Paul had an errand farther uptown, and, on leaving Tiffany's walked up as far as Twenty-third street. Feeling rather tired, he got on board a University place car to return. They had accomplished, perhaps, half the distance, when, to his surprise, George Barry entered the car.
“How do you happen to be here, at this time, Barry?” he asked. “I thought you were attending to business.”
“I closed up for a couple of hours, having an errand at home. Where have you been?”
“To Tiffany's.”
“What, the jewelers?”
“Yes.”
“To buy a diamond ring, I suppose,” said Barry, jocosely.
“No—not to buy, but to sell one.”
“You are joking,” said his companion, incredulously.
“No, I am not. The ring belongs to my mother. I am trying to raise money enough on it to buy you out.”
“I didn't know your mother was rich enough to indulge in such expensive jewelry.”
“She isn't, and that's the reason I am trying to sell it.”
“I mean, I didn't think she was ever rich enough.”
“I'll explain it,” said Paul. “The ring was found some time since in Central Park. As no owner has ever appeared, though we advertised it, we consider that it belongs to us.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Mr. Tiffany offered two hundred and fifty dollars for it.”
Barry uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Well, that is what I call luck. Of course, you accepted it.”
“I intend to do so; but I must bring some gentleman who will guarantee that I am all right and have the right to sell it.”
“Can you do that?”
“I think so! I am going to ask Mr. Preston. I think he will do me that favor.”
“Then there's a fair chance of your buying me out.”
“Yes. I guess I can settle the whole thing up to-morrow.”
“Have you got the ring with you?”
“Yes.”
“I should like to see it, if you have no objection.”
Paul drew it from his pocket, and passed it over to Barry.
“It's a handsome one, but who would think such a little thing could be worth two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“I'd rather have the money than the ring.”
“So would I.”
On the right of Paul sat a man of about forty, well-dressed and respectable in appearance, with a heavy gold chain ostentatiously depending from his watch pocket, and with the air of a substantial citizen. He listened to the conversation between Barry and Paul with evident interest, and when Barry had returned the ring, he said:
“Young gentleman, would you be kind enough to let me look at your ring? I am myself in business as a jeweler in Syracuse, and so feel an interest in examining it.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Paul, the stranger's explanation of his motives inspiring him with perfect confidence.
The jeweler from Syracuse took the ring in his hands and appeared to examine it carefully.
“This is a handsome ring,” he said, “and one of great value. How much were you offered for it at Tiffany's?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“It is worth more.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Paul; “but he has to sell it, and make a profit.”
“He could do that, and yet make a profit. I will pay you two hundred and seventy-five dollars, myself—that is, on one condition.”
“I don't object to getting twenty-five dollars more,” said Paul. “What is the condition?”
“I have an order from a gentleman for a diamond ring for a young lady—an engagement ring, in short. If this suits him, as I think it will, I will pay you what I said. I can easily get three hundred and twenty-five from him.”
“How are you going to find out whether it will suit him?”
“Easily. He is stopping at the same hotel with me.”
“What hotel is that?”
“Lovejoy's. If you can spare the time and will come with me now, we can arrange matters at once. By the way, you can refer me to some responsible citizen, who will guarantee you. Not, of course, that I have any doubts, but we business men are forced to be cautious.”
Paul mentioned Mr. Preston's name.
“Quite satisfactory,” answered the jeweler. “I know Mr. Preston personally, and as I am pressed for time, I will accept his name without calling upon him. What is your name?”
“Paul Hoffman.”
“I will note it down.”
The gentleman from Syracuse drew out a memorandum book, in which he entered Paul's name.
“When you see Mr. Preston, just mention my name; Felix Montgomery.”
“I will do so.”
“Say, if you please, that I would have called upon him, but, coming to the city strictly on business, was too hurried to do so.”
This also Paul promised, and counted himself fortunate in falling in with a friend, or, at all events, acquaintance of Mr. Preston, since he was likely to make twenty-five dollars more than he would otherwise have done.
When he got out of the car at the Astor House, the stranger said:
“It will be half an hour before I can reach Lovejoy's, as I have a business call to make first. Can you call there, say, in three-quarters of an hour?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then, I will expect you. Inquire for me at the desk, and ask the servant to conduct you to my room—you remember my name?”
“Yes, sir—Mr. Felix Montgomery.”
“Quite right. Good-by, then, till we meet.”
Mr. Felix Montgomery went into the Astor House, and remained about five minutes. He then came out on the steps, and, looking about him to see if Paul was anywhere near, descended the steps, and walked across to Lovejoy's Hotel. Going up to the desk, he inquired:
“Can you accommodate me with a room?”
