "I didn't mean anything. I'll be frank with you—I have been a little indiscreet here. But that's all over now. It would be dangerous to try any more—er—deals at present. And I want you to stay on here until I can get new men in your places."
"Save your breath," said O'Neill through his teeth.
"Your work has been excellent—excellent," went on Gonzale hastily. "I feel I am not paying you enough. Stay on with me until your week is up. I will give you a hundred each when you go—and I give you my word I'll attempt nothing dangerous while you are here."
He retreated farther from O'Neill.
"Wait a minute, Bob," said Howe. "No blackmailing stunts while we stay?"
"Well—I shouldn't call them that—"
"No blackmailing stunts?"
"No—I promise."
"Harry," wailed the militant O'Neill. "What's the matter with you? We ought to thrash him—now—and—"
"Go back on the road?" Howe inquired. "A hundred dollars each, Bob. It means New York in a parlor car."
"Then you will stay?" cried Gonzale.
"Yes,—we'll stay," said Howe firmly.
"See here—" pleaded O'Neill. "Oh, what's the use? This dolce far niente has got us."
"We stay only on the terms you name," stipulated Howe.
"It is agreed," said Gonzale, smiling wanly. "The loss of those letters cost me a thousand dollars—and you stood by. However, let us forgive and forget. Here—Madame On Dit's copy for to-morrow." Timidly he held out a roll of paper toward O'Neill.
"All right." O'Neill snatched it. "But I'm going to edit it from now on. For instance, there's a comma I don't like. And I'm going to keep an eye on you, my hearty."
"As you wish," said Gonzale humbly. "I—I am going out for a moment." The door closed noiselessly behind him.
Howe and O'Neill stood looking at each other.
"Well—you had your way," said O'Neill, shamefacedly. "I don't seem to be the man I was. It must be the sunshine and the posies. And the thought of the road again."
"A hundred each," said Howe grimly. "We had to have it, Bob. It means New York."
"Yes." O'Neill pondered. "But—that good-looking young fellow, Harry—the one who apologized to us for calling us blackmailers—"
"Yes?"
"I'd hate to meet him on the street to-morrow. Five days. A lot could happen in five days—"
"What are your orders, Chief?" asked Howe.
At that moment Minot, followed by Paddock was rushing triumphantly into the Harrowby suite. He threw down on the table a package of letters.
"There they are!" he cried. "I—"
He stopped.
"Thanks," said Lord Harrowby wildly. "Thanks a thousand times. My dear Minot—we need you. My man has been to the theater—Trimmer is organizing a mob to board theLileth!"
"Board theLileth?"
"Yes—to search for that creature who calls himself Lord Harrowby."
"Come on, Jack," Minot said to Paddock. They ran down several flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street.
"Where to?" panted Paddock.
"The harbor!" Minot cried.
As they passed the opera-house they saw a crowd forming and heard the buzz of many voices.
Mr. Paddock knew of a man on the water-front who had a gasoline launch to rent, and fortunately it happened to be in commission. The two young men leaped into it, Paddock started the engine, and they zipped with reassuring speed over the dark waters toward the lights of theLileth.
The accommodation ladder of the yacht was down, and leaving a member of the crew to make fast the launch, Minot and Paddock climbed hurriedly to the deck. Mr. Martin Wall was at the moment in the main cabin engaged in a game of German whist, and his opponent was no less a person than George Harrowby of the peerage. Upon this quiet game the two young men rushed in.
"Unexpected visitors," said Wall. "Why—what's the matter, boys?"
"Come out on deck a minute," said Minot rapidly. Wall threw down his cards and followed. Once outside, Minot went on: "No time to waste words. Trimmer is collecting a mob in front of the opera-house, and they are coming out here to search this boat. You know who they're looking for."
With exaggerated calmness Wall took out a cigar and lighted it.
"Indeed?" he remarked. "I told you it might be advisable to look up the penalty for kidnaping. But you knew best. Ah, the impetuosity of youth!"
"Well—this is no time to discuss that," replied Minot. "We've got to act, and act quickly!"
