CHAPTER XVIIIJENNIERockwell knocked twice. A girl with a thin, dark face peeped out."Hello, Margery," said Rockwell."Oh, how d'you do?" said the girl, recognizing the speaker. Relief was mingled in her tone with continuing caution. "Who's with you?""Friends," said Rockwell. "Mr. Merriam, the Senator's double. And Simpson.""Simpson can't come here!" said Margery sharply.Merriam glanced at Simpson and was amazed to see how moved he was. He had a sense that the man could hardly keep himself from trembling."He's come to help take Norman away," said Rockwell. "He need go no farther than the hall. Come, Margery, let us in. We can't stand here all night. I'll explain to both of you inside. I'm George's friend, you know.""Well!" Still unwillingly Margery released the chain and moved back, opening the door for them.As they stepped inside she stared at Merriam."The devil!" she exclaimed."No," said the young man, "my name's Merriam. How do you do, Miss Milton?"He looked at Margery almost as curiously as she was looking at him. He was really as innocent as Mollie June--more so, in fact, not being married,--and Margery was the first member of the demi-monde or the near demimonde with whom he had ever had personal contact. He found her disappointing. She was thin to the point of angularity, in a trying yellow negligee, with straight black hair, black eyes that were unpleasantly direct, and a lean dark face that was undeniably hard.For a moment only she stared. Then she shut the door and spoke to Simpson:"You stay here!""Yes," said Simpson, with more than servitorial humility.Rockwell was advancing into the sitting room, which opened immediately off the tiny hall, and Merriam, feeling himself dismissed by Miss Milton, followed.Merriam's sole first impression of the sitting room was of a soft, rather agreeable harmony in yellow. The wall paper, the hangings, the upholstery of chairs and davenport, the shades of lights were all in mild tints of that pleasant colour. Probably Margery's yellow negligee was intended to fit into this ensemble.But he had no time for detailed observation. For as they stepped forward the yellow portières at one side of the room parted, and another girl appeared between them--undoubtedly Jennie.This time he was surprised but hardly disappointed. The figure between the portières was that of a stage parlour maid--just the right height for a soubrette and just pleasantly, youthfully slender, yet rounded, in a trim-fitting dress of some black material, cut rather low at the throat and edged with white, with a ridiculously small, purely ornamental, white apron with pockets. Black-silk-stockinged ankles and black, high-heeled satin pumps completed a picture that was both chic and demure. Merriam remembered that it was as a parlour maid that Norman had first known Jennie and guessed that this costume had been assumed for his benefit.In a moment the portières closed behind her. She was looking at the older man, having barely glanced at Merriam."How do, Mr. Rockwell," she said.Merriam, almost with alarm, recognised the tones that had so piqued him over the telephone.Then she turned to him."This is---- Gee, but you're like him! I wouldn't have believed it.""Miss Higgins, Mr. Merriam," said Rockwell tardily.Merriam responded awkwardly:"How do you do, Miss----""'Miss Jennie' will do," interrupted Jennie.(Merriam remembered uncomfortably how Mollie June had hit upon a similar "compromise.")"I ain't partial to 'Higgins,'" Jennie added. "I'm thinking of changing it to 'Montmorency.' Wouldn't 'Jennie Montmorency' be nice, Mr. Rockwell?""I don't think it fits very well," said Rockwell. "You'd better change it to Simpson."Jennie coloured. She coloured easily, as Merriam was to learn. Now that she had turned again to Rockwell he had a chance to look at her face. She was an exceedingly pretty blonde. Her throat was attractively rounded, her shoulders also. Those shoulders might be unpleasant when she was older and stouter, but at present they were charming. Her chin and cheeks were also daintily full--quite the opposite of Margery Milton's. The cheeks were pink, slightly heightened with rouge perhaps but not with paint. The eyes were softly, brightly blue. The hair fair and smoothly wavy, if one may attempt to express a nuance by combining contradictory terms. In short, she was, as some of her admirers undoubtedly expressed it, "not a bit hard to look at."For a moment Jennie's colour flooded. Then came her retort to Rockwell:"Mind your own business," she said.The words were sharp, but somehow the tone was not. The voice was still soft and--warm. It is the only word. It was the voice one might attribute to a kitten, if a kitten were gifted with articulate speech.Rockwell only laughed. At the same moment Margery Milton entered from the hall, where she had presumably been impressing upon Simpson the necessity of remaining in strict hiding.Jennie glanced at her friend."Well," she said, "may as well sit down."She dropped into a chair and crossed one leg over the other."You've come to take Georgie away," she continued as the others sat down."Yes," said Rockwell. "Listen, Jennie. You too, Margery," and he began to explain the new situation which had resulted primarily from Margery's confidences to Thompson. He did not soften this point in his relation."See what your gabbling's done," said Jennie, without anger, to her friend when he had finished. "You always talk too much.""I can talk if I please," said Margery sullenly."It will pay you better to keep still this time," said Rockwell."Pay me? How much?" demanded Margery promptly."Say a hundred dollars.""A hundred----! I'm mum as a stone image. When do I get it, though?""Here's twenty now on account." Rockwell held out a yellow-backed bill, which Margery quickly accepted. "You get the rest when this is all over.""How do I know I get the rest?""Shut up, Marge," said Jennie. "You know Mr. Rockwell.""We've no time to lose," Rockwell continued, looking at his watch. "It's twenty-five minutes to ten now. Thompson said ten, but he might come a bit sooner. We must get Norman away at once. You understand that you're to let Mr. Merriam go to bed in his stead. When Thompson comes you must admit him. You can pretend to be unwilling to do so, but you must let him in without too much fuss. You're to tell him that Norman's not here and has not been here--that there's a man here who looks tremendously like Norman and that at first you fooled Margery into thinking it was Norman."While Rockwell was issuing these instructions Jennie's cheeks had grown hot."I'm not that kind," she cried. "I've never had any one but George." Margery also glowered."I know that, my dear," said Rockwell, mendaciously perhaps but promptly. "But you've got to do what I tell you to-night. You don't care what a fellow like Thompson thinks. He always thinks the worst anyhow. It's to save George. He'll be ruined unless we can fool Thompson completely to-night. It's for George," he repeated. "You'd do a lot for George."Jennie's colour was subsiding. She had uncrossed her legs and was sitting erect. She looked fixedly at Rockwell."Ihavedone a lot for him," she said."I know," said Rockwell. "And you'll do this to-night." He was using his most persuasive tones.Jennie stole an almost timid glance at Merriam.The latter's youthful chivalry was aroused. He was filled with pity for her, mingled with something like admiration on account of her prettiness. He saw her, more or less correctly, as a pathetic victim of real love and a false social system. He smiled at her reassuringly."It'll be all right," he said. "I shan't trouble you at all."Jennie's glance lingered on his face--the face that was so much like Norman's. She saw him for the clean, innocent, naïve boy that he was. He was what George Norman might once have been, long years ago. I am afraid that something akin to interest crept into her look. She dropped her eyes."All right," she said curtly to Rockwell. "I suppose I will.""Jennie, you're a fool!" cried Margery."Shut up, Marge," said Jennie, with whom this seemed to be a frequent locution.Rockwell had already risen."Is George dressed?" he asked."No," said Jennie. "He's too sick.""Come, then," said Rockwell to Merriam. "We must help him into his things."He crossed the small room and passed through the yellow portières. Having been at the apartment earlier in the day with Aunt Mary, he was acquainted with its geography.Merriam rose to follow, but he felt that something more ought to be said to relieve the half-hostile awkwardness of the situation. Jennie's eyes were still cast down."Is he pretty sick?" he asked as he moved across the room. He was not much concerned about Senator Norman, but he could think of no other remark.Jennie raised her eyes and looked at him--an unreadable glance."Pretty sick," she said, almost indifferently.Merriam paused a moment before the portières, looking back, still meeting her eyes.Then he turned his own away and pushed the portières aside. He found himself in a dining room, done entirely in blue, as the sitting room was in yellow. Rockwell was already opening a door on the further