They kept him two days in the padded room on Dickie’s recommendation, who made Bob out as highly dangerous. “Powerful and vicious,” he described him to the suave individual in charge of the “sanatorium.” That particular apartment was somewhat remote from the other rooms, so that any noises made by the inmate of the former wouldn’t disturb the others. Becoming more reconciled to the inevitable, Bob found the quiet of the padded room rather soothing to his shaken nerves. He didn’t have to talk to hardly a soul. Only an attendant came around once in a while to shove cautiously something edible at him, but the attendant didn’t ask any questions and Bob didn’t have to tell him any truths. It was a joyful relief not to have to tell truths.
Bob’s eye was swollen and he had a few bruises, but they didn’t count. He had observed with satisfaction that Dickie’s lip had an abrasion and that one of his front teeth seemed missing. Dickie would have to wait until nature and art had repaired his appearance before he could once more a-wooing go. Bob didn’t want the temperamental young thing himself, but he couldn’t conscientiously wish Dickie success in that quarter, after the unnecessarily rough and unsportsmanlike manner in which Dickie had comported himself against him (Bob).
At first, it had occurred to Bob to take the attendant—and through him, the manager of the institution—into his confidence, but for two reasons he changed his mind about doing so. The attendant would probably receive Bob’s confidence as so many illusions; he would smile and say “Yes—quite so!” or “There! there!”—meaning Bob would get over said illusions some day, and that was why he was there. He was being treated for them. Again, if he unbosomed himself fully, as to the fundamental cause of all this trouble and turmoil, he would lose to the commodore, et al., and have to pay that note which he didn’t very well see how he could pay.
Bob gritted his teeth. Would it not be better to win now to spite them and in spite of everything? About the worst that could happen, had happened. Why not accept, then, this enforced sojourn philosophically and when the time came, he would walk up to the captain’s (or commodore’s) office and demand a little pay-envelope as his hard-earned wage? There would be a slight balm in that pay-envelope. With the contents thereof, he could relieve some of dad’s necessities which soon would be pressing. Why not, with a little stretch of the imagination, tell himself he (Bob) was only taking a rest cure? People paid big prices for a fashionable rest cure. They probably charged pretty stiff prices here, but it wouldn’t cost him a cent. His dear friends who put him here would have to pay. He wasn’t a voluntary boarder. They would have to vouch for him and his bills. So Bob made up his mind to have as good a time as he could; in other words, to grin and bear it, as best he might.
It was a novel experience. Maybe he might write an article about it for one of the Sunday newspapers some day—“How It Feels for a Sane Person to be Forcibly Detained in an Insane Asylum, by One who Has Been There.” The editor could put all manner of gay and giddy head-lines over such an experience. Bob tried to chronicle his feelings in the padded cell, but he couldn’t conjure up anything awful or harrowing. There weren’t spiders, or rats, or any crawly things to lend picturesqueness to the situation. It was only deadly quiet—the kind of quiet he needed.
He slept most of those first two days, making up for hours of lost sleep. His swollen eye became less painful and his appetite grew large and normal. He had to eat with his fingers because they were afraid to trust him with a knife and fork, but he told himself cheerfully that high-class Arabs still ate that way, and that all he had to do was to sit cross-legged, to be strictlycomme il faut—that is, from the Arab’s standpoint. Since he had adopted truth as his mentor, Bob had learned, however, that “what should be” or “what shouldn’t,” or “mustn’t,” depends a great deal upon the standpoint, and he was beginning to be very suspicious, or critical, about the standpoint.
The third day the doctor in charge thought he could trust him in a room without pads. Bob had a good color, his eye was clear and his appearance generally reassuring, so they gave him now the cutest little cubby-hole, with a cunning little bed and a dear little window, with flowers outside and iron bars between the inmate and the flowers. The managing-medico proudly called Bob’s attention to the flowers and the view. One gazing out could see miles and miles of beautiful country. The managing-med. talked so much about that view that Bob chimed in and said it was lovely, too, only, it reminded him of the bone set just beyond reach of a dog chained tohiscute little cubby-hole; or the jug of water and choice viands the Bedouins of the desert set before their victim after they have buried him to the neck in the sand. Bob was going on, trying to think of other felicitous comparisons, when he caught a look in the managing-med’s. eye that stopped him.
“I wonder if you are well enough, after all, to appreciate this cozy and home-like little apartment?” said the med. musingly.
Bob hastily apologized for the figures of speech. The padded place was very restful, no doubt, but he was quite rested now. Any more padded-room kind of rest would be too much. He looked at the view and expatiated upon it, even calling attention to certain charming details of the landscape. The flowers made a charming touch of color and they were just the kind of flowers he liked—good, old-fashioned geraniums! He could say all this and still tell the truth. The medico studied him attentively; then he concluded he would risk it and permit Bob to stay in the room.
But he didn’t stay there long. Several nights later a pebble clicked against his window; at first, he did not notice. The sound was repeated. Then Bob got up, went to his window, raised it noiselessly and looked out. In the shadow, beneath the window, stood a figure.
“Catch,” whispered a voice and instinctively Bob put out his hand. But he didn’t catch; he missed. Again and again some one below tossed something until finally he did catch. He looked at the object—a spool of thread. Now what on earth did he want with a spool of thread? Did the person below think some of his garments needed mending? It was strong, serviceable enough thread.
For some moments Bob cogitated, then going to the bureau, he picked up a tooth-brush, tied it to the thread, and let it down. After an interval he pulled up the thread; the tooth-brush had disappeared and a file was there in its stead. Then Bob tied to the thread something else and instead of it, he got back the end of an excellent manila rope. After that he went to work. It took Bob about an hour to get those bars out; it took him, then, about a minute to get out himself. Fortunately some one in a near-by room was having a tantrum and the little rasping sound of the filing couldn’t be heard. The louder the person yelled, the harder Bob filed.