"Yes?" Mr. Wall drawled. "What would you suggest? Shall we drown him? I've come to like George mighty well, but if you say the word—"
"My plan is this," said Minot, annoyed by Wall's pleasantries. "Turn George over to us. We'll bundle him into our launch and run off out of sight behind Tarragona Island. Then, let Trimmer search to his heart's content. When he gets tired and quits, signal us by hanging a red lantern in the bow."
Martin Wall smiled broadly.
"Not bad for an amateur kidnaper," he said. "Will I turn George over to you? Will a duck swim? A good idea."
"For God's sake, hurry!" cried Minot. "Look!"
He pointed to the largest of San Marco's piers. The moon was lost under clouds now, but the electric lights on the water-front revealed a swarming shouting crowd of people. Martin Wall stepped to the door of the main cabin.
"Lord Harrowby!" he cried. He turned to Minot and Paddock. "I call him that to cheer him in captivity," he explained. The tall weary Englishman strode out upon the deck.
"Lord Harrowby," said Wall, "these two gentlemen have come to take you for a boat ride. Will you be kind enough to step into that launch?"
Poor old George pulled himself together.
"If you'll pardon my language, I'll be damned if I do," he said. "I take it Mr. Trimmer is on his way here. Well, gentlemen, the first to grasp his hand when he boards the boat will be the chap who now addresses you."
They stood gazing doubtfully at George in revolt. Then Minot turned, and saw a rowboat putting off from the pier.
"Come on," he cried, and leaped on the shoulders of the aspirant to the title. Paddock and Wall followed. Despite his discouraged appearance, George put up a lively fight. For a time the four men struggled back and forth across the deck, now in moonlight, now in shadow. Once George slipped and fell, his three captors on top of him, and at that moment Mr. Minot felt a terrific tugging at his coat. But the odds were three to one against George Harrowby, and finally he was dragged and pushed into the launch. Again Paddock started the engine, and that odd boat load drew away from theLileth.
They had gone about ten feet when poor old George slipped out from under Minot and leaped to his feet.
"Hi—Trimmer—it's me—it's George—" he thundered in a startlingly loud tone. Minot put his hand over George's lips, and they locked in conflict. The small launch danced wildly on the waters. And fortunately for Minot's plans the moon still hid behind the clouds.
With a stretch of Tarragona's rank vegetation between them and theLileth, Mr. Paddock stopped the engine and they stood still on the dark waters. Paddock lighted a cigarette, utilizing the same match to consult his watch.
"Ten o'clock," he said. "Can't say this is the jolliest little party I was ever on."
"Never mind," replied Minot cheerfully. "It won't take Trimmer fifteen minutes to find that his proposition isn't on board. In twenty minutes we'll slip back and look for the signal."
The "proposition" in question sat up and straightened his collar.
"The pater and I split," he said, "over the matter of my going to Oxford. The old boy knew best. I wish now I'd gone. Then I might have words to tell you chaps what I think of this damnable outrage."
Minot and Paddock sat in silence.
"I've been in America twenty odd years," the proposition went on. "Seen all sorts of injustice and wrong—but I've lived to experience the climax myself."
Still silence from his captors, while the black waters swished about the launch.
"I take it you chaps believe me to be an impostor, just as Allan does. Well, I'm not. And I'm going to give you my little talk on the old days at Rakedale Hall. When I've finished—"
"No, you're not," said Minot. "I've heard all that once."
"And you weren't convinced? Why, everybody in San Marco is convinced. The mayor, the chief of police, the—"
"My dear George," said Minot with feeling. "It doesn't make the slightest difference who you are. You and Trimmer stay separated until after next Tuesday."
"Yes. And rank injustice it is, too. We'll have the law on you for this. We'll send you all to prison."
"Pleasant thought," commented Paddock. "Mrs. Bruce would have to develop lockjaw at the height of the social season. Oh, the devil—I'd better be thinking about that luncheon."
All thought. All sat there silent. The black waters became a little rougher. On their surface small flecks of white began to appear. Minot looked up at the dark sky.
"Twenty-two after," said Paddock finally, and turned toward the engine. "Heaven grant that red light is on view. This is getting on my nerves."