side. Merriam quickened his steps and was close behind the older man in entering a small white bedroom.On a single bed therein lay Senator George Norman. Evidently he had heard their voices in the sitting room, for he had raised himself on his elbow.He and Merriam stared at each other in the amazement that is inevitable to two men who find themselves really bearing a striking physical resemblance to each other, however much they may have been forewarned. We are so accustomed to the idea that each of us has a sort of exclusive copyright on his own particular exterior that we cannot seriously believe in anything approaching a replica unless actually confronted with it.The Senator did not look especially "boyish" as he lay there. His ruffled hair was indeed practically untouched with gray, but his cheeks were haggard and feverish, and there were many little wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. For all that Merriam could hardly believe he was not looking into a mirror. The experience was hardly pleasant for either man. "This is what I shall be like some time when I am old and ill," Merriam thought; and the Senator can hardly have escaped the bitter reflection of the man who has left many years behind him: "That is what I was once." Looking closer, Merriam could detect slight differences. The lips and nostrils of his distinguished relative were undoubtedly a little fuller than his own, and--yes, he surely was not flattering himself in thinking that the chin was rounder and weaker. But above all such trivial points the likeness rose overwhelmingly, incredibly complete. Merriam even recognised a similarity of movement as the sick man impatiently twisted himself on the bed.Rockwell was standing silent, also no doubt inspecting the resemblance of which he had made such remarkable use.The Senator was the first to find his tongue."So you're my virtuous double," he said, with a sort of petulant scorn."The voice, too!" Rockwell thought. He almost dreaded to hear Merriam's reply, which would echo the very quality and timbre of the other's speech, as if he were mocking him. But Merriam did not seem to notice. The fact is one cannot judge the sound of one's own voice nor appreciate the similarity in another's tones or in an imitation."I'm the double," Merriam was saying.For a moment longer the Senator stared. Then he laughed. He evidently laughed more easily than Merriam, and somewhat differently. Merriam made a mental note that if he should be involved in any further impersonation he must be careful of his laugh."Well, it's rather convenient just this minute," said Norman, none too courteously, "though it may be damned inconvenient in the end.""We'll help you dress," said Rockwell. "We've come to take you to the hotel, you know.""Yes, I know that all right," said Norman. "If I'm to be a damned reformer, I must get out of this." He laughed again. "Hand me those trousers, will you?"He put his legs out of the bed. He had already dressed himself as far as his shirt. Then he had apparently given the job up and got back into bed."I'm weak as a kitten," he continued, "and I've the deuce of a fever, but I guess I can make it. You've a taxi, of course?""Yes," said Rockwell.He did not tell Norman that the road to the taxi lay through two trapdoors and across a roof. Neither did he mention the fact that Merriam was to stay at Jennie's or allude to Thompson's coming. Perhaps he feared that if Norman knew of Thompson's approach he would prefer to stay where he was and join forces with him again.In a very few minutes Norman was fully dressed--in the evening clothes in which he had left the hotel the night before, on his way, as he supposed, to Mayor Black's. Rockwell tied his white bow for him.During the process of dressing he and Merriam were continually glancing at each other. Neither could resist the attraction. Several times they caught each other at it.At about their third mutual detection, which happened during the tying of the bow, Norman laughed again."We're certainly a pair," he said. "Whether aces or deuces remains to be seen, eh?"Gad, but I'm weak," he added, sinking on to the bed as Rockwell finished his job. "You may have to carry me downstairs.""We'll carry you all right," said Rockwell. "We're all ready, aren't we?""I suppose so," said Norman.Rockwell stooped and picked him up in his arms, exerting himself only moderately, apparently, in so doing. The Senator was light on account of his carefully preserved slenderness, and Rockwell was really very strong."Bring his hat, Merriam," said the latter.Rockwell carried him through the blue dining room into the sitting room, Merriam following with the silk hat. Both Jennie and Margery were standing.Norman waved his hand limply to Jennie over Rockwell's shoulder."Bye-bye, pet," he said. "I'm all in, you see. Sorry to have bothered you like this when I wasn't fit.""Georgie boy!" cried Jennie.With a little run she came up behind Rockwell, caught Norman's hand, and kissed it."You'll let me know how you are? You'll come back?""Course I will," said Norman, though he had promised Aunt Mary that afternoon that he would "cut out" Jennie and the whole of that part of his life to which she belonged.It may be that Jennie suspected something of the sort. There were tears in her bright, soft eyes, and her cheeks were pale enough to make her slight rouging obvious."You will, won't you?" she said. "Come soon, Georgie boy!"Norman only smiled at her and feebly waved again. Rockwell meanwhile was moving towards the hallway. Jennie followed closely, though Margery tried to prevent her."Let them go, Jen!" whispered Margery."Shut up, Marge!" said Jennie almost fiercely.And then the catastrophe which Margery had been trying to forestall, and which Rockwell had not sufficiently foreseen or else had not cared to prevent, occurred: Jennie came face to face with Simpson in the little hallway. She stopped short."You!" she said."Yes, Miss Jennie," said Simpson, looking at her steadily. "I didn't mean you should see me. I came to help take Mr. Norman away. It was me that discovered the plan to catch him here."Jennie knew from Rockwell's earlier explanation that this was true. She tried to give Simpson what she herself would probably have called the "once-over"--a scornful survey from head to foot. But her histrionic purpose failed her. Her eyes fell too quickly."Well, be quick about it," she said. For the first time her voice was harsh.Rockwell meanwhile had carried Norman on into the outer hall--for Simpson had already opened the door--and set him down leaning against the banister."Margery!" he called sharply.Margery, glad of any diversion, advanced quickly:"What do you want?""A stepladder. Got one?""Why--yes!""Go with her, Simpson, and get it," Rockwell commanded."Yes, Mr. Rockwell.""This way," said Margery, and she and Simpson passed by Jennie and Merriam, who stood a little behind Jennie, and disappeared into the flat.Jennie gave one quick look at Norman, who was leaning weakly against the railing staring in front of him, turned away with eyes that were very bright and a little hard, brushed past Merriam, and went back into the sitting room and sat down.Almost at the same moment Simpson returned, carrying a rather tall stepladder and followed by Margery.Norman came out of his apathy and stared. Simpson set the ladder up in the center of the hall, mounted it, and climbed through the trap, which they had left open when they descended."Here. Catch!" said Rockwell. He tossed Norman's silk hat up through the trap, and Simpson caught it.Then he stooped, picked Norman up again, and began to mount the ladder with him."What in hell!" said the sick man.Rockwell did not reply but continued to mount and then hoisted the Senator up so that Simpson could catch him under the arms and draw him through the trap.Finally he spoke to Merriam:"Take this ladder inside. Then you must go straight to bed. He'll be here any time now. I'll 'phone from the hotel when we get there."He swung himself up on to the roof. The trap closed."Well, I'll be damned!" said Margery Milton.Merriam did not like profanity in women, even in Margeries."Very likely you will," he said.Margery looked at him sharply:"You think you're smart, don't you? Are you going to bring that ladder in?"CHAPTER XIXA NEW ANTAGONISTMerriam shut the stepladder together, lifted it into an oblique position, and carried it through the inner hallway into the sitting room, where he stopped, not knowing where to go with it.Jennie was still sitting. She looked up at him. The same expression of interest which had showed in her eyes once before returned to them. She smiled and shifted her position, crossing her knees. But she volunteered no information as to what he should do with the stepladder which he was awkwardly holding.Meanwhile Margery had followed him into the inner hall, closed the door, and put up the chain. She now came past him and pushed aside the portières into the dining room."Bring it this way, please," she said, quite politely.He carried the ladder through the blue dining room into a kitchenette, and thence through a door which