When he reached the earth some one extended a hand and led him silently out of the garden and into the road beyond. Bob went along meekly and obediently. Not far down the road was a taxicab. Bob got in and his fair rescuer followed. So far he hadn’t said a word to her; language seemed superfluous. But as they dashed away, she murmured:
“Isn’t it lovely?”’
“Is it?” he asked. Somehow he wasn’t feeling particularly jubilant over his escape. In fact, he found himself wondering almost as soon as he had reached the earth, if it wouldn’t have been wiser, after all, to have spent the rest of those three weeks in pleasant seclusion. The presence of the temperamental young thing suggested new and more perplexing problems perhaps. He had regarded her as somewhat of a joke, but she wasn’t a joke just now; she was a reality. What was he going to do with her, and with himself, for that matter? Why were they dashing madly across the country like that together?
It was as if he were carrying her off, and he certainly didn’t want to do that. He wasn’t in love with her, and she wasn’t with him. At least, he didn’t think she was. It was only her temperamental disposition that caused her to imagine she was in love, because she thought him something that he wasn’t. And when she found out he wasn’t, but was only a plain, ordinary young man, not of much account anyhow, what a shock would be the awakening! Perhaps he’d better stop the machine, go back into the garden, climb up to his room in the crazy-house and tumble into bed? His being here, embarked on a preposterous journey, seemed a case of leaping before looking, or thinking.
“Why so quiet, darling?” giggled the temperamental young thing, snuggling closer.
“Don’t call me that. I—I won’t stand it.”
“All right, dearie.” With another giggle.
“And drop that ‘dearie’ dope, too,” he commanded.
“Just as you say. Only whatshallI call you?”
“I guess plain ‘darn fool’ will do.”
“Oh, you’re too clever to be called that,” she expostulated.
“Me, clever?” Scornfully.
“Yes; think how long you have fooled the police.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense.” Irritably.
“I won’t. On condition!”
“What?”
“If you’ll put your arm around me.”
“I won’t.”
“Oh, yes, you will.” She adjusted it for him.
“All right! If you want some one to hug you when he doesn’t want to!” he said in aggrieved tones.
“That makes it all the nicer,” she returned. “There are ever so many men that want to. This—this is so different!” With a sigh.
“There you go, with some more nonsense talk!” grumbled Bob.
“Well,” she giggled, “there’s always a way to make a poor, weak, helpless little thing stop talking.”
“Of all the assurance!” he gasped.
“I love to have some one I can command to make love to me.”
“I’m going back.” Disgustedly.
“Oh, no, you’re not. You can’t.”
“Why?”
“You’d be arrested, if you did. They are coming for you. That’s why I came—to circumvent them!”
“They?”
“All has been discovered.”
“I fail to understand.”
“What did you do with it?” she countered.
“It?”
“The swag.”
Bob started to withdraw his arm but she clapped a small warm hand on his big warm hand and held his strong right arm about her slim, adaptable waist. Her head trailed on his shoulder, while she started floating off in dreamland.
“I just love eloping,” she murmured.
“What was that last word?” he observed combatively.
“Elope! elope! elope!” she whispered dreamily, her slim, young feminine figure close to his big masculine bulk.
“So you think you’re eloping with me?” said Bob ominously.
“I know I am.” In that musical die-away tone. “We’re headed straight for old New York and we’re going to get married in the little church around the corner. Then”—with a happy laugh—“we may have to disguise ourselves and flee.”
“May I kindly inquire—that is, if I have any voice in our future operations—whywe may have to disguise ourselves?”
“In case they should want to capture you. The police, I mean.”
“Police?” he said.
“Didn’t I just tell you they were coming for you?”
“Indeed?” He looked down in her eyes to see if she was in earnest. He believed she was. “For what?”
“Oh, you know.” She raised her lips. “Say, that was a real stingy one, under the oak.”
“You say all has been discovered?” went on Bob, disregarding her last remark.
“I say that was a real stingy—”
“Hang it!” But he had to. He knew he had to get that idea out of her head, before he could get any more real information from her.
“And think how you deceived poor little me, about it!” she purred contentedly. After all, thought Bob, it didn’t take “much of a one” to satisfy her. She had only wanted “it,” perhaps, because “it” fitted in; “it” went with eloping. Perhaps “it” would have to happen about once so often. Bob hoped not. She was a dainty little tyrant who let him see plainly she had sharp claws. She could scratch as well as purr. Somehow, he felt that he was doubly in her power—that he was doubly her slave now—that something had happened which made him so. He could not imagine what it was.
“They’re keeping it very quiet, though,” she went on. “The robbery, I mean!”
“There has been a robbery at Mrs. Ralston’s?”
“Of course. And you didn’t know a thing about it?” she mocked him.
“I certainly did not.”
“You say that just as if it were so,” she observed admiringly. “I don’t suppose you are aware that some one did really substitute a counterfeit brooch for Mrs. Vanderpool’s wonderful pink pearl and bronze diamond brooch, after all? Oh, no, you don’t know that. You’re only a poor little ignorant dear. Bless its innocent little heart! It didn’t know a thing. Not it!” She was talking baby-talk now, the while her fingers were playing with Bob’s ear. He was so interested in what she was saying, however, that he failed to note the baby-talk and overlooked the liberties she was taking with his hearing apparatus.
“By jove!” he exclaimed. “That accounts for what I thought I saw in the hall that night when I left your room. Imagined I saw some one! Believe now it was some one, after all. And that door I heard click? Whose door is that on the other side of the hall from your room and about twenty-five feet nearer the landing?” Excitedly.
“Gwendoline Gerald’s,” was the unexpected answer.