Slyly the little launch poked its nose around the corner of the island and peeped at the majesticLileth. Paddock snorted.
"Not a trace of it."
"I must have underestimated the time," said Minot. "Wha—what's that?"
"That? That's only thunder. Oh, this is going to be a pretty party!"
Suddenly the heavens blazed with lightning. The swell of the waters increased. Hastily Paddock backed the boat from the range of theLileth'svision.
"Trimmer must go soon," cried Minot.
Fifteen minutes passed in eloquent silence. The lightning and the thunder continued.
"Try it again," Minot suggested. Again they peeped. And still no red light on theLileth.
And even as they looked, out of the black heavens swept a sheet of stinging rain. It lashed down on that frail tossing boat with cruel force; it obscured theLileth, the island, everything but the fact of its own damp existence. In two seconds the men unprotected in that tiny launch were pitiful dripping figures, and the glory of Mr. Paddock's evening clothes departed never to return.
"A fortune-teller in Albuquerque," said poor old George, "told me I was to die of pneumonia. It'll be murder, gentlemen—plain murder."
"It's suicide, too, isn't it?" snarled Paddock. "That ought to satisfy you."
"I'm sorry," said Minot through chattering teeth.
No answer. The downfall continued.
"The rain is raining everywhere," quoted Paddock gloomily. "It falls on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. Damn the ships at sea."
"Here, here," said poor old George.
A damp doleful pause.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend," continued Paddock presently.
"A thousand apologies," Minot said. "But I'm running the same chances, Jack."
"Yes—but it's your party—your happy little party," replied Paddock. "Not mine."
Minot did not answer. He was as miserable as the others, and he could scarcely blame his friend for losing temporarily his good nature.
"It's after eleven," said Paddock, after another long pause.
"Put in closer to theLileth," suggested Minot.
Mr. Paddock fumbled about beneath the canvas cover of the engine, and they put in. But still no red light aboard the yacht.
"I'd give a thousand dollars," said Paddock, "to know what's going on aboard that boat."
The knowledge would hardly have been worth the price he offered. Aboard theLileth, on the forward deck under a protecting awning, Mr. Trimmer sat firmly planted in a chair. Beside him, in other chairs, sat three prominent citizens of San Marco—one of them the chief of police. Mr. Martin Wall was madly walking the deck near by.
"Going to stay here all night?" he demanded at last.
"All night, and all day to-morrow," replied Mr. Trimmer, "if necessary. We're going to stay here until that boat that's carrying Lord Harrowby comes back. You can't fool Henry Trimmer."
"There isn't any such boat!" flared Martin Wall.
"Tell it to the marines," remarked Trimmer, lighting a fresh cigar.
Just as well that the three shivering figures huddled in the launch on the heaving bosom of the waters could not see this picture. Mr. Wall looked out at the rain, and shivered himself.
Eleven-thirty came. And twelve. Two matches from Mr. Paddock's store went to the discovery of these sad facts. Soaked to the skin, glum, silent, the three on the waters sat staring at the unresponsiveLileth. The rain was falling now in a fine drizzle.
"I suppose," Paddock remarked, "we stay here until morning?"
"We might try landing on Tarragona," said Minot.
"We might try jumping into the ocean, too," responded Paddock, through chattering teeth.
"Murder," droned poor old George. "That's what it'll be."
At one o'clock the three wet watchers beheld unusual things. Smoke began to belch from theLileth'sfunnels. Her siren sounded.
"She's steaming out!" cried Minot. "She's steaming out to sea!"
And sure enough, the graceful yacht began to move—out past Tarragona Island—out toward the open sea.
Once more Paddock started his faithful engine, and, hallooing madly, the three set out in pursuit. Not yet had theLilethstruck its gait, and in fifteen minutes they were alongside. Martin Wall, beholding them from the deck, had a rather unexpected attack of pity, and stopped his engines. The three limp watchers were taken aboard.
"Wha—what does this mean?" chattered Minot.
"You poor devils," said Martin Wall. "Come and have a drink. Mean?" He poured. "It means that the only way I could get rid of our friend Trimmer was to set out for New York."