“Yes, sir; please enter your name.”
The stranger entered his name with a flourish, as Felix Montgomery, Syracuse.
“Room No. 237,” said the clerk; “will you go up now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Any luggage?”
“My trunk will be brought from the St. Nicholas in the course of the afternoon.”
“We require payment in advance where there is no luggage.”
“Very well. I will pay for one day. I am not sure but I shall get through my business in time to go away to-morrow.”
Here the servant appeared to conduct Mr. Montgomery to his room.
“By the way,” he said, turning back, as if it were an afterthought, “I directed a boy to call here for me in about half an hour. When he comes you may send him up to my room.”
“Very well, sir.”
Mr. Montgomery followed the servant upstairs to room No. 237. It was rather high up, but he seemed well pleased that this was the case.
“Hope you won't get tired of climbing, sir,” said the servant.
“No—I've got pretty good wind.”
“Most gentlemen complain of going up so far.”
“It makes little difference to me.”
At length they reached the room, and Mr. Montgomery entered.
“This will answer very well,” he said, with a hasty glance about him. “When my trunk comes, I want it sent up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe that is all; you can go.”
The servant retired and Mr. Felix Montgomery sat down upon the bed.
“My little plot seems likely to succeed,” he said to himself. “I've been out of luck lately, but this boy's ring will give me a lift. He can't suspect anything. He'll be sure to come.”
Probably the reader has already suspected that Mr. Felix Montgomery was not a jeweler from Syracuse, nor had he any claim to the name under which he at present figured. He was a noted confidence man, who lived by preying upon the community. His appearance was in his favor, and it was his practice to assume the dress and air of a respectable middle-aged citizen, as in the present instance. The sight of the diamond ring had excited his cupidity, and he had instantly formed the design of getting possession of it, if possible. Thus far, his plan promised success.
Meanwhile, Paul loitered away the time in the City Hall Park for half an hour or more. He did not care to go home until his negotiation was complete, and he could report the ring sold, and carry home the money.
“Won't mother be astonished,” he thought, “at the price I got for the ring? I'm in luck this morning.”
When the stipulated time had passed, Paul rose from the bench on which he was seated, and walked to Lovejoy's Hotel, not far distant.
“Has Mr. Felix Montgomery a room here?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the clerk. “Did you wish to see him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He mentioned that a boy would call by appointment. Here, James, show this boy up to No. 237—Mr. Montgomery's room.”
A hotel servant appeared, and Paul followed him up several flights of stairs till they stood before No. 237.
“This is the room, sir,” said James. “Wait a minute, and I'll knock.”
In answer to the knock, Mr. Montgomery himself opened the door.
“Come in,” he said to Paul; “I was expecting you.”
So Paul, not suspecting treachery, entered No. 237.
“Take a seat,” said Mr. Montgomery. “My friend will be in directly. Meanwhile will you let me look at the ring once more?”
Paul took it from his pocket, and handed it to the jeweler from Syracuse, as he supposed him to be.
Mr. Montgomery took it to the window, and appeared to be examining it carefully.
He stood with his back to Paul, but this did not excite suspicion on the part of our hero.
“I am quite sure,” he said, still standing with his back to Paul, “that this will please my friend. From the instructions he gave me, it is precisely what he wanted.”
While uttering these words, he had drawn a sponge and a vial of chloroform from his side pocket. He saturated the former from the vial, and then, turning quickly, seized Paul, too much taken by surprise to make immediate resistance, and applied the sponge to his nose. When he realized that foul play was meditated, he began to struggle, but he was in a firm grasp, and the chloroform was already beginning to do its work. His head began to swim, and he was speedily in a state of insensibility. When this was accomplished, Mr. Felix Montgomery, eyeing the insensible boy with satisfaction, put on his hat, walked quickly to the door, which he locked on the outside, and made his way rapidly downstairs. Leaving the key at the desk, he left the hotel and disappeared.
Meanwhile Paul slowly recovered consciousness. As he came to himself, he looked about him bewildered, not at first comprehending where he was. All at once it flashed upon him, and he jumped up eagerly and rushed to the door. He tried in vain to open it.
“I am regularly trapped!” he thought, with a feeling of mingled anger and vexation. “What a fool I was to let myself be swindled so easily! I wonder how long I have been lying here insensible?”