Bob caught his breath. He was becoming bewildered. “But nothing was missing from Miss Gerald’s room, was there?” he asked.
“Don’tyouknow?” said she.
“I do not.”
“My! aren’t you the beautiful fibber! I’m wondering if you ever tell the truth?”
“I don’t tell anything else.” Indignantly. “And that’s the trouble.”
“And how well you stick to it!” Admiringly. “If you tell such onesbefore, how will it beafter?”
“After what?” he demanded.
“The church ceremony,” she giggled.
“Don’t you worry about that. There isn’t going to be any.”
“It’s perfectly lovely of you to say there isn’t. It will be such fun to see you change your mind.” She spoke in that regular on-to-Washington tone. “I can just see you walking up the aisle. Won’t you look handsome? And poor, demure little me! I shan’t look like hardly anything.”
Bob pretended not to hear.
“You say they are keeping it very quiet about the robbery at the Ralston house. How, then, did you come to know?”
“Eavesdropping.” Shamelessly. “Thought it was necessary you should know the ‘lay of the land.’ But never mind the ‘how.’ It is sufficient that I managed to overhear Lord Stanfield say he was going to send for you. Gwendoline Gerald knows about the robbery and so does her aunt and Lord Stanfield, but it’s being kept from all the other guests for the present. Even Mrs. Vanderpool doesn’t know. She still thinks the brooch she is wearing is the real one, poor dear! Lord Stanfield discovered it wasn’t. He asked her one day to let him see it. Then, he just said: ‘Aw! How interesting!’—that is, to her. But to Mrs. Ralston he said it was an imitation and that some guest had substituted the false brooch for the real. Mrs. Vanderpool is not to know because Lord Stanfield says the thief must not dream he is suspected. He wants to give him full swing yet a while—‘enough rope to hang himself with,’ were the words he used. It seems Lord Stanfield anticipated things would be missing. He said he knew when a certain person—he didn’t say whom”—gazing up at Bob adoringly—“appeared on the scene, things just went. That’s why Lord Stanfield got asked to the Ralston house. Then when he said he was coming after you, I thought it would be such a joke if you weren’t there to receive him. And that’s why I came to elope with you. And isn’t it all too romantic for anything? I am sure none of those plays comes up to it. Maybe you’ll dramatize our little romance some day—that is—”
Miss Dolly suddenly stopped. “Isn’t that a car coming up behind?”
Bob looked around, too, and in the far distance saw a light. “Believe it is,” he answered.
She leaned forward and spoke to the driver. They were traveling with only one lamp lighted; the driver now put that out. Then he went on until he came to a private roadway, leading into some one’s estate, when quickly turning, he ran along a short distance and finally stopped the car in a dark shaded spot. Bob gazed back and in a short time saw a big car whir by. Idly he wondered whether it contained the police, or the managing medico and some of his staff. Between them, he was promised a right lively time—altogether too lively. He wondered which ones would get him first? It was a kind of a competition and he would be first prize to the winners. Well, it was well to have the enemy—or half of the enemy—in front of him. Of course, the other half might come up any moment behind. He would have to take that chance, he thought, as they now returned to the highway. Meanwhile Miss Dolly’s eyes were bright with excitement. She was enjoying herself very much.
They resumed the conversation where they had left off.
“It seems to me,” said Bob, “from all you say, that monocle-man has been a mighty busy person.”
“Of course you knew right along what he is. You didn’t need any information from poor little me about him. He couldn’t fool great big You!” she affirmed admiringly.
“I can imagine what he is—now,” observed Bob meditatively. He was turning over in his mind what she had said about that substituted brooch. The some one Bob had imagined he had seen in the hall, after leaving Miss Dolly’s room, might not have been the real thief, after all; it might have been the monocle-man on the lookout for the thief. And perhaps the monocle-man had seen Bob. That was the reason he was “coming for him.” Bob could imagine dear old dad’s feelings, if he (Bob) got sent to Sing Sing. What if, instead of rustling and rising to the occasion, in that fine, old honorable Japanese way, Bob should bring irretrievable disgrace on an eminently respectable family name?
He could see himself in stripes now, with his head shaved, and doing the lock-step. Perhaps, even at that moment, descriptions of him were being sent broadcast. And if so, it would look as if he were running away from the officers of the law, which would be tantamount to a confession of guilt. Bob shivered. The temperamental young thing did not share his apprehensions.
“Of course, Lord Stanfield onlythinkshe has evidence enough to convict you,” she said confidently. “But you’ll meet him at every point and turn the laugh on him.”
“Oh, will I?” said Bob ironically.
“And you’ll make him feel so cheap! Of course, you’ve got something up your sleeve—”
“Wish I had,” he muttered.
“Something deep and mysterious,” she went on in that confident tone. “That’s why you acted so queer toward some people. You had a purpose. It was a ruse. Wasn’t it now?” she concluded triumphantly.
“It was not.” Gruffly.
“Fibber! every time you fib, you’ve got to—” She put up her lips.
“This is getting monotonous,” grumbled Bob.
“On the contrary!” breathed the temperamental young thing. “I find it lovely. Maybe you’ll learn how sometime.”
“Don’t want to,” he snapped.
“Oh, yes, you do. But as I was saying, you got yourself put in that sanatorium to mislead everybody. It, too, was a ruse—a part of the game. It’s all very clear—at least, to me!”
He stared at her. And she calledthatclear? “When did you leave Mrs. Ralston’s?” he demanded.
“About three hours ago. Said I’d a headache and believed I’d go to my room. But I didn’t. I just slipped down to the village and hired a taxi. Maybe we’d better keep our marriage a secret, at first.” Irrelevantly.
“Maybe we had,” answered Bob. And then he called out to the man in front. “Stop a moment.”