"For New York?" cried Minot, standing glass in hand.
"Yes. Came on board, Trimmer did, searched the boat, and then declared I'd shipped George away until his visit should be over. So he and his friends—one of them the chief of police, by the way—sat down to wait for your return. Gad—I thought of you out in that rain. Sat and sat and sat. What could I do?"
"To Trimmer, the brute," said Paddock, raising his glass.
"Finally I had an idea. I had the boys pull up anchor and start the engines. Trimmer wanted to know the answer. 'Leaving for New York to-night,' I said. 'Want to come along?' He wasn't sure whether he would go or not, but his friends were sure they wouldn't. Put up an awful howl, and just before we got under way Mr. Trimmer and party crawled into their rowboat and splashed back to San Marco."
"Well—what now?" asked Minot.
"I've made up my mind," said Wall. "Been intending to go back north for some time, and now that I've started, I guess I'll keep on going."
"Splendid," cried Minot. "And you'll take Mr. George Harrowby with you?"
Mr. Wall seemed in excellent spirits. He slapped Minot on the back.
"If you say so, of course. Don't know exactly what they can do to us—but I think George needs the sea air. How about it, your lordship?"
Poor old George, drooping as he had never drooped before, looked wearily into Wall's eyes.
"What's the use?" he said. "Fight's all gone out of me. Losing interest in what's next. Three hours on that blooming ocean with the rain soaking in—I'm going to bed. I don't care what becomes of me."
And he sloshed away to his cabin.
"Well, boys, I'm afraid we'll have to put you off," said Martin Wall. "Glad to have met both of you. Sometime in New York we may run into each other again."
He shook hands genially, and the two young men dropped once more into that unhappy launch. As they sped toward the shore theLileth, behind them, was heading for the open sea.
"Sorry if I've seemed to have a grouch to-night," said Paddock, as they walked up the deserted avenue toward the hotel. "But these Florida rain-storms aren't the pleasantest things to wear next to one's skin. I apologize, Dick."
"Nonsense," Minot answered. "Old Job himself would have frowned a bit if he'd been through what you have to-night. It was my fault for getting you into it—"
"Forget it," Paddock said. "Well, it looks like a wedding, old man. The letters home again, and George Harrowby headed for New York—a three days' trip. Nothing to hinder now. Have you thought of that?"
"I don't want to think," said Minot gloomily. "Good night, old man."
Paddock sped up the stairs to his room, which was on the second floor, and Minot turned toward the elevator. At that moment he saw approaching him through the deserted lobby Mr. Jim O'Malley, the house detective of the De la Pax.
"Can we see you a minute in the office, Mr. Minot?" he asked.
"Certainly," Minot answered. "But—I'm soaked through—was out in all that rain—"
"Too bad," said O'Malley, with a sympathetic glance. "We won't keep you but a minute—"
He led the way, and wondering, Minot followed. In the tiny office of the hotel manager a bullet-headed man stood waiting.
"My friend, Mr. Huntley, of the Secret Service," O'Malley explained. "Awful sorry that this should happen. Mr. Minot but—we got to search you."
"Search me—for what?" Minot cried.
And in a flash, he knew. Through that wild night he had not once thought of it. But it was still in his inside coat pocket, of course. Chain Lightning's Collar!
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"That's what they all say," grunted Huntley. "Come here, my boy. Say, you're pretty wet. And shivering! Better have a warm bath and a drink. Turn around, please. Ah—"
With practised fingers the detective explored rapidly Mr. Minot's person and pockets. The victim of the search stood limp, helpless. What could he do? There was no escape. It was all up now—for whatever reason they desired Chain Lightning's Collar, they could not fail to have it in another minute.
Side pockets—trousers pockets—now! The inner coat pocket! Its contents were in the detective's hand. Minot stared down. A little gasp escaped him.
The envelope that held Chain Lightning's Collar was not among them!
Two minutes longer Huntley pursued, then with an oath of disappointment he turned to O'Malley.
"Hasn't got it!" he announced.