Paul was not a boy to give up easily. He meant to get back the ring if it was a possible thing. The first thing was, of course, to get out of his present confinement. He was not used to hotel arrangements and never thought of the bell, but, as the only thing he could think of, began to pound upon the door. But it so happened that at this time there were no servants on that floor, and his appeals for help were not heard. Every moment that he had to wait seemed at least five, for no doubt the man who had swindled him was improving the time to escape to a place of safety. Finding that his blows upon the door produced no effect, he began to jump up and down upon the floor, making, in his heavy boots, a considerable noise.
The room directly under No. 237 was occupied by an old gentleman of a very nervous and irascible temper, Mr. Samuel Piper, a country merchant, who, having occasion to be in the city on business for a few days, had put up at Lovejoy's Hotel. He had fatigued himself by some business calls, and was now taking a little rest upon the bed, when he was aroused from half-sleep by the pounding overhead.
“I wish people would have the decency to keep quiet,” he said to himself, peevishly. “How can I rest with such a confounded racket going on above!”
He lay back, thinking the noise would cease, but Paul, finding the knocking on the door ineffectual, began to jump up and down, as I have already said. Of course this noise was heard distinctly in the room below.
“This is getting intolerable!” exclaimed Mr. Piper, becoming more and more excited. “The man ought to be indicted as a common nuisance. How they can allow such goings-on in a respectable hotel, I can't understand. I should think the fellow was splitting wood upstairs.”
He took his cane, and, standing on the bed, struck it furiously against the ceiling, intending it as signal to the man above to desist. But Paul, catching the response, began to jump more furiously than ever, finding that he had attracted attention.
Mr. Piper became enraged.
“The man must be a lunatic or overcome by drink,” he exclaimed. “I can't and I won't stand it.”
But the noise kept on.
Mr. Piper put on his shoes and his coat, and, seizing his cane, emerged upon the landing. He espied a female servant just coming upstairs.
“Here, you Bridget, or Nancy, or whatever your name is,” he roared, “there's a lunatic upstairs, making a tremendous row in the room over mine. If you don't stop him I'll leave the hotel. Hear him now!”
Bridget let fall her duster in fright.
“Is it a crazy man?” she asked.
“Of course he must be. I want you to go up and stop him.”
“Is it me that would go near a crazy man?” exclaimed Bridget, horror-struck; “I wouldn't do it for a million dollars; no, I wouldn't.”
“I insist upon your going up,” said Mr. Piper, irritably. “He must be stopped. Do you think I am going to stand such an infernal thumping over my head?”
“I wouldn't do it if you'd go down on your knees to me,” said Bridget, fervently.
“Come along, I'll go with you.”
But the terrified girl would not budge.
“Then you go down and tell your master there's a madman up here. If you don't, I will.”
This Bridget consented to do; and, going downstairs, gave a not very coherent account of the disturbance. Three male servants came back with her.
“Is that the man?” asked the first, pointing to Mr. Piper, who certainly looked half wild with irritation.
“Yes,” said Bridget, stupidly.
Immediately Mr. Piper found himself pinioned on either side by a stout servant.
“What have you been kickin' up a row for?” demanded the first.
“Let me alone, or I'll have the law take care of you,” screamed the outraged man. “Can't you hear the fellow that's making the racket?”
Paul, tired with thumping, had desisted for a moment, but now had recommenced with increased energy. The sounds could be distinctly heard on the floor below.
“Excuse me, sir. I made a mistake,” said the first speaker, releasing his hold. “We'll go up and see what's the matter.”
So the party went upstairs, followed at a distance by Bridget, who, influenced alike by fear and curiosity, did not know whether to go up or retreat.
The sounds were easily traced to room No. 237. In front of this, therefore, the party congregated.
“What's the matter in there?” asked James, the first servant, putting his lips to the keyhole.
“Yes,” chimed in Mr. Piper, irritably; “what do you mean by such an infernal hubbub?”
“Open the door, and let me out,” returned Paul, eagerly.
The party looked at each other in surprise. They did not expect to find the desperate maniac a boy.
“Perhaps there's more than one of them,” suggested the second servant, prudently.
“Why don't you come out yourself?” asked James. “I am locked in.”
The door was opened with a passkey and Paul confronted the party.
“Now, young man, what do you mean by making such a disturbance?” demanded Mr. Piper, excitably. “My room is just below, and I expected every minute you would come through.”
“I am sorry if I disturbed you, sir,” said Paul, politely; “but it was the only way I could attract attention.”
“How came you locked up here?”
“Yes,” chimed in James, suspiciously, “how came you locked up here?”