Before Miss Dolly had time to expostulate, the driver obeyed. Bob sprang out.
“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?” said the temperamental little thing. “If so—” She made as if to get out, too.
“No; I’m not going to leave you just yet,” answered Bob. Then to the driver: “See here! Your blamed machine is turned in the wrong direction. You know where you’re going to take us?”
“New York.”
“No; back to Mrs. Ralston’s. You take the first cross-road you come to and steer right for there.”
“You’re not to do any such thing,” called out Miss Dolly. “You’re to go whereItell you.”
“You’re to do nothing of the sort,” said Bob. “You’re to go whereItell you.”
The driver scratched his head.
“Which is it to be?” asked Bob. “This is the place to have an understanding.”
“The lady hired me,” he answered.
“Yes, and I won’t pay you at all, if you don’t mind,” said Miss Dolly in firm musical accents.
“Guess that settles it,” observed the driver.
“You mean—?” began Bob, eying him.
“It means I obey orders. She’s my ‘fare,’ not you. We just picked you up.”
“And that’s your last word?” Ominously.
“Say, lady”—the driver turned wearily—“have I got to suppress this crazy man you got out of the bughouse?”
“Maybe that would be a good plan,” answered Miss Dolly, militancy now in her tone. “That is, if he doesn’t get in, just sweet and quiet-like.”
“It’ll be twenty dollars extra,” said the man, rising. He was a big fellow, too.
“Make it thirty,” returned Miss Dolly spiritedly. It was an issue and had to be met. There was an accent of “On-to-Parliament!” in her voice. One can’t show too much mercy to a “slave” when he revolts. One has to suppress him. One has to teach him who is mistress. A stern lesson, and the slave learns and knows his place.
“Now mind the lady and get back where you belong,” said the driver roughly to Bob. “Your tiles are loose, and the lady knows what is good for a dingbat like you.” Possibly he thought the display of a little authority would be quite sufficient to intimidate a recent “patient.” They usually became quite mild, he had heard, when the keepers talked right up to them, like that. The effect of his language and attitude upon Bob was not, however, quieting; something seemed to explode in his brain and he made one spring and got a football hold; then he heaved and the big man shot over his shoulder as if propelled from a catapult. He came down in a ditch, where the breath seemed to be knocked out of him. Bob got on in front. As he started the machine, the man sat up and looked after him. He didn’t try to get up though; he just looked. No doubt he had had the surprise of his life.
“I’ll leave the car in the village when I’m through with it,” Bob called back. “A little walk won’t hurt you.”
The man didn’t answer. “Gee! but that’s a powerful lunatic for a poor young lady to have on her hands!” he said to himself.
An hour or so later Bob drew up in front of Mrs. Ralston’s house. He opened the door politely for Miss Dolly and the temperamental young thing sprang out. The guests were still up, indulging in one of those late dances that begin at the stroke of twelve, and the big house showed lights everywhere. There were numerous other taxis and cars in front and Bob’s arrival attracted no particular attention. Miss Dolly gave him a look, militant, but still adoring. She let him see she had claws.
“Maybe I’ll tell,” she said.
“Go ahead,” he answered.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“No.” He hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Aren’t you even sorry?” she asked, lingering.
“For what?”
“Being so rough to that poor man?”
“I’m not. Good night.”
“Good night—darling.” She threw out that last word as a challenge. It had a tender but sibilant sound. It was a mixture of a caress and a scratch. It meant she hadn’t given up her hold on him. He might have defeated her in one little contest, but she would weave new ways to entrap him. She might even manage to make him out a murderer—he had been so many things since embarking on that mercurial truth-telling career—and then she would give him the choice of the altar or the chair.
He started the machine and she watched him disappear, musingly. There was a steely light, too, in her eyes. He was a mutineer and mutineers should, figuratively, be made to walk the plank. Should she put him in jail and then come and weep penitently? At least, it would be thrilling. Certainly anything was better than that cast-off feeling. She felt no better than cast-off clothes. This great big brute of a handsome man, instead of jumping at the chance to elope with one who had everything to offer such a one as he, had just turned around and brought her back home.
Maybe he thought she wasn’t worthy of him. Oh, wasn’t she? Her small breast arose mutinously, while that cast-off sensation kept growing and growing. After rescuing him and saving him, instead of calling her “his beautiful doll” or other pet names, and humming glad songs to her—how they would “row, row, row” on some beautiful river of love—or stroll, stroll, stroll through pathways of perfume and bliss—instead of regaling her with these and other up-to-date expressions, appropriate to the occasion, he had repudiated her, cast her off, deposited her here on the front steps, unceremoniously, carelessly, indifferently.
Her cheeks burned at the affront. It was too humiliating. The little hands closed. The temperamental fingernails bit into the tender palms. At that moment the monocle-man sauntered out of the house and on to the veranda, near where Miss Dolly was standing. She turned to him quickly. Her temperament had about reached the Borgia pitch.
Bob went on down to the village and to the taxi stand near the station where he had promised to leave the machine. The last train had just passed by, after depositing the last of late-comers from the gay metropolis. Most of them looked fagged; a few were mildly “corned.” Bob regarded them absently and then gave a violent start.
“Gee-gee!” he gasped.
There she was, in truth, the beauteous Gee-gee, and the fair Gid-up, too! Bob gazed in consternation from reddish hair to peroxide. The two carried grips and were dressed in their best—that is to say, each wore the last thing in hats and the final gasp in gowns.
“Guess none of those society dames will have a thing on us, when it comes to rags,” Gid-up murmured to Gee-gee, as they crossed the platform with little teeny-weeny steps and headed toward a belated hack or two and Bob’s machine. That young man yet sat on the driver’s seat of the taxi; he was too paralyzed to move as he watched them approach. Where on earth were Gee-gee and Gid-up going? He feared to learn. He had an awful suspicion.