Minot swept aside the profuse apologies of the hotel detective, and somehow got out of the room. In a daze, he sought 389. He didn't have it! Didn't have Chain Lightning's Collar! Who did?
It was while he sat steaming in a hot bath that an idea came to him. The struggle on the deck of theLileth, with Martin Wall panting at his side! The tug on his coat as they all went down together. The genial spirits of Wall thereafter. The sudden start for New York.
No question about it—Chain Lightning's Collar was well out at sea now.
And yet—why had Wall stopped to take the occupants of the launch aboard?
After his bath, Minot donned pajamas and a dressing-gown and ventured out to find Lord Harrowby's suite. With difficulty he succeeded in arousing the sleeping peer. Harrowby let him in, and then sat down on his bed and stared at him.
"What is it?" he inquired sleepily.
Briefly Minot told him of the circumstances preceding the start of theLilethfor New York, of his return to the hotel, and the search party he encountered there. Harrowby was very wide awake by this time.
"That finishes us," he groaned.
"Wait a minute," Minot said. "They didn't find the necklace. I didn't have it. I'd lost it."
"Lost it?"
"Yes. And if you want my opinion, I think Martin Wall stole it from me on theLilethand is now on his way—"
Harrowby leaped from bed, and seized Minot gleefully by the hand.
"Dear old chap. What the deuce do I care who took it. It's gone. Thank God—it's gone."
"But—I don't understand—"
"No. But you can understand this much. Everything's all right. Nothing in the way of the wedding now. It's splendid! Splendid!"
"But—the necklace was stolen—"
"Yes. Good! Very good! My dear Minot, the luckiest thing that can happen to us will be—never, never to see Chain Lightning's Collar again!"
As completely at sea as he had been that night—which was more or less at sea—Minot returned to his room. It was after three o'clock. He turned out his lights and sought his bed. Many wild conjectures kept him awake at first, but this had been the busiest day of his life. Soon he slept, and dreamed thrilling dreams.
The sun was bright outside his windows when he was aroused by a knock.
"What is it?" he cried.
"A package for you, sir," said a bell-boy voice.
He slipped one arm outside his door to receive it—a neat little bundle, securely tied, with his name written on the wrappings. Sleepily he undid the cord, and took out—an envelope.
He was no longer sleepy. He held the envelope open over his bed. Chain Lightning's Collar tumbled, gleaming, upon the white sheet!
Also in the package was a note, which Minot read breathlessly.
"DEAR MR. MINOT:
"I have decided not to go north after all, and am back in the harbor with theLileth. As I expect Trimmer at any moment I have sent George over to Tarragona Island in charge of two sailormen for the day.
"Cordially,"MARTIN WALL.
"P.S. You dropped the enclosed in the scuffle on the boat last night."
At ten o'clock that Saturday morning Lord Harrowby was engrossed in the ceremony of breakfast in his rooms. For the occasion he wore an orange and purple dressing-gown with a floral design no botanist could have sanctioned—the sort of dressing-gown that Arnold Bennett, had he seen it, would have made a leading character in a novel. He was cheerful, was Harrowby, and as he glanced through an old copy of theLondon Timeshe made strange noises in his throat, under the impression that he was humming a musical comedy chorus.
There was a knock, and Harrowby cried: "Come in." Mr. Minot, fresh as the morning and nowhere near so hot, entered.
"Feeling pretty satisfied with life, I'll wager," Minot suggested.
"My dear chap, gay as—as—a robin," Harrowby replied.
"Snatch your last giggle," said Minot. "Have one final laugh, and make it a good one. Then wake up."
"Wake up? Why, I am awake—"
"Oh, no—you're dreaming on a bed of roses. Listen! Martin Wall didn't go north with the impostor after all. Changed his mind. Look!"
And Minot tossed something on the table, just abaft his lordship's eggs.
"The devil! Chain Lightning's Collar!" cried Harrowby.
"Back to its original storage vault," said Minot. "What is this, Harrowby? A Drury Lane melodrama?"
"My word. I can't make it out."
"Can't you? Got the necklace back this morning with a note from Martin Wall, saying I dropped it last night in the scrap on the deck of theLileth."