Margery held open on to a narrow back porch, from which he had a glimpse of a sort of orderly labyrinth of steep wooden stairs and narrow back porches around the four sides of an inner court.He returned into the kitchenette, which was almost entirely filled up with a gas stove. Margery shut the door."Go into the sitting room and talk to Jen," she said. "I want her to forget about Simpson. I'll change the bed for you.""Thank you," said Merriam, who began to perceive that Miss Milton, in spite of her profanity, had certain admirable qualities.He went through the dining room, hesitated for a moment before the portières--he could not have said why--and then pushed them open.Jennie had risen and was standing beside a table between the windows. The table held a parchment-shaded lamp, a newspaper, a small camera, and a bowl of violets. Merriam had not noticed the flowers before. He remembered the violets worn by the floor clerk at the hotel, and wondered whether George Norman had saved himself trouble at the florist's by ordering two bunches from the same lot, to be sent to different addresses.Jennie was looking down at the flowers. She must have been aware of his presence. If so, she was apparently content that he should have the benefit of a good look at her trim figure and at her face in profile, which was its best view. She had a pretty nose; the artificially heightened colour of her cheeks was charming in this light; and the bright knob of her fair hair over her ear was a most alluring ornament.In a moment she bent gracefully down to smell the violets. As she straightened up she turned to look at him--a serious, appraising look that was somehow intimate. Then she smiled brightly."Come in, Mr.----" (she seemed to forget his name and let it go) "and sit down."She tripped across the room to the davenport and sat, indicating that he was to sit beside her.Merriam wanted both to take that seat and not to take it. He took it.She crossed one leg over the other and looked at him, smiling. One small, squarish, plump hand lay on her knee, ready, Merriam half divined, to be taken if any one should desire to take it. He wondered if it were true that she had "never had any one but George.""I forget your name," she said confidentially."Merriam." It was not said stiffly. He was too much attracted to be stiff. He realised that he was answering her smile."What's your first name?""John.""Then I shall call you 'John.' I don't like last names--and 'Mister' and 'Miss.'""They're stiff," he said, "playing up" alarmingly as on a former occasion.She scrutinised his face, growing grave."You're awfully like George," she said, "except here."She raised her hand, and with the tip of her forefinger touched his chin."You're sterner," she added.It was the very point Merriam himself had noted. He admired her acuteness of observation. And of course he was flattered. But he realised that he was not being particularly stern at that moment."I expect I am," he said, trying to look, if not to be, more so.Jennie moved an inch or two farther away from him, as if a little frightened by the iron qualities of this male."Where's Margery?" she asked."Here," said Margery's voice, with disconcerting patness.She came through the portières and surveyed the two of them with an ironical look that was by no means lost on Merriam. He felt ashamed of himself.But Jennie gave him a quick glance with a little pout in it, as if to say, "What a nuisance! When we were just beginning to get acquainted!"And straightway his shame fled and he smiled at her.Margery, however, was speaking in her most businesslike tones:"I've changed your bed, and you'd better get into it as quick as you can. It's late now.""Yes," said Merriam, rising. "What time is it?"Before he could get out his own timepiece Jennie raised her arm and glanced at a small gold wrist watch."Oh! Five minutes after ten!" she cried. She rose too. "You must hurry.""Yes," said Merriam.He moved to the portières--hesitated. He did not know how to take leave under these novel circumstances."Good night, ladies," he ventured in rather ceremonious tones.To his chagrin both girls burst out laughing."Good night, gentleman!" Jennie called merrily after him, and their renewed giggling pursued him as, in painful confusion, he crossed to the door of the bedroom.He shut that door behind him and rapidly undressed, stimulated to speed in his operations by a vigorous mental kicking of himself as an ass and a "boob." A suit of pajamas, apparently quite new; was laid out on a chair. He got into these and slipped into bed.The moment he was recumbent he realised that he had forgotten to turn out his light. No matter. He had no idea of sleeping. Besides Thompson would be there any minute.Ah, Thompson! With relief his mind seized upon this topic. It was sufficiently absorbing. Any minute now Thompson would burst in, demanding Senator Norman. He, Merriam, would pretend he had never seen Thompson before, never even heard of him. "My name is not Norman," he would say. "My name is Merriam. Who are you? And what do you want?" Thompson would stare, falter, begin to apologise and explain. It was pleasingly dramatic. He pursued the interview. His own conduct therein displayed the quintessence of composure andsavoir faire. Jennie and Margery--yes, both of them were present--would be impressed; they would laugh at him no longer. Thompson was sacrificed mercilessly.But the minutes passed and nothing happened. There was no sign of the real Thompson. What was wrong? The silence of the small, lighted bedroom began to get on Merriam's excited nerves. Had Thompson somehow, in spite of Rockwell's elaborate precautions, got wind of the real situation, discovered their trick before it was played? Had he remained at the hotel, seen the real Norman return, and perceived the whole imposition?A light knock sounded on his door. Merriam jumped and then lay still."Can I come in?"It was Jennie's voice."Yes," he said, embarrassed; but what other reply could be made?Jennie opened the door and came to his bedside. She had changed her attire completely. She now wore the costume of aballerina--a tight pink corsage, very low and sleeveless, with the slightest of pink loops over her shoulders, a short, fluffy pink skirt barely to her knees, pink tights, and pink dancing slippers. Over one of the bright knobs of her hair was a pink rose. She was much more brilliantly rouged than before, and he was conscious of a warm scent of powder and perfume.Merriam lay staring at her without speaking, subconsciously shocked perhaps, but openly bewildered and fascinated.She smiled at him and seemed to be inspecting him in return. Her left hand hung at her side, holding something heavy, but she put out her right and touched his hair--with a single little movement ruffled it."You look very nice lying there," she said in the most natural tones in the world. "How do I look?"She stepped back and pirouetted, turning completely around on her toes. The fluffy pink skirts swung out and circled with her in a most entrancing manner. Merriam was quite dazzled. The white gleam of her back as she turned, the slender white arms, held gracefully away from her sides, in spite of that heavy something in one hand, the tight slimness of the waist, the glimpse of pink legs beneath the circling skirt--he had seen the like only on the stage. It was rather overpowering so close at hand.But in a single rosy moment her revolution was completed. She was facing him again and relaxing down off her toes."How do I look?" she repeated, smiling, with the slightest natural augmentation of her artificial flush.Merriam swallowed. "Stunning!" he ejaculated.She beamed. "Of course I do," she said.Then her face seemed to harden. She stepped closer to the bed so that she was almost bending over him."I've got a part to play," she said. "Well, I'm going to play it." There was a touch of something like defiance in her voice now. "I've cooked up a plot for Mister Thompson. Marge don't like it, but she'll help. I'll show him! You've got to help too."She raised her left hand, displaying the heavy object held therein, which he had not yet identified. He was somewhat startled to see that it was a small revolver."Take it," she said.As he did not instantly put out his arm she tossed it across so that it fell on the bed on the other side of him."It's loaded," she said, "with blanks. Mister Thompson shall see you first. But afterwards Marge and I will see what we can do with him. We'll get him to stay for a little supper, and I'm going to play up to him. I'll do a dance on the table. But when he tries to catch me I'll scream. That's where you come in. You rush out with your revolver and drive him out of the house. Won't it be fun?" she demanded, glowing with excitement. "We'll have the goods on him. He'll keep his face shut after that. Whatever he knows or thinks about George! We'll have a fine story for Mrs. Thompson, if he don't. Oh!"A doorbell had rung loudly in the kitchenette."There he is now. Remember! When I scream!"She was gone from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.Merriam lay as if dazed. This "high life" was proving almost too fast for his bucolic and pedagogical wits. He jumped when the bell rang again more violently. Then he heard the sound of the hall door being opened and a loud masculine voice. Was it Thompson's? A moment or two later the voice became more distinct, and he could hear the girls' voices too. He could not be sure it was Thompson. Was it some one of his "henchmen" instead? Whoever he was, he was in the sitting room. In a moment or two he would almost certainly be coming out to the bedroom.Merriam suddenly remembered the revolver and reached for it and slipped it under the bedclothes. He had several minutes more to wait. The voices became lower. Then they were raised again. Suddenly he heard the rings of the portières clash--the curtains had been sharply flung aside. Margery's thin voice came to him."See for yourself, then!" it said."That's better," said the masculine voice in tones half amused, half irritated. Was it Thompson?Light footsteps and heavy footsteps crossed the dining room together. The bedroom door was opened."Sir," said Margery to Merriam, in tones a little shrill with excitement, "this is a Mr. Crockett. He has some crazy notion about your being Senator Norman. See for yourself, Mr.