“Chauffeur!” Gee-gee raised a begloved finger as she hailed Bob. The glove had seen better days, but Gee-gee didn’t bother much about gloves. When she had attained the finality in hats and thene plus ultrain skirts, hosiery and stilts (you asked for “shoes”) she hadn’t much time, or cash, left for gloves which were always about the same old thing over and over again, anyway. “Chauffeur!” repeated Gee-gee.
“Meaning me?” inquired Bob in muffled tones. Why didn’t she take a hack? He had drawn up his taxi toward the dark end of the platform.
“Yes, meaning you!” replied Gee-gee sharply. “Can’t say I see any other human spark-plug in this one-night burg.”
“What can I do for you?” stammered Bob. He was glad it was so shadowy where he sat, and he devoutly hoped he would escape recognition.
“What can he do? Did you hear that?” Gee-gee appealed indignantly to Gid-up. “I don’t suppose a great jink like you knows enough to get down and take a lady’s bag? Or, to open the door of the limousine?”
“Well, you see this machine’s engaged,” mumbled Bob. “No, I don’t mean that.” Hastily. “I mean I’m not the driver of this car. It doesn’t belong to me. And that’s the truth.”
“Where is the driver?” Haughtily. “Send for him at once.” Gee-gee did not like to be crossed. Gid-up was more good-natured; she only shifted her gum.
“I can’t send for him,” said Bob drawing his hat down farther over his face. “He’s down the road.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, he’s walking; maybe, he’s sitting in the ditch.”
Gee-gee stared, but she could see only a big shadowy form; she couldn’t make out Bob’s features. “The boob’s got bees,” she confided to Gid-up, and then more imperatively: “Are you going to get off your perch and let us in?”
“Beg to be excused,” muttered Bob. “Hack over there! Quick! Before some one else gets it.”
That started them away. The teeny-weeny steps encompassed, accelerando, the distance between Bob and his old friend, the hackman who had laughed at what he supposed were Bob’s eccentricities. The hackman got down and hoisted in the grips.
“Where to?” he said.
Bob listened expectantly. He feared what was coming.
“Mrs. Ralston’s,” answered Gee-gee haughtily. At the same time Gid-up threw away her gum. She would have to practise being without it.
Bob drearily watched the hack roll away. He refused another offer of a fare—this time from a bibulous individual who had supped, not wisely, but too well—and nearly got into a fight because the bibulous individual was persistent and discursive. Then Bob walked away; he didn’t think where he was going; he only wanted to get away from that chauffeur job. What would come of these new developments, he wondered? The temperamental young thing was “peeved,” and the ponies (not equine) had come galloping into the scene at the critical moment.
He tried to account for their presence. Undoubtedly it was a coup of Mrs. Dan’s. When she learned that dear Dan was bringing counter-influence to bear upon her witnesses, she arranged to remove them. She brought them right into her own camp. How? Gee-gee and Gid-up did a really clever and fairly refined musical and dancing act together. Mrs. Ralston frequently called upon professional talent to help her out in the entertaining line. It is true, Gee-gee and Gid-up were hardly “high enough up,” or well enough known, to commend themselves ordinarily to the good hostess in search of the best and most expensive artists, but then Mrs. Dan may have brought influence to bear upon Mrs. Ralston. And Mrs. Clarence may have seconded Mrs. Dan’s efforts. They may have said Gee-gee and Gid-up were dashing and different, and would be, at least, a change. They may have exaggerated the talents of the pair and pictured them as rising stars whom it would be a credit for Mrs. Ralston to discover. The hostess was extremely good-natured and liked to oblige her friends, or to comply with their requests.
Of course, the young ladies would not appear on the scene as Gee-gee and Gid-up, in all probability. No doubt, they would assume other and more appropriate cognomens (non equine). The last show they had played in, had just closed, so a little society engagement, with strong publicity possibilities, on the side, could not be anything but appealing, especially to Gee-gee with her practical tendencies. Of course, they would have to make a brave effort to put on their society manners, but Gid-up had once had a home and Gee-gee knew how people talked in the society novels. Trust Gee-gee to adapt herself!
Bob felt he could figure it all out. Their coming so late would seem to indicate they had been sent for in haste. Mrs. Dan, perhaps, had become alarmed and wasn’t going to take any more chances with the commodore who was capable of sequestering her witnesses, of inveigling them on board one of his friend’s yachts, for example, and then marooning them on a desert isle, or transporting them to one of those cafe chantants of Paris. Besides, with that after-midnight “hug” and “grizzly” going on, Mrs. Dan knew it wouldn’t much matter how late the pair arrived.
By the time Bob had argued this out, he was a long way from the village. He had been walking mechanically toward the Ralston house and now found himself on the verge of the grounds. After a moment’s hesitation, he went in and walked up to the house. The dancing had, at length, ceased and the big edifice was now almost dark. The inmates, or most of them, seemed to have retired. A few of the men might yet be lingering in the smoking-room or over billiards. For a minute or two Bob stood in silent meditation. Then his glance swept toward a certain trellis, and a sudden thought smote him.
Wasn’t he still Mrs. Ralston’s guest? The period for which he had been invited hadn’t expired and he hadn’t, as yet, been asked to vacate the premises. True, some people had forcibly, and in a most highhanded manner, removed him for a brief period, but they had not been acting for Mrs. Ralston, or by her orders. He was, therefore, legitimately still a guest and it was obviously his duty not to waive the responsibility. He might not want to come back but he had to. That even-tenor-of-his-way condition demanded it. Besides, manhood revolted against retreat under fire. To run away, as he had told himself in the car with Miss Dolly, was a confession of guilt. He must face them once more—even Miss Gerald and the hammer-thrower. He could in fancy, see himself handcuffed in her presence, but he couldn’t help it. Better that, than to be hunted in the byways and hovels of New York! Oddly, too, the idea of a big comfortable bed appealed to him.