"Confound the thing!" sighed Harrowby, staring morosely at the diamonds.
"My first impulse," said Minot, "is to hand the necklace back to you and gracefully withdraw. But of course I'm here to look after Jephson's interests—"
"Naturally," put in Harrowby quickly. "And let me tell you that should this necklace be found before the wedding, Jephson is practically certain to pay that policy. I think you'd better keep it. They're not likely to search you again. If I took it—dear old chap—they search me every little while."
"You didn't steal this, did you?" Minot asked.
"Of course not." Harrowby flushed a delicate pink. "It belongs in our family—has for years. Everybody knows that."
"Well, what is the trouble?"
"I'll explain it all later. There's really nothing dishonorable—as men of the world look at such things. I give you my word that you can serve Mr. Jephson best by keeping the necklace for the present—and seeing to it that it does not fall into the hands of the men who are looking for it."
Minot sat staring gloomily ahead of him. Then he reached out, took up the necklace, and restored it to his pocket.
"Oh, very well," he said. "If I'm sent to jail, tell Thacker I went singing an epithalamium." He rose.
"By the way," Harrowby remarked, "I'm giving a little dinner to-night—at the Manhattan Club. May I count on you?"
"Surely," Minot smiled. "I'll be there, wearing our necklace."
"My dear fellow—ah, I see you mean it pleasantly. Wear it, by all means."
Minot passed from the eccentric blooms of that dressing-gown to the more authentic flowers of the Florida outdoors. In the plaza he met Cynthia Meyrick, rival candidate to the morning in its glory.
"Matrimony," she said, "is more trouble than it seems on a moonlit night under the palms. I've never been so busy in my life. By the way, two of my bridesmaids arrived from New York last night. Lovely girls—both of them. But I forget!"
"Forget what?"
"Your young heart is already ensnared, isn't it?"
"Yes," replied Minot fervently. "It is. But no matter. Tell me about your preparations for the wedding. I should like to enjoy the thrill of it—by proxy."
"How like a man—wants all the thrill and none of the bother. It's dreadfully hard staging a wedding, way down here a thousand miles from everything. But—my gown came last night from Paris. Can you imagine the thrill of that!"
"Only faintly."
"How stupid being a man must be."
"And how glorious being a girl, with man only an afterthought—even at wedding time."
"Poor Harrowby! He keeps in the lime-light fairly well, however." They walked along a moment in silence. "I've wondered," she said at length. "Whydidyou kidnap—Mr. Trimmer's—friend?"
"Because—"
"Yes?"—eagerly.
Minot looked at her, and something rose in his throat to choke him.
"I can't tell you," he said. "It is the fault of—the Master of the Show. I'm only the pawn—the baffled, raging, unhappy little pawn. That's all I can tell you. You—you were speaking of your wedding gown?"
"A present from Aunt Mary," she answered, a strange tenderness in her tone. "For a good little girl who's caught a lord."
"A charming little girl," said Minot softly. "May I say that?"
"Yes—" Her brown eyes glowed. "I'm—glad—to have you—say it. I go in here. Good-by—Mr. Kidnaper."
She disappeared into a shop, and Minot walked slowly down the street. Girls from Peoria and Paris, from Boise City and London, passed by. Girls chaperoned and girls alone—tourist girls in swarms. And not a few of them wondered why such a good-looking young man should appear to be so sorry for himself.
Returning to the hotel at noon, Minot met Martin Wall on the veranda.
"Lucky I put old George on Tarragona for the day," Wall confided. "As I expected, Trimmer was out to call early this morning. Searched the ship from stem to stern. I rather think we have Mr. Trimmer up a tree. He went away not quite so sure of himself."
"Good," Minot answered. "So you changed your mind about going north?"
"Yes. Think I'll stay over for the wedding. By the way, wasn't that Chain Lightning's Collar you left behind you last night?"
"Y—yes."
"Thought so. You ought to be more careful. People might suspect you of being the thief at Mrs. Bruce's."
"If you think that, I wish you'd speak to his lordship."
"I have. Your innocence is established. And I've promised Harrowby to keep his little mystery dark."