--Crockett!" She spoke his name as though it were an insult. "Remember, he's sick," she added warningly. Margery was not a bad actress.Crockett! Crockett himself! So much the better! With an effort Merriam steadied his nerves. Mr. Crockett advanced to the bedside--a tall, imposing gentleman in evening clothes with keen blue eyes and a thin remnant of lightish hair."Well, George," he said blandly, "glad to see you. Your little friends are very loyal. But they couldn't keep me away from you."Merriam instantly disliked Mr. Crockett. He plunged with zest into his part."George?" he inquired coldly. "My name's not George!""Oh, come, come, Norman! You're caught. Fess up."But he looked closer. At the same moment Margery lifted a silk shade off the electric bulb by the bureau, and the cold hard light fell full on the younger man's face."Who do you think I am?" said Merriam. "And who are you?" he added in an insolent tone.The impressive financier stared. He bent down and stared harder."Well?" Merriam demanded with all the hauteur he could muster. And then: "Got an eye-ful?"He had preconceived this colloquy in much more dignified phrases, but the insulting tag of boyish slang popped out of him unawares. However, he could not have done better. Probably he could never, by taking thought, have done as well. Senator Norman would assuredly not have used that expression; it had been coined long since his day in Boyville.Mr. Crockett was convinced. But he was a gentleman of considerable imperturbability. He merely straightened up and asked:"Who are you?"The younger man suddenly decided not to give his name. There was that in Mr. Crockett's blue eyes that suggested an uncomfortable pertinacity and ruthlessness in following up any clue he might get hold of."What business is that of yours?" said Merriam.Mr. Crockett blinked. He was doubtless unaccustomed to such replies. But he merely asked another question:"Where are you from?""Down State," said Merriam. That was both insolent and safe: Illinois is tolerably sizable."How old are you?"Merriam saw an advantage in answering this query truthfully."Twenty-eight," he said. "What of it?""You don't happen to be a young nephew or cousin of Senator Norman's, do you?" asked Mr. Crockett, hitting the bull's-eye with his first arrow.Merriam, somewhat startled, countered with a flat denial:"No, I'm not. I've been told I look like him," he added. "Somebody took me for him last night. But I'm only related to him through Adam and Eve--so far as I know."Mr. Crockett scanned him narrowly:"Somebody took you for Norman last night?""They sure did." Having struck the slangy note by accident, Merriam was enough of an actor to keep it up."I should be much obliged if you will tell me about that."Merriam's self-confidence returned. He had been realising how little this dialogue was developing in accordance with his pleasing anticipations. Instead of the rôle of a polished man of the world, delivering brilliant thrusts of irony and reducing his interlocutor to apologetic confusion, he had stumbled inadvertently on that of a slangy youth, submitting to be catechised by an individual who remained singularly composed and had proved dangerously shrewd. But at last he had led up adroitly enough to the story which Rockwell had charged him to tell. He set himself to tell it in character:"Well, if you want to know, I came up to the City on business--yesterday. When I got my work done I thought I'd have a little fun--see the sights, you know. I don't know this town much, but I got hold of a taxi man who took me around. I looked in at several places. I guess I had a pretty good time. I don't remember much. I had more highballs than I'm used to. We ended up at a dance hall somewhere. There were some pretty girls there. Somebody said, 'You're Senator Norman, aren't you?' That struck me as funny. 'Sure, I am,' I said, and I kept it up. Soon everybody in the place was calling me 'Senator.' I treated the gang. Then I got into a fight. I don't remember how. Somebody knocked me down, I think. But I wasn't hurt any. After that I picked up this little girl that lives here--the one in pink,--and she brought me home with her. I had a bad head on this morning and a bad cold besides. The little girl is a good sport. She let me stay here all day. I'm going down home in the morning.""I see," said Mr. Crockett slowly.Merriam had need of all his self-command to conceal his elation as he perceived that his formidable antagonist had swallowed bait, hook, and sinker, as the idiom goes. He was obviously piecing Merriam's narrative together in his mind with theTidbitsstory about Norman. Margery, who had remained standing unobtrusive and silent by the bureau, flashed Merriam a commendatory glance.Stimulated thereby, he pertly followed up his advantage:"Care for any more of my personal memoirs?""No, thank you," said Mr. Crockett with a rather sour smile. "Good night, Mr.--Mr.----"He was angling for the name again, but with a feebleness unworthy of a great financier."Mr. Blank," said Merriam. "I've a bit of a reputation to keep up in my own home town.""I see," said Mr. Crockett again. "Well, I'm sorry to have intruded. Take care of your reputation!"He turned away towards the door.In that open door Jennie had stood listening. Now her cue had come. She took it promptly. She advanced into the bedroom, stepping lightly on her toes, her pink skirt waving prettily. She smiled her brightest smile at Mr. Crockett."He isn't Senator Norman, is he?" she cried gaily."He certainly isn't," said Mr. Crockett, looking at her. No man could have helped looking at her."You were awfully rude about it," said Jennie, pouting. She had stopped about two feet in front of him."Was I?""I should say you were. Awfully! You ought to do something to make up for it.""What ought I to do?" asked Mr. Crockett."You might stay for a little supper with Margery and me.""Might I?"Unexpectedly Mr. Crockett looked away from Jennie. He looked at Merriam, thoughtfully--a disconcerting thoughtfulness. Then he turned back to Jennie."Perhaps I might," he said, with a faint smile.Merriam read his mind. He was sure he did. The man might or might not be slightly attracted by Jennie's prettiness, but what he was thinking was that he would be able to get more out of her than he had been able to get from Merriam. The latter at once perceived that Jennie's melodramatic scheme was dangerous and silly. It might have been all right with Thompson, but not with this man. She hadn't sense enough to see the difference. But he could do nothing to stop her.Already she had cried, "Oh, goody!" like a little girl.She stepped past Mr. Crockett, brushing him with her skirts, put her hands on his shoulders and began playfully to push him towards the dining room."It's all ready," she was saying. "We got it for the man inside, but he says he isn't hungry. We have sandwiches and olives and cheese and beer--and there's whiskey, if you like.""I'll take beer," said Mr. Crockett, mustering a certain lightness and allowing himself to be pushed.Merriam looked at Margery, still standing by the bureau. She too had changed her costume. She now wore an evening dress of black and gold, in which she looked very well, rather brilliant, in fact. But what Merriam noticed was the understanding look in her eyes. She had read Mr. Crockett's purpose as clearly as he had."We'll be careful," she said. "You did fine. Shall I turn out the light?""No," said Merriam. "Leave it, please."She walked out of the room and closed the door.
CHAPTER XVIII
JENNIE
Rockwell knocked twice. A girl with a thin, dark face peeped out.
"Hello, Margery," said Rockwell.
"Oh, how d'you do?" said the girl, recognizing the speaker. Relief was mingled in her tone with continuing caution. "Who's with you?"
"Friends," said Rockwell. "Mr. Merriam, the Senator's double. And Simpson."
"Simpson can't come here!" said Margery sharply.