He climbed up the trellis and stood on the balcony upon which his room opened. Pushing up a window, he entered and feeling around in the darkness he came upon his grip where he had left it. He drew the curtains, turned on the lights and undressed. He acted just as if nothing had happened. Then, donning his pajamas, he turned out the lights, drew back the curtains once more, and tumbled into the downy.
But he could not sleep; his brain was too busy. He wondered in what part of the house Gee-gee and Gid-up were domiciled? He wondered if Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence were drawing up affidavits? He wondered if that taxicab man had yet come to town and if he would get out a warrant, charging him (Bob) with assault? He wondered if Dan and Clarence knew Gee-gee and Gid-up were here, and if so, what would they do about it? Would they, too, come prancing on the scene? He wondered if Miss Gerald were engaged to the hammer-man? He wondered if the maniac-medico would think of looking for him (Bob) here? He wondered where the police were looking for him and who was the thief, anyway? This last mental query led him to consider the guests, one by one.
He began with the bishop. Suspicion, of course, could not point in that direction. Still, there was that play,Deacon Brodie—a very good man was a thief in it. But a deacon wasn’t a bishop. Besides, Bob had great respect for the cloth. He dismissed the bishop with an inward apology. He next considered the judge, but the judge was too portly for those agile sleight-of-hand feats and the deft foot-work required. He passed on to the doctor. The doctor had delicate little hands, adapted for filching work, but he was too much absorbed in cutting up little dogs and cats to care for such insensible trifles as glittering gee-gaws. The doctor might be capable of absconding with a Fido or somebody’s pet Meow, but an inanimate Kooh-i-nor would hold for him no temptations. So from Doc, Bob passed on to Mrs. Van. But she wouldn’t surreptitiously appropriate her own brooch. He even considered the temperamental young thing whose interest in crime and criminals was really shocking.
He had got about this far in thrashing things over in his mind when a rather startling realization that he wasn’t alone in the room smote him. Some one was over there—at the window, and that some one had softly crossed the room. Bob made an involuntary movement, turning in bed to see plainer, when with a slight sound of suppressed surprise, the some one almost magically disappeared. Bob couldn’t tell whether he had gone out of the window, or had sprung back into the room and was now concealing himself behind the heavy curtains. The young man made a sudden rush for the window and grab for the curtain, only to discover there was no one there; nor could he see any one on the balcony, or climbing down. He did see below, however, a skulking figure fast vanishing among the shrubbery. A moment, the thought of the commodore insinuated itself in the young man’s bewildered brain, but the commodore would not again be trying to see him (Bob) here, for the very good reason that Dan could not know Bob was here. No one yet knew Bob had returned to Mrs. Ralston’s house. The commodore and Clarence no doubt still believed Bob to be shut up in a cute little cubby-hole with bars.
The skulking figure below, then, could be dissociated from the complicated domestic tangle; his proper place was in that other silent drama, dealing with mysterious peculations. Should Bob climb down, follow and attempt to capture him? Bob had on only his pajamas and already the fellow was far away. He would lead any one a fine chase and Bob hadn’t any special desire to go romping over hills in his present attire, or want of attire. If any one caught him doing it, what excuse could he make? That he was chasing an accomplice of a thief inside the house who had probably dropped his glittering booty for his pal to take away? But he (Bob) was supposed to be that inside-operator, himself, and he wouldn’t be chasing his own pal. Or again, if he were detected in that sprinting performance by those who didn’t know he was supposed to be an inside-operator, but who thought him only a plain crazy man, wouldn’t the necessity for his reincarceration be but emphasized? Maybe this latter contingent of his enemies would consider a plain, public insane asylum, without flowers in the window, good enough for him. They, undoubtedly,wouldso conclude if they knew the state of Bob’s private fortune, which certainly did not justify private institutions.
A slight noise behind him drove all these considerations from Bob’s mind. He dove at once in the direction of the sound, only to fall over his grip, and as he sprawled, not heroically, in the dark, his door was opened and closed almost noiselessly. Exasperated, he gathered himself together and made for the door. Throwing it back, he gazed down the hall, only to see a figure swiftly vanishing around a dimly-lighted corner. Bob couldn’t make out whether it was a man or a woman, but seeing no one else in the hall, he impetuously and recklessly darted after it. When he reached the corner, however, the figure was gone.
Bob stood in a quandary. There were a good many different doors around that corner. Through which one had his mysterious visitor vanished? If he but knew, he felt certain he could place his hand on the much wanted individual who was making such a nuisance of himself in social circles. He might be able to rid society of one of those essentially modern pests, and at the same time lift the mantle of suspicion from himself. At least, he would be partly rehabilitated. Later, he might complete the process. And oh, to have her once more see him as he was.
He was sorely tempted to try a door. He even put his hand on the knob of the door nearest the corner. The figure must have turned in here; he couldn’t have gone farther without Bob’s having caught sight of him. At least, Bob felt almost sure of this conclusion, having attained that corner with considerable celerity, himself.
Almost on the point of turning the knob, prudence bade Bob to pause. Suppose he made a mistake? Suppose, for example, he stumbled upon Gee-gee’s room, or Gid-up’s? The perspiration started on Bob’s brow. Gee-gee would be quite capable of hanging on to him and then raising a row, just for publicity purposes. She would make “copy” out of anything, that girl would. Then, if it wasn’t Gee-gee’s room, it might be Mrs. Van’s. Fancy his invading the privacy of that austere lady’s boudoir! Bob’s hand shook slightly and the knob rattled a trifle; he hastily released it. To his horror a voice called out.
“Any one there?”