“I was drugged with chloroform, and locked in,” said Paul.
“Who did it?”
“Mr. Felix Montgomery; or that's what he called himself. I came here by appointment to meet him.”
“What did he do that for?”
“He has carried off a diamond ring which I came up here to sell him.”
“A very improbable story,” said Mr. Piper, suspiciously. “What should such a boy have to do with a diamond ring?”
Nothing is easier than to impart suspicion. Men are prone to believe evil of each other; and Paul was destined to realize this. The hotel servants, ignorant and suspicious, caught the suggestion.
“It's likely he's a' thafe,” said Bridget, from a safe distance.
“If I were,” said Paul, coolly, “I shouldn't be apt to call your attention by such a noise. I can prove to you that I am telling the truth. I stopped at the office, and the bookkeeper sent a servant to show me up here.”
“If this is true,” said Mr. Piper, “why, when you found yourself locked in, didn't you ring the bell, instead of making such a confounded racket? My nerves won't get over it for a week.”
“I didn't think of the bell,” said Paul; “I am not much used to hotels.”
“What will we do with him?” asked James, looking to Mr. Piper for counsel.
“You'd better take him downstairs, and see if his story is correct,” said the nervous gentleman, with returning good sense.
“I'll do it,” said James, to whom the very obvious suggestion seemed marked by extraordinary wisdom, and he grasped Paul roughly by the arm.
“You needn't hold me,” said our hero, shaking off the grasp. “I haven't any intention of running away. I want to find out, if I can, what has become of the man that swindled me.”
James looked doubtfully at Mr. Piper.
“I don't think he means to run away,” said that gentleman. “I begin to think his story is correct. And hark you, my young friend, if you ever get locked up in a hotel room again, just see if there is a bell before you make such a confounded racket.”
“Yes, sir, I will,” said Paul, half-smiling; “but I'll take care not to get locked up again. It won't be easy for anybody to play that trick on me again.”
The party filed downstairs to the office and Paul told his story to the bookkeeper.
“Have you seen Mr. Montgomery go out?” asked our hero.
“Yes, he went out half an hour ago, or perhaps more. He left his key at the desk, but said nothing. He seemed to be in a hurry.”
“You didn't notice in what direction he went?”
“No.”
Of course no attempt was made to detain Paul. There could be no case against him. He went out of the hotel, and looked up and down Broadway in a state of indecision. He did not mean to sit down passively and submit to the swindle. But he had no idea in what direction to search for Mr. Felix Montgomery.
Paul stood in the street irresolute. He looked hopelessly up and down Broadway, but of course the jeweler from Syracuse was not to be seen. Seeking for him in a city containing hundreds of streets and millions of inhabitants was about as discouraging as hunting for a needle in a haystack. But difficult as it was, Paul was by no means ready to give up the search. Indeed, besides the regret he felt at the loss, he was mortified at having been so easily outwitted.
“He's taken me in just as if I was a country boy,” thought Paul. “I dare say he's laughing at me now. I'd like to get even with him.”
Finally he decided to go to Tiffany's, and ask them to detain any one who might bring in the ring and offer it for sale. He at once acted upon this thought, and, hailing a Broadway stage, for no time was to be lost, soon reached his destination. Entering the store, he walked up to the counter and addressed the clerk to whom he had before shown the ring.
“Do you remember my offering you a diamond ring for sale this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, I remember it very well. Have you got it with you?”
“No, it has been stolen from me.”
“Indeed! How was that?” asked the clerk, with interest.
“I met in the cars a well-dressed man, who called himself a jeweler from Syracuse. He examined the ring, and offered me more than Mr. Tiffany, but asked me to bring it to him at Lovejoy's Hotel. When I got there, he drugged me with chloroform, and when I recovered he was gone.”
“You have been unlucky. There are plenty of such swindlers about. You should have been careful about displaying the ring before strangers.”
“I was showing it to a friend.”
“Have you notified the police?”
“Not yet. I came here to let you know, because I thought the thief might bring it in here to sell.”
“Very likely. Give me a description of him.”
Paul described Mr. Felix Montgomery to the best of his ability.
“I think I should know him from your description. I will speak to Mr. Tiffany, and he will no doubt give orders to detain any person who may offer the ring for sale.”
“Thank you.”
“If you will give me your address, we will notify you in case the ring is brought in.”
Paul left his address, and went out of the store, feeling that he had taken one step toward the recovery of his treasure. He next visited the police headquarters, and left a detailed description of the man who had relieved him of the ring and of the circumstances attending the robbery. Then he went home.