"You're very kind," said Minot, and went on into the hotel.
The remainder of the day passed lazily. Dick Minot felt lost indeed, for seemingly there were no more doughty deeds to be done in the name of Jephson. The Gaiety lady was gone; her letters were in the hands of the man who had written them. The claimant to the title languished among the alligators of Tarragona, a prisoner. Trimmer appeared to be baffled. Bridesmaids arrived. The wedding gown appeared. It looked like smooth sailing now.
Jack Paddock, met for a moment late in the afternoon, announced airily:
"By the way, the Duke and Duchess of Lismore have come. You know—the sausage lady and her captive. My word—you should see her! A wardrobe to draw tears of envy from a theatrical star. Fifty costly necklaces—and only one neck!"
"Tragic," smiled Minot.
"Funny thing's happened," Paddock whispered. "I met the duchess once abroad. She sent for me this noon and almost bowled me over. Seems she's heard of Mrs. Bruce as the wittiest woman in San Marco. And she's jealous. 'You're a clever boy,' says her ladyship to me. 'Coach me up so I can outshine Mrs. Bruce.' What do you know?"
"Ah—but you were the pioneer," Minot reminded him.
"Well, I was, for that matter," said Mr. Paddock. "But I know now it wasn't a clever idea, if this woman can think of it, too."
"What did you tell her?"
"I was shocked. I showed it. It seemed deception to me. Still—she made me an offer that—well, I told her I'd think it over."
"Good heavens, Jack! You wouldn't try to sell 'em both dialogue?"
"Why not? Play one against the other—make 'em keener for my goods. I've got a notion to clean up here quick and then go back to the real stuff. That little girl from the Middle West—I've forgot all about her, of course. But speaking of cleaning up—I'm thinking of it, Dick, my boy. Yes, I believe I'll take them both on—secretly, of course. It means hard work for me, but when one loves one's art, no service seems too tough."
"You're hopeless," Minot groaned.
"Say not so," laughed Paddock, and went away humming a frivolous tune.
At a quarter before seven, for the first time, Minot entered Mr. Tom Stacy's Manhattan Club and Grill. To any one who crossed Mr. Stacy's threshold with the expectation of immediately encountering lights and gaiety, the first view of the interior came as a distinct shock. The main dining-room of the Manhattan Club was dim with the holy dimness of a cathedral. Its lamps, hung high, were buried in oriental trappings, and shone half-heartedly. Faintly through the gloom could be discerned white table-cloths, gleaming silver. The scene demanded hushed voices, noiseless footsteps. It got both.
The main dining-room was hollowed out of the center of the great stone building, and its roof was off in the dark three stories above. On each side of the entrance, stairways led to second and third-floor balconies which stretched around the room on three sides. From these balconies doors opened into innumerable rooms—rooms where lights shone brighter, and from which the chief of police, when he came to make certain financial arrangements with Mr. Stacy, heard frequently a gentle click-click.
It may have been that the furnishings of the main dining-room and the balconies were there before Mr. Stacy's coming, or again they may have set forth his own idea of suitable decoration. Looking about him, Mr. Minot was reminded of a play likeSumurunafter three hard seasons on the road. Moth-eaten rugs and musty tapestries hung everywhere. Here and there an atrocious cozy corner belied its name. Iron lanterns gave parsimonious light. Aged sofa-pillows lay limply. "Oriental," Mr. Stacy would have called the effect. Here in this dim, but scarcely religious light, the patrons of his "grill" ate their food, being not without misgivings as they stared through the gloom at their plates.
The long tables for the Harrowby dinner were already set, and about them hovered waiters of a color to match the room. Most of the guests had arrived. Mr. Paddock made it a point to introduce Mr. Minot at once to the Duchess of Lismore. This noble lady with the packing-house past was making a commendable effort to lighten the Manhattan Club by a wonderful display of jewels.
"Then felt I like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken," whispered Minot, as the duchess moved away.
Paddock laughed.
"A dowdy little woman by day, but a pillar of fire by night," he agreed. "By the way, I'm foreman of her composing-room, beginning to-morrow."