Merriam glanced at Simpson and was amazed to see how moved he was. He had a sense that the man could hardly keep himself from trembling.
"He's come to help take Norman away," said Rockwell. "He need go no farther than the hall. Come, Margery, let us in. We can't stand here all night. I'll explain to both of you inside. I'm George's friend, you know."
"Well!" Still unwillingly Margery released the chain and moved back, opening the door for them.
As they stepped inside she stared at Merriam.
"The devil!" she exclaimed.
"No," said the young man, "my name's Merriam. How do you do, Miss Milton?"
He looked at Margery almost as curiously as she was looking at him. He was really as innocent as Mollie June--more so, in fact, not being married,--and Margery was the first member of the demi-monde or the near demimonde with whom he had ever had personal contact. He found her disappointing. She was thin to the point of angularity, in a trying yellow negligee, with straight black hair, black eyes that were unpleasantly direct, and a lean dark face that was undeniably hard.
For a moment only she stared. Then she shut the door and spoke to Simpson:
"You stay here!"
"Yes," said Simpson, with more than servitorial humility.
Rockwell was advancing into the sitting room, which opened immediately off the tiny hall, and Merriam, feeling himself dismissed by Miss Milton, followed.
Merriam's sole first impression of the sitting room was of a soft, rather agreeable harmony in yellow. The wall paper, the hangings, the upholstery of chairs and davenport, the shades of lights were all in mild tints of that pleasant colour. Probably Margery's yellow negligee was intended to fit into this ensemble.
But he had no time for detailed observation. For as they stepped forward the yellow portières at one side of the room parted, and another girl appeared between them--undoubtedly Jennie.
This time he was surprised but hardly disappointed. The figure between the portières was that of a stage parlour maid--just the right height for a soubrette and just pleasantly, youthfully slender, yet rounded, in a trim-fitting dress of some black material, cut rather low at the throat and edged with white, with a ridiculously small, purely ornamental, white apron with pockets. Black-silk-stockinged ankles and black, high-heeled satin pumps completed a picture that was both chic and demure. Merriam remembered that it was as a parlour maid that Norman had first known Jennie and guessed that this costume had been assumed for his benefit.
In a moment the portières closed behind her. She was looking at the older man, having barely glanced at Merriam.
"How do, Mr. Rockwell," she said.
Merriam, almost with alarm, recognised the tones that had so piqued him over the telephone.
Then she turned to him.
"This is---- Gee, but you're like him! I wouldn't have believed it."
"Miss Higgins, Mr. Merriam," said Rockwell tardily.
Merriam responded awkwardly:
"How do you do, Miss----"
"'Miss Jennie' will do," interrupted Jennie.
(Merriam remembered uncomfortably how Mollie June had hit upon a similar "compromise.")
"I ain't partial to 'Higgins,'" Jennie added. "I'm thinking of changing it to 'Montmorency.' Wouldn't 'Jennie Montmorency' be nice, Mr. Rockwell?"
"I don't think it fits very well," said Rockwell. "You'd better change it to Simpson."
Jennie coloured. She coloured easily, as Merriam was to learn. Now that she had turned again to Rockwell he had a chance to look at her face. She was an exceedingly pretty blonde. Her throat was attractively rounded, her shoulders also. Those shoulders might be unpleasant when she was older and stouter, but at present they were charming. Her chin and cheeks were also daintily full--quite the opposite of Margery Milton's. The cheeks were pink, slightly heightened with rouge perhaps but not with paint. The eyes were softly, brightly blue. The hair fair and smoothly wavy, if one may attempt to express a nuance by combining contradictory terms. In short, she was, as some of her admirers undoubtedly expressed it, "not a bit hard to look at."
For a moment Jennie's colour flooded. Then came her retort to Rockwell:
"Mind your own business," she said.
The words were sharp, but somehow the tone was not. The voice was still soft and--warm. It is the only word. It was the voice one might attribute to a kitten, if a kitten were gifted with articulate speech.
Rockwell only laughed. At the same moment Margery Milton entered from the hall, where she had presumably been impressing upon Simpson the necessity of remaining in strict hiding.
Jennie glanced at her friend.
"Well," she said, "may as well sit down."
She dropped into a chair and crossed one leg over the other.
"You've come to take Georgie away," she continued as the others sat down.
"Yes," said Rockwell. "Listen, Jennie. You too, Margery," and he began to explain the new situation which had resulted primarily from Margery's confidences to Thompson. He did not soften this point in his relation.
"See what your gabbling's done," said Jennie, without anger, to her friend when he had finished. "You always talk too much."
"I can talk if I please," said Margery sullenly.
"It will pay you better to keep still this time," said Rockwell.
"Pay me? How much?" demanded Margery promptly.
"Say a hundred dollars."
"A hundred----! I'm mum as a stone image. When do I get it, though?"
"Here's twenty now on account." Rockwell held out a yellow-backed bill, which Margery quickly accepted. "You get the rest when this is all over."
"How do I know I get the rest?"
"Shut up, Marge," said Jennie. "You know Mr. Rockwell."
"We've no time to lose," Rockwell continued, looking at his watch. "It's twenty-five minutes to ten now. Thompson said ten, but he might come a bit sooner. We must get Norman away at once. You understand that you're to let Mr. Merriam go to bed in his stead. When Thompson comes you must admit him. You can pretend to be unwilling to do so, but you must let him in without too much fuss. You're to tell him that Norman's not here and has not been here--that there's a man here who looks tremendously like Norman and that at first you fooled Margery into thinking it was Norman."
While Rockwell was issuing these instructions Jennie's cheeks had grown hot.
"I'm not that kind," she cried. "I've never had any one but George." Margery also glowered.
"I know that, my dear," said Rockwell, mendaciously perhaps but promptly. "But you've got to do what I tell you to-night. You don't care what a fellow like Thompson thinks. He always thinks the worst anyhow. It's to save George. He'll be ruined unless we can fool Thompson completely to-night. It's for George," he repeated. "You'd do a lot for George."
Jennie's colour was subsiding. She had uncrossed her legs and was sitting erect. She looked fixedly at Rockwell.
"Ihavedone a lot for him," she said.
"I know," said Rockwell. "And you'll do this to-night." He was using his most persuasive tones.
Jennie stole an almost timid glance at Merriam.
The latter's youthful chivalry was aroused. He was filled with pity for her, mingled with something like admiration on account of her prettiness. He saw her, more or less correctly, as a pathetic victim of real love and a false social system. He smiled at her reassuringly.
"It'll be all right," he said. "I shan't trouble you at all."
Jennie's glance lingered on his face--the face that was so much like Norman's. She saw him for the clean, innocent, naïve boy that he was. He was what George Norman might once have been, long years ago. I am afraid that something akin to interest crept into her look. She dropped her eyes.
"All right," she said curtly to Rockwell. "I suppose I will."
"Jennie, you're a fool!" cried Margery.
"Shut up, Marge," said Jennie, with whom this seemed to be a frequent locution.
Rockwell had already risen.
"Is George dressed?" he asked.
"No," said Jennie. "He's too sick."
"Come, then," said Rockwell to Merriam. "We must help him into his things."
He crossed the small room and passed through the yellow portières. Having been at the apartment earlier in the day with Aunt Mary, he was acquainted with its geography.
Merriam rose to follow, but he felt that something more ought to be said to relieve the half-hostile awkwardness of the situation. Jennie's eyes were still cast down.
"Is he pretty sick?" he asked as he moved across the room. He was not much concerned about Senator Norman, but he could think of no other remark.
Jennie raised her eyes and looked at him--an unreadable glance.
"Pretty sick," she said, almost indifferently.
Merriam paused a moment before the portières, looking back, still meeting her eyes.
Then he turned his own away and pushed the portières aside. He found himself in a dining room, done entirely in blue, as the sitting room was in yellow. Rockwell was already opening a door on the further side. Merriam quickened his steps and was close behind the older man in entering a small white bedroom.