It was Gee-gee. Bob stood still, not daring to stir, lest Gee-gee, with senses alert, should hear him and come out and find him. He prayed devoutly not to be “found.” It was bad enough to be crazy, and to be a social buccaneer, without having Miss Gerald look upon him as an intrigant, a Don Juan and a Jonathan Wild all rolled into one. Bob wanted to flee the worst way, but still he thought it better to contain himself and stand there like a wooden man a few moments longer.
“Any one there?” repeated Gee-gee.
A neighboring door opened and one of the last men Bob wanted to see, under the circumstances, looked out. It was the hammer-thrower and his honest face expressed a world of wonder, incredulity and reproach, as he beheld and recognized Bob, who didn’t know what to do, or to say. He certainly didn’t want to say anything though, having no desire to agitate Miss Gee-gee any further. Fortunately, the hammer-thrower seemed too amazed for words. He just kept looking and looking. “Where on earth did you come from?” his glance seemed to say. “Are you the ghost of Bob Bennett? And if you aren’t, what are you doing here, before a lady’s door, at this time of night?”
Disapproval now became mixed with indecision in the hammer-thrower’s glance. He seemed trying to make up his mind whether or not it was a case demanding forcible measures on his part. Was it his duty to spring upon Bob, then and there, and “show him up” before the world? Bob read the thought. In another moment Gee-gee might come to the door, and then—? Bob suddenly and desperately determined to throw himself upon the mercy of the hammer-thrower. Indeed, he had no choice.
Quickly he moved to the door where his hated rival stood and as quickly pushed by him and entered that person’s room. At the same moment Gee-gee unlocked her door. Bob couldn’t see her, though, as he was now thankfully swallowed up in the depths of a recess in the hammer-thrower’s room. Gee-gee peeked out. She met the eye of the hammer-thrower who had modestly withdrawn most of his person back into his apartment and who now suffered only a fraction of his face to be revealed to Gee-gee at that unseemly hour and place, and under such unseemly circumstances.
“I beg your pardon,” said the hammer-thrower deferentially, and in a very low tone, “but did you call out?”
“Yes, I thought I heard some one at my door.”
Bob hardly breathed. Would the hammer-thrower hale him forth? Would he toss him—or try to—right out into the hall at Gee-gee’s feet?
“I—I don’t see any one,” said the hammer-thrower hesitatingly, and still in a very low tone. His hesitation, however, told Bob he had considered or was still considering that forcible policy.
“I certainly thought I did hear some one,” observed Gee-gee, matching the other’s tones. His voice seemed to imply that it might be as well not to arouse any others of the household and Gee-gee involuntarily fell in with the suggestion.
“You—” Again, however, that awful hesitation! The hammer-thrower had no reason to like Bob, for did he not know that young gentleman had the presumption to adore Miss Gerald? Still the apparently more successful suitor for Gwendoline’s hand had a sportsmanlike instinct. He’d been brought up to be conscientious. He had been educated to be gentlemanly and considerate. Perhaps he was asking himself now if it might not be more sportsmanlike not to denounce Bob, then and there, but to give him, at least, a chance to explain? “You—you must be mistaken,” said the hammer-thrower, after a pause, in a low tense whisper.
“You’re sure it wasn’t you?” murmured Gee-gee softly but suspiciously and eying the other’s open and trustworthy countenance.
“I?” For a moment Bob thought now, indeed, had come the time to eject him, but—“Is that a reasonable conjecture?” the other murmured back.
Gee-gee pondered. “No, it ain’t,” she confessed, at length. Locked double-doors separated her room and the hammer-thrower’s. He would surely have used a skeleton key on those doors were he the guilty party, instead of going out into the hall to try to get in that way. “I got to thinking of that swell burglar who is going the rounds, before I went to sleep,” murmured Gee-gee, “and I may have been dreaming of him! Sorry to have disturbed you.” And Gee-gee closed her door very quietly.
She thought she must have been mistaken about the intruder. Anyhow, there wasn’t much excitement for an actress any more, in being robbed. That advertising stunt had been so overworked that even the provincial dramatic critics yawned and tossed the advance man’s little yarn of “jewels lost” right into an unsympathetic waste-basket. A scandal in high life was always more efficacious. No one ever got tired of scandals and city editors simply clamored for “more.” So Gee-gee composed herself for sleep again. She had reason to be satisfied, for had not she and Gid-up, who roomed with her, sat up late and arranged final details before retiring?
Gid-up would say: “We’ll make it like this.” And Gee-gee would answer: “No, like this.” Of course, Gee-gee’s way was better. Upon a slender thread of fact she fashioned, as Dickie had feared, a most wonderful edifice of fancy. She had mapped out a case that would startle even dear old New York. “Better do it good, if we’re going to do it at all,” she had said. Gid-up had been a little doubtful at first, but she always did what Gee-gee told her to in the end. And Gee-gee knew she could depend upon Gid-up’s memory, for once the latter had had a small part. She had to say: “Send for the doctor” and she had never been known to get mixed up and say: “Send for the police,” or for the undertaker, or anything equally ridiculous. Having thoroughly rehearsed her lines, she would stick to them like a major. When Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence and the two G’s should get together on the morrow, the largest anticipations of the two former ladies would be realized. Gee-gee wouldn’t have Mrs. Dan disappointed for the world. Gid-up was rather afraid of Mrs. Clarence; however, she had been batted about by so many rough stage-managers and cranky musical-directors, she could stand almost anything.
But what about Bob?