"Be careful, Jack," Minot warned.
"A double life from now on," Paddock replied, "but I think I can get away with it. Say, for ways that are dark this man Stacy seems to hold a better hand than the heathen Chinee."
In one corner the portly Spencer Meyrick was orating to a circle of young people on the evils of gambling. Minot turned away, smiling cynically. Meyrick, as everybody knew, had made a large part of his fortune in Wall Street.
The dinner was much larger than Mrs. Bruce's. Minot met a number of new people—the anemic husband of the jewels, smug in his dukedom, and several very attractive girls thrilled at being present in Mr. Stacy's sinful lair. He bestowed a smile upon Aunt Mary, serene among the best people, and discussed with Mrs. Bruce—who wasted no boughten wit on him—the Florida climate. Also, he asked the elder of the Omaha girls if she had heard of Mr. Nat Goodwin's latest wife.
For once the dinner itself was a minor event. It sped rapidly there in the gloom, and few so much as listened to the flashes of Mrs. Bruce's wit—save perhaps the duchess, enviously. It was after the dinner, when Harrowby led his guests to the entertainment above, that interest grew tense.
No gloom in that bright room overhead. A cluster of electric lights shed their brilliance on Mr. Stacy's pet roulette tables, set amid parlor furnishings of atrocious plush. From one corner a faro lay-out that had once flourished on Fifty-eighth Street, New York, beckoned. And on each side, through open doors, might be seen rooms furnished for the game of poker.
Mr. Stacy's assistant, a polished gentleman with a face like aged ivory, presided over the roulette table. He swung the wheel a few times, an inviting smile on his face. Harrowby, his eyes bright, laid a sum of money beside a row of innocent figures. He won. He tried again, and won. Some of the young women pushed close to the table, visibly affected. Others pretended this sort of thing was an old story to them.
A few of the more adventurous women borrowed coins from the men, and joined in the play. Arguments and misunderstandings arose, which Mr. Stacy's assistant urbanely settled. More of the men—Paddock among them—laid money on the table.
A buzz of excited conversation, punctuated now and then by a deathly silence as the wheel spun and the little ball hovered heart-breakingly, filled the room. Cheeks glowed red, eyes sparkled, the crush about the table increased. Spencer Meyrick himself risked from his endless store. Mr. Tom Stacy's place was in full swing.
Dick Minot caught Cynthia Meyrick's glance as she stood close beside Lord Harrowby. She seemed another girl to-night, grave rather than gay, her great brown eyes apparently looking into the future, wondering, fearing. As for Harrowby, he was a man transformed. Not for nothing was he the son of the sporting Earl of Raybrook—the peer who never failed to take a risk. The excitement of the game was reflected in his tall tense figure, his flaming cheeks. This was the Harrowby who had made Jephson that gambling proposition on a seventeenth floor in New York.
And Harrowby won consistently. Won, until a fatal choice of numbers with an overwhelming stake left him poor again, and he saw all his winnings swept to swell Tom Stacy's store. Quickly he wormed his way out of the crowd and sought Minot.
"May I see you a moment?" he asked. "Out here." And he led the way to the gloom of the balcony.
"If I only had the cash," Harrowby whispered excitedly, "I could break Stacy to-night. And I'm going to get it. Will you give me the necklace, please."
"You forget," Minot objected, "that the necklace is supposed to have been stolen."
"No. No. That's no matter. I'll arrange that. Hurry—"
"You forget, too, that you told me this morning that should this necklace be found now—"
"Mr. Minot—the necklace belongs to me. Will you kindly let me have it."
"Certainly," said Minot coldly. And, much annoyed, he returned to the room amid the buzz and the thrill of gambling.
Harrowby ran quickly down the stairs. In the office of the club he found Tom Stacy in amiable converse with Martin Wall. He threw Chain Lightning's Collar on the manager's desk.
"How much can you loan me on that?" he demanded.
With a grunt of surprise, Mr. Stacy took up the famous collar in his thick fingers. He gazed at it for a moment. Then he looked up, and caught Martin Wall's crafty eye over Harrowby's shoulder.