On a single bed therein lay Senator George Norman. Evidently he had heard their voices in the sitting room, for he had raised himself on his elbow.
He and Merriam stared at each other in the amazement that is inevitable to two men who find themselves really bearing a striking physical resemblance to each other, however much they may have been forewarned. We are so accustomed to the idea that each of us has a sort of exclusive copyright on his own particular exterior that we cannot seriously believe in anything approaching a replica unless actually confronted with it.
The Senator did not look especially "boyish" as he lay there. His ruffled hair was indeed practically untouched with gray, but his cheeks were haggard and feverish, and there were many little wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. For all that Merriam could hardly believe he was not looking into a mirror. The experience was hardly pleasant for either man. "This is what I shall be like some time when I am old and ill," Merriam thought; and the Senator can hardly have escaped the bitter reflection of the man who has left many years behind him: "That is what I was once." Looking closer, Merriam could detect slight differences. The lips and nostrils of his distinguished relative were undoubtedly a little fuller than his own, and--yes, he surely was not flattering himself in thinking that the chin was rounder and weaker. But above all such trivial points the likeness rose overwhelmingly, incredibly complete. Merriam even recognised a similarity of movement as the sick man impatiently twisted himself on the bed.
Rockwell was standing silent, also no doubt inspecting the resemblance of which he had made such remarkable use.
The Senator was the first to find his tongue.
"So you're my virtuous double," he said, with a sort of petulant scorn.
"The voice, too!" Rockwell thought. He almost dreaded to hear Merriam's reply, which would echo the very quality and timbre of the other's speech, as if he were mocking him. But Merriam did not seem to notice. The fact is one cannot judge the sound of one's own voice nor appreciate the similarity in another's tones or in an imitation.
"I'm the double," Merriam was saying.
For a moment longer the Senator stared. Then he laughed. He evidently laughed more easily than Merriam, and somewhat differently. Merriam made a mental note that if he should be involved in any further impersonation he must be careful of his laugh.
"Well, it's rather convenient just this minute," said Norman, none too courteously, "though it may be damned inconvenient in the end."
"We'll help you dress," said Rockwell. "We've come to take you to the hotel, you know."
"Yes, I know that all right," said Norman. "If I'm to be a damned reformer, I must get out of this." He laughed again. "Hand me those trousers, will you?"
He put his legs out of the bed. He had already dressed himself as far as his shirt. Then he had apparently given the job up and got back into bed.
"I'm weak as a kitten," he continued, "and I've the deuce of a fever, but I guess I can make it. You've a taxi, of course?"
"Yes," said Rockwell.
He did not tell Norman that the road to the taxi lay through two trapdoors and across a roof. Neither did he mention the fact that Merriam was to stay at Jennie's or allude to Thompson's coming. Perhaps he feared that if Norman knew of Thompson's approach he would prefer to stay where he was and join forces with him again.
In a very few minutes Norman was fully dressed--in the evening clothes in which he had left the hotel the night before, on his way, as he supposed, to Mayor Black's. Rockwell tied his white bow for him.
During the process of dressing he and Merriam were continually glancing at each other. Neither could resist the attraction. Several times they caught each other at it.
At about their third mutual detection, which happened during the tying of the bow, Norman laughed again.
"We're certainly a pair," he said. "Whether aces or deuces remains to be seen, eh?
"Gad, but I'm weak," he added, sinking on to the bed as Rockwell finished his job. "You may have to carry me downstairs."
"We'll carry you all right," said Rockwell. "We're all ready, aren't we?"
"I suppose so," said Norman.
Rockwell stooped and picked him up in his arms, exerting himself only moderately, apparently, in so doing. The Senator was light on account of his carefully preserved slenderness, and Rockwell was really very strong.
"Bring his hat, Merriam," said the latter.
Rockwell carried him through the blue dining room into the sitting room, Merriam following with the silk hat. Both Jennie and Margery were standing.
Norman waved his hand limply to Jennie over Rockwell's shoulder.
"Bye-bye, pet," he said. "I'm all in, you see. Sorry to have bothered you like this when I wasn't fit."
"Georgie boy!" cried Jennie.
With a little run she came up behind Rockwell, caught Norman's hand, and kissed it.
"You'll let me know how you are? You'll come back?"
"Course I will," said Norman, though he had promised Aunt Mary that afternoon that he would "cut out" Jennie and the whole of that part of his life to which she belonged.
It may be that Jennie suspected something of the sort. There were tears in her bright, soft eyes, and her cheeks were pale enough to make her slight rouging obvious.
"You will, won't you?" she said. "Come soon, Georgie boy!"
Norman only smiled at her and feebly waved again. Rockwell meanwhile was moving towards the hallway. Jennie followed closely, though Margery tried to prevent her.
"Let them go, Jen!" whispered Margery.
"Shut up, Marge!" said Jennie almost fiercely.
And then the catastrophe which Margery had been trying to forestall, and which Rockwell had not sufficiently foreseen or else had not cared to prevent, occurred: Jennie came face to face with Simpson in the little hallway. She stopped short.
"You!" she said.
"Yes, Miss Jennie," said Simpson, looking at her steadily. "I didn't mean you should see me. I came to help take Mr. Norman away. It was me that discovered the plan to catch him here."
Jennie knew from Rockwell's earlier explanation that this was true. She tried to give Simpson what she herself would probably have called the "once-over"--a scornful survey from head to foot. But her histrionic purpose failed her. Her eyes fell too quickly.
"Well, be quick about it," she said. For the first time her voice was harsh.
Rockwell meanwhile had carried Norman on into the outer hall--for Simpson had already opened the door--and set him down leaning against the banister.
"Margery!" he called sharply.
Margery, glad of any diversion, advanced quickly:
"What do you want?"
"A stepladder. Got one?"
"Why--yes!"
"Go with her, Simpson, and get it," Rockwell commanded.
"Yes, Mr. Rockwell."
"This way," said Margery, and she and Simpson passed by Jennie and Merriam, who stood a little behind Jennie, and disappeared into the flat.
Jennie gave one quick look at Norman, who was leaning weakly against the railing staring in front of him, turned away with eyes that were very bright and a little hard, brushed past Merriam, and went back into the sitting room and sat down.
Almost at the same moment Simpson returned, carrying a rather tall stepladder and followed by Margery.
Norman came out of his apathy and stared. Simpson set the ladder up in the center of the hall, mounted it, and climbed through the trap, which they had left open when they descended.
"Here. Catch!" said Rockwell. He tossed Norman's silk hat up through the trap, and Simpson caught it.
Then he stooped, picked Norman up again, and began to mount the ladder with him.
"What in hell!" said the sick man.
Rockwell did not reply but continued to mount and then hoisted the Senator up so that Simpson could catch him under the arms and draw him through the trap.
Finally he spoke to Merriam:
"Take this ladder inside. Then you must go straight to bed. He'll be here any time now. I'll 'phone from the hotel when we get there."
He swung himself up on to the roof. The trap closed.
"Well, I'll be damned!" said Margery Milton.
Merriam did not like profanity in women, even in Margeries.
"Very likely you will," he said.
Margery looked at him sharply:
"You think you're smart, don't you? Are you going to bring that ladder in?"
CHAPTER XIX
A NEW ANTAGONIST
Merriam shut the stepladder together, lifted it into an oblique position, and carried it through the inner hallway into the sitting room, where he stopped, not knowing where to go with it.
Jennie was still sitting. She looked up at him. The same expression of interest which had showed in her eyes once before returned to them. She smiled and shifted her position, crossing her knees. But she volunteered no information as to what he should do with the stepladder which he was awkwardly holding.
Meanwhile Margery had followed him into the inner hall, closed the door, and put up the chain. She now came past him and pushed aside the portières into the dining room.
"Bring it this way, please," she said, quite politely.