That young gentleman, now seated in the hammer-thrower’s room, had frankly revealed what had happened to bring him out in the hall. In a low tone he told why he had approached Gee-gee’s door and what had been in his mind when he had placed his hand on the knob. The hammer-thrower, if not appearing particularly impressed by Bob’s story, listened gravely; occasionally he shook his head. It wasn’t, on the whole, a very reasonable-sounding yarn. Truth certainly sounded stranger than fiction in this instance. Bob couldn’t very well blame the other for not believing. Still he (Bob) owed him that explanation. Though he (Bob) might detest him as the man who would probably rob him of Miss Gerald’s hand, still the fact remained that the hammer-thrower appeared at present in the guise of his (Bob’s) savior. Bob couldn’t get away from this unpleasant conclusion. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the other and yet here he was in his room, actually being shielded by him. The situation was, indeed, well-nigh intolerable.
The hammer-thrower studied Bob with quiet earnest eyes, and the latter had to acknowledge to himself that the man’s face was strong and capable. If Miss Gerald married him—as seemed not unlikely—she would, at any rate, not get a weak man. He was about as big as Bob, though not so reckless-looking. Bob was handsomer, in his dashing way, but some girls, sensibly inclined, would prefer what might appear a more reliable type. The hammer-thrower looked so sure of himself and his ground he inspired confidence. He looked too sure of his ground now, as regards Bob.
“It won’t do,” he said with his usual directness to Bob, when the latter had finished explaining. “Sounds a little fishy! I’m sorry, old chap, but I shall have to have time to think it all over. And then I’ll try to decide what is best to be done. You say you were unjustly incarcerated in a private sanatorium.” Bob hadn’t explained the circumstances—who had “incarcerated” him and why. “That you were incarcerated at all is a matter of regret.”
“To you?” said Bob cynically.
“Of course.” Firmly, but with faint surprise. “You didn’t think I rejoiced at your misfortune, did you?”
“I didn’t know. I thought it possible.”
The hammer-thrower’s heavy brows drew together. “You seem to have a little misconception of my character,” he observed with a trace of formality. “You were incarcerated, apparently,pro bono publico. I had no hand in it. If I had been consulted, I should have hesitated some time before expressing an opinion.”
“Thanks,” said Bob curtly. Such generous reserve was rather galling, coming from this quarter.
“I’m afraid you don’t mean that,” replied the other. “And it’s a bad habit to say what you don’t mean. However, we are drifting from the subject. You will pardon me for not swallowing,a capite ad calcem, that little Münchhausen explanation of yours.”
“I don’t care whether you swallow it head, neck and breeches, or not,” returned Bob. The other had taken a classical course at college, and Bob conceived he was ponderously trying to show off, just to be annoying. He was adopting a doubly irritating and classical manner of calling Bob a liar. And that young man was not accustomed to being called that—at least, of yore! Maybe he would have to stand it now. It seemed so. “You’re like a good many other people I’ve met lately,” said Bob, not without a touch of weariness as well as bitterness. “You don’t know the truth when you hear it.”
The hammer-thrower drew up his heavy shoulders. “No use abusing me, old chap,” he said in even well-poised tones. “Am I at fault for your unpopularity? Indeed”—as if arguing with himself in his slow heavy fashion—“I fail to understand why you have made yourself unpopular. You seem to have proceeded with deliberate intention. However, that is irrelevant. You say there was some one in your room, or rather the room you were supposed to have vacated; but to which you have unaccountably returned—not, I imagine, by way of the front door.” Severely. “And after entering in burglarious fashion you pursued a phantom. The phantom vanished, leaving you in a compromising position. You expect people to believe that?” Shaking his head.
“I should be surprised if they did,” answered Bob gloomily. “I suppose you’ll tell everybody to-morrow.”
“That’s the question,” said the other seriously. “What is my duty in the matter? I don’t want to do you an irreparable injury, yet appearances certainly seem to indicate that you—” He hesitated.
“Never mind the Latin for it,” said Bob. “Plain Anglo-Saxon will do. Call me a thief.”
“It’s an ugly word,” said the other reluctantly, “and—well, I don’t wish to be hasty. My father always told me to help a man whenever I could; not to shove him down. And maybe—” He paused. There was really a nice expression on his strong face.
“Oh, you think I may be only a young offender—a juvenile in crime?” exclaimed Bob bitterly.
“The words are your own,” observed the other. “To tell you the truth,” seriously, “I hardly know what to think. It is all too extraordinary—too unexpected. I’ll have to ponder on it. The profs, at college always said I had the champion slow brain. The peculiar part to me is,” that puzzled look returning to his heavy features, “I can’t understand why you’re making people think what they do of you? Frankly, I don’t believe you’re ‘dippy.’ You were always rather—just what is the word?—‘mercurial’—yes; that will do. But your head looks right enough to me.”
“What’s the Latin for ‘Thank you’?” said Bob.
“Do you really think this is a trivial matter?” asked the other, bending a stronger glance upon his visitor. “I believe you are somewhat obligated to me. Please bear that in mind.” With quiet dignity. “As I was saying, your conduct since coming here, seems to baffle explanation—that is, the right one. I wonder what is your ‘lay,’ anyhow? What’s the idea? I like to be able to grasp people.” Forcefully. “And you escape me. I can’t get at the tangible in you. Nor”—with a sudden quick glance—“can Miss Gerald—”
“Suppose we leave her name out,” said Bob sharply. “You’ve done me a favor which I ought not to have accepted. And I tell you frankly I’d rather have accepted it from any one else in the world.”
“I think I understand,” replied the other quietly, with no show of resentment on his heavy features. “Have a cigar?” Indicating a box on the table.
“I’d rather not.”
“Very well!”
For some moments Bob sat in moody silence. Then suddenly he got up.
“Am I to be permitted to return to my room?” he asked.
“I believe I told you I would consider your case,” said the hammer-thrower.
And Bob passed out. He regained his room without mishap, which rather surprised him. He almost expected to be intercepted by the monocle-man but nothing of the kind happened.