He carried the ladder through the blue dining room into a kitchenette, and thence through a door which Margery held open on to a narrow back porch, from which he had a glimpse of a sort of orderly labyrinth of steep wooden stairs and narrow back porches around the four sides of an inner court.
He returned into the kitchenette, which was almost entirely filled up with a gas stove. Margery shut the door.
"Go into the sitting room and talk to Jen," she said. "I want her to forget about Simpson. I'll change the bed for you."
"Thank you," said Merriam, who began to perceive that Miss Milton, in spite of her profanity, had certain admirable qualities.
He went through the dining room, hesitated for a moment before the portières--he could not have said why--and then pushed them open.
Jennie had risen and was standing beside a table between the windows. The table held a parchment-shaded lamp, a newspaper, a small camera, and a bowl of violets. Merriam had not noticed the flowers before. He remembered the violets worn by the floor clerk at the hotel, and wondered whether George Norman had saved himself trouble at the florist's by ordering two bunches from the same lot, to be sent to different addresses.
Jennie was looking down at the flowers. She must have been aware of his presence. If so, she was apparently content that he should have the benefit of a good look at her trim figure and at her face in profile, which was its best view. She had a pretty nose; the artificially heightened colour of her cheeks was charming in this light; and the bright knob of her fair hair over her ear was a most alluring ornament.
In a moment she bent gracefully down to smell the violets. As she straightened up she turned to look at him--a serious, appraising look that was somehow intimate. Then she smiled brightly.
"Come in, Mr.----" (she seemed to forget his name and let it go) "and sit down."
She tripped across the room to the davenport and sat, indicating that he was to sit beside her.
Merriam wanted both to take that seat and not to take it. He took it.
She crossed one leg over the other and looked at him, smiling. One small, squarish, plump hand lay on her knee, ready, Merriam half divined, to be taken if any one should desire to take it. He wondered if it were true that she had "never had any one but George."
"I forget your name," she said confidentially.
"Merriam." It was not said stiffly. He was too much attracted to be stiff. He realised that he was answering her smile.
"What's your first name?"
"John."
"Then I shall call you 'John.' I don't like last names--and 'Mister' and 'Miss.'"
"They're stiff," he said, "playing up" alarmingly as on a former occasion.
She scrutinised his face, growing grave.
"You're awfully like George," she said, "except here."
She raised her hand, and with the tip of her forefinger touched his chin.
"You're sterner," she added.
It was the very point Merriam himself had noted. He admired her acuteness of observation. And of course he was flattered. But he realised that he was not being particularly stern at that moment.
"I expect I am," he said, trying to look, if not to be, more so.
Jennie moved an inch or two farther away from him, as if a little frightened by the iron qualities of this male.
"Where's Margery?" she asked.
"Here," said Margery's voice, with disconcerting patness.
She came through the portières and surveyed the two of them with an ironical look that was by no means lost on Merriam. He felt ashamed of himself.
But Jennie gave him a quick glance with a little pout in it, as if to say, "What a nuisance! When we were just beginning to get acquainted!"
And straightway his shame fled and he smiled at her.
Margery, however, was speaking in her most businesslike tones:
"I've changed your bed, and you'd better get into it as quick as you can. It's late now."
"Yes," said Merriam, rising. "What time is it?"
Before he could get out his own timepiece Jennie raised her arm and glanced at a small gold wrist watch.
"Oh! Five minutes after ten!" she cried. She rose too. "You must hurry."
"Yes," said Merriam.
He moved to the portières--hesitated. He did not know how to take leave under these novel circumstances.
"Good night, ladies," he ventured in rather ceremonious tones.
To his chagrin both girls burst out laughing.
"Good night, gentleman!" Jennie called merrily after him, and their renewed giggling pursued him as, in painful confusion, he crossed to the door of the bedroom.
He shut that door behind him and rapidly undressed, stimulated to speed in his operations by a vigorous mental kicking of himself as an ass and a "boob." A suit of pajamas, apparently quite new; was laid out on a chair. He got into these and slipped into bed.
The moment he was recumbent he realised that he had forgotten to turn out his light. No matter. He had no idea of sleeping. Besides Thompson would be there any minute.
Ah, Thompson! With relief his mind seized upon this topic. It was sufficiently absorbing. Any minute now Thompson would burst in, demanding Senator Norman. He, Merriam, would pretend he had never seen Thompson before, never even heard of him. "My name is not Norman," he would say. "My name is Merriam. Who are you? And what do you want?" Thompson would stare, falter, begin to apologise and explain. It was pleasingly dramatic. He pursued the interview. His own conduct therein displayed the quintessence of composure andsavoir faire. Jennie and Margery--yes, both of them were present--would be impressed; they would laugh at him no longer. Thompson was sacrificed mercilessly.
But the minutes passed and nothing happened. There was no sign of the real Thompson. What was wrong? The silence of the small, lighted bedroom began to get on Merriam's excited nerves. Had Thompson somehow, in spite of Rockwell's elaborate precautions, got wind of the real situation, discovered their trick before it was played? Had he remained at the hotel, seen the real Norman return, and perceived the whole imposition?
A light knock sounded on his door. Merriam jumped and then lay still.
"Can I come in?"
It was Jennie's voice.
"Yes," he said, embarrassed; but what other reply could be made?
Jennie opened the door and came to his bedside. She had changed her attire completely. She now wore the costume of aballerina--a tight pink corsage, very low and sleeveless, with the slightest of pink loops over her shoulders, a short, fluffy pink skirt barely to her knees, pink tights, and pink dancing slippers. Over one of the bright knobs of her hair was a pink rose. She was much more brilliantly rouged than before, and he was conscious of a warm scent of powder and perfume.
Merriam lay staring at her without speaking, subconsciously shocked perhaps, but openly bewildered and fascinated.
She smiled at him and seemed to be inspecting him in return. Her left hand hung at her side, holding something heavy, but she put out her right and touched his hair--with a single little movement ruffled it.
"You look very nice lying there," she said in the most natural tones in the world. "How do I look?"
She stepped back and pirouetted, turning completely around on her toes. The fluffy pink skirts swung out and circled with her in a most entrancing manner. Merriam was quite dazzled. The white gleam of her back as she turned, the slender white arms, held gracefully away from her sides, in spite of that heavy something in one hand, the tight slimness of the waist, the glimpse of pink legs beneath the circling skirt--he had seen the like only on the stage. It was rather overpowering so close at hand.
But in a single rosy moment her revolution was completed. She was facing him again and relaxing down off her toes.
"How do I look?" she repeated, smiling, with the slightest natural augmentation of her artificial flush.
Merriam swallowed. "Stunning!" he ejaculated.
She beamed. "Of course I do," she said.
Then her face seemed to harden. She stepped closer to the bed so that she was almost bending over him.
"I've got a part to play," she said. "Well, I'm going to play it." There was a touch of something like defiance in her voice now. "I've cooked up a plot for Mister Thompson. Marge don't like it, but she'll help. I'll show him! You've got to help too."
She raised her left hand, displaying the heavy object held therein, which he had not yet identified. He was somewhat startled to see that it was a small revolver.
"Take it," she said.
As he did not instantly put out his arm she tossed it across so that it fell on the bed on the other side of him.
"It's loaded," she said, "with blanks. Mister Thompson shall see you first. But afterwards Marge and I will see what we can do with him. We'll get him to stay for a little supper, and I'm going to play up to him. I'll do a dance on the table. But when he tries to catch me I'll scream. That's where you come in. You rush out with your revolver and drive him out of the house. Won't it be fun?" she demanded, glowing with excitement. "We'll have the goods on him. He'll keep his face shut after that. Whatever he knows or thinks about George! We'll have a fine story for Mrs. Thompson, if he don't. Oh!"
A doorbell had rung loudly in the kitchenette.
"There he is now. Remember! When I scream!"
She was gone from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Merriam lay as if dazed. This "high life" was proving almost too fast for his bucolic and pedagogical wits. He jumped when the bell rang again more violently. Then he heard the sound of the hall door being opened and a loud masculine voice. Was it Thompson's? A moment or two later the voice became more distinct, and he could hear the girls' voices too. He could not be sure it was Thompson. Was it some one of his "henchmen" instead? Whoever he was, he was in the sitting room. In a moment or two he would almost certainly be coming out to the bedroom.
Merriam suddenly remembered the revolver and reached for it and slipped it under the bedclothes. He had several minutes more to wait. The voices became lower. Then they were raised again. Suddenly he heard the rings of the portières clash--the curtains had been sharply flung aside. Margery's thin voice came to him.
"See for yourself, then!" it said.
"That's better," said the masculine voice in tones half amused, half irritated. Was it Thompson?
Light footsteps and heavy footsteps crossed the dining room together. The bedroom door was opened.
"Sir," said Margery to Merriam, in tones a little shrill with excitement, "this is a Mr. Crockett. He has some crazy notion about your being Senator Norman. See for yourself, Mr.--Crockett!" She spoke his name as though it were an insult. "Remember, he's sick," she added warningly. Margery was not a bad actress.
Crockett! Crockett himself! So much the better! With an effort Merriam steadied his nerves. Mr. Crockett advanced to the bedside--a tall, imposing gentleman in evening clothes with keen blue eyes and a thin remnant of lightish hair.
"Well, George," he said blandly, "glad to see you. Your little friends are very loyal. But they couldn't keep me away from you."
Merriam instantly disliked Mr. Crockett. He plunged with zest into his part.
"George?" he inquired coldly. "My name's not George!"
"Oh, come, come, Norman! You're caught. Fess up."
But he looked closer. At the same moment Margery lifted a silk shade off the electric bulb by the bureau, and the cold hard light fell full on the younger man's face.
"Who do you think I am?" said Merriam. "And who are you?" he added in an insolent tone.
The impressive financier stared. He bent down and stared harder.
"Well?" Merriam demanded with all the hauteur he could muster. And then: "Got an eye-ful?"
He had preconceived this colloquy in much more dignified phrases, but the insulting tag of boyish slang popped out of him unawares. However, he could not have done better. Probably he could never, by taking thought, have done as well. Senator Norman would assuredly not have used that expression; it had been coined long since his day in Boyville.
Mr. Crockett was convinced. But he was a gentleman of considerable imperturbability. He merely straightened up and asked:
"Who are you?"
The younger man suddenly decided not to give his name. There was that in Mr. Crockett's blue eyes that suggested an uncomfortable pertinacity and ruthlessness in following up any clue he might get hold of.
"What business is that of yours?" said Merriam.
Mr. Crockett blinked. He was doubtless unaccustomed to such replies. But he merely asked another question:
"Where are you from?"
"Down State," said Merriam. That was both insolent and safe: Illinois is tolerably sizable.
"How old are you?"
Merriam saw an advantage in answering this query truthfully.
"Twenty-eight," he said. "What of it?"
"You don't happen to be a young nephew or cousin of Senator Norman's, do you?" asked Mr. Crockett, hitting the bull's-eye with his first arrow.
Merriam, somewhat startled, countered with a flat denial:
"No, I'm not. I've been told I look like him," he added. "Somebody took me for him last night. But I'm only related to him through Adam and Eve--so far as I know."
Mr. Crockett scanned him narrowly:
"Somebody took you for Norman last night?"
"They sure did." Having struck the slangy note by accident, Merriam was enough of an actor to keep it up.
"I should be much obliged if you will tell me about that."
Merriam's self-confidence returned. He had been realising how little this dialogue was developing in accordance with his pleasing anticipations. Instead of the rôle of a polished man of the world, delivering brilliant thrusts of irony and reducing his interlocutor to apologetic confusion, he had stumbled inadvertently on that of a slangy youth, submitting to be catechised by an individual who remained singularly composed and had proved dangerously shrewd. But at last he had led up adroitly enough to the story which Rockwell had charged him to tell. He set himself to tell it in character:
"Well, if you want to know, I came up to the City on business--yesterday. When I got my work done I thought I'd have a little fun--see the sights, you know. I don't know this town much, but I got hold of a taxi man who took me around. I looked in at several places. I guess I had a pretty good time. I don't remember much. I had more highballs than I'm used to. We ended up at a dance hall somewhere. There were some pretty girls there. Somebody said, 'You're Senator Norman, aren't you?' That struck me as funny. 'Sure, I am,' I said, and I kept it up. Soon everybody in the place was calling me 'Senator.' I treated the gang. Then I got into a fight. I don't remember how. Somebody knocked me down, I think. But I wasn't hurt any. After that I picked up this little girl that lives here--the one in pink,--and she brought me home with her. I had a bad head on this morning and a bad cold besides. The little girl is a good sport. She let me stay here all day. I'm going down home in the morning."
"I see," said Mr. Crockett slowly.
Merriam had need of all his self-command to conceal his elation as he perceived that his formidable antagonist had swallowed bait, hook, and sinker, as the idiom goes. He was obviously piecing Merriam's narrative together in his mind with theTidbitsstory about Norman. Margery, who had remained standing unobtrusive and silent by the bureau, flashed Merriam a commendatory glance.
Stimulated thereby, he pertly followed up his advantage:
"Care for any more of my personal memoirs?"
"No, thank you," said Mr. Crockett with a rather sour smile. "Good night, Mr.--Mr.----"
He was angling for the name again, but with a feebleness unworthy of a great financier.
"Mr. Blank," said Merriam. "I've a bit of a reputation to keep up in my own home town."
"I see," said Mr. Crockett again. "Well, I'm sorry to have intruded. Take care of your reputation!"
He turned away towards the door.
In that open door Jennie had stood listening. Now her cue had come. She took it promptly. She advanced into the bedroom, stepping lightly on her toes, her pink skirt waving prettily. She smiled her brightest smile at Mr. Crockett.
"He isn't Senator Norman, is he?" she cried gaily.
"He certainly isn't," said Mr. Crockett, looking at her. No man could have helped looking at her.
"You were awfully rude about it," said Jennie, pouting. She had stopped about two feet in front of him.
"Was I?"
"I should say you were. Awfully! You ought to do something to make up for it."
"What ought I to do?" asked Mr. Crockett.
"You might stay for a little supper with Margery and me."
"Might I?"
Unexpectedly Mr. Crockett looked away from Jennie. He looked at Merriam, thoughtfully--a disconcerting thoughtfulness. Then he turned back to Jennie.
"Perhaps I might," he said, with a faint smile.
Merriam read his mind. He was sure he did. The man might or might not be slightly attracted by Jennie's prettiness, but what he was thinking was that he would be able to get more out of her than he had been able to get from Merriam. The latter at once perceived that Jennie's melodramatic scheme was dangerous and silly. It might have been all right with Thompson, but not with this man. She hadn't sense enough to see the difference. But he could do nothing to stop her.
Already she had cried, "Oh, goody!" like a little girl.
She stepped past Mr. Crockett, brushing him with her skirts, put her hands on his shoulders and began playfully to push him towards the dining room.
"It's all ready," she was saying. "We got it for the man inside, but he says he isn't hungry. We have sandwiches and olives and cheese and beer--and there's whiskey, if you like."
"I'll take beer," said Mr. Crockett, mustering a certain lightness and allowing himself to be pushed.
Merriam looked at Margery, still standing by the bureau. She too had changed her costume. She now wore an evening dress of black and gold, in which she looked very well, rather brilliant, in fact. But what Merriam noticed was the understanding look in her eyes. She had read Mr. Crockett's purpose as clearly as he had.
"We'll be careful," she said. "You did fine. Shall I turn out the light?"
"No," said Merriam. "Leave it, please."
She walked out of the room and closed the door.