His mother looked up as he entered.
“Well, Paul?” she said, inquiringly.
“I've got bad news, mother,” he said.
“What is it? Tell me quick!” she said, nervously.
“The ring has been stolen from me.”
“How did it happen, Paul?”
“First, I must tell you how much the ring is worth. I went up to Tiffany's, and showed the ring to Mr. Tiffany himself. He told me that he would give me two hundred and fifty dollars for it, if I would satisfy him that I had a right to sell it.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars!” repeated Mrs. Hoffman, in amazement.
“Yes, the diamond is very large and pure.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars would be a great help to us.”
“Yes, mother, that is what makes me feel so bad about being swindled out of it.”
“Tell me how it happened. Is there no chance of recovering it?”
“A little. I shall do what I can. I have already notified the police, and Mr. Tiffany.”
“You have not told me yet how you lost it.”
When Paul had told the story, his mother asked, “Did you mention it in the cars that you had offered it at Tiffany's?”
“Yes, and I mentioned his offer.”
“Perhaps the thief would be cautious about going there, for that very reason. He might think the ring would be recognized.”
“He would go to a large place, thinking that so valuable a ring would be more readily purchased there.”
“He might go to Ball & Black's.”
“That is true.”
“It would be well to give notice there also.”
“I will go up there at once. I only wish I could meet Mr. Felix Montgomery; I don't think he would find it so easy to outreach me a second time.”
“Take some dinner first, Paul.”
“Then I must hurry it down, mother; I don't want to run the risk of getting too late to Ball & Black's. I can't help thinking what a splendid thing it would be if we had the two hundred and fifty dollars. I would buy out Barry's stand, and I would get a sewing-machine for you, and we could live much more comfortably. It makes me mad to think I let that villain take me in so! He must think me jolly green.”
“Anybody might have been deceived, Paul. You mustn't blame yourself too much for that.”
Leaving Paul on his way to Ball & Black's, we return to Mr. Felix Montgomery, as we shall continue to call him, though he had no right to the name. After stupefying Paul, as already described, he made his way downstairs, and, leaving his key at the desk, went out.
“I hope my young friend will enjoy himself upstairs,” he chuckled to himself. “He's quite welcome to the use of the room till to-morrow morning. It's paid for in advance, and I don't think I shall find it convenient to stop there.”
He took the ring from his vest pocket and glanced at it furtively.
“It's a beauty,” he murmured, complacently. “I never saw a handsomer ring of the size. What was it the boy said he was offered for it? Two hundred and fifty dollars! That'll give me a lift, and it doesn't come any too soon. My money is pretty low.”
He walked across the City Hall Park, and at Barclay street entered a University place car.
“Evenin' paper, mister?” said a ragged newsboy, whose garments were constructed on the most approved system of ventilation.
“What have you got?”
“Evenin' Post, Mail, Express!”
“Give me an Express. Here's ten cents.”
“I haven't got but three cents change, mister.”
“Never mind the change,” said Mr. Montgomery, in a fit of temporary generosity, occasioned by his good luck.
“Thank you, sir,” said the newsboy, regarding Mr. Montgomery as a philanthropist worthy of his veneration.
Felix Montgomery leaned back in his seat, and, with a benevolent smile, ran his eyes over the columns of the Express. Among the paragraphs which attracted his attention was one relating to a comrade, of similar profession, who had just been arrested in Albany while in the act of relieving a gentleman of his pocketbook.
“Jerry always was a bungler,” said Mr. Montgomery, complacently, to himself. “He can't hold a candle to me. I flatter myself that I know how to manage a little affair, like this, for instance, as well as the next man. It'll take a sharp detective to lay hold of me.”
It might have been thought that the manner in which he had gained possession of the ring would have troubled Mr. Montgomery, but it was many years since he had led an honest life. He had made a living by overreaching others, and his conscience had become so blunted as to occasion him little trouble. He appeared to think that the world owed him a living, and that he was quite justified in collecting the debt in any way he could.
About twenty minutes brought the car to Amity street and Mr. Montgomery signaled the conductor, and, the car being stopped, he got out.
He walked a few rods in a westerly direction, and paused before a three-story brick house, which appeared to have seen better days.
It was now used as a boarding, or rather lodging-house. The guests were not of a very high character, the landlady not being particular as long as her rent was paid regularly. Mr. Montgomery ascended the steps in a jaunty way, and, opening the door with a passkey, ascended the front staircase. He paused before a room on the third floor, and knocked in a peculiar manner.
The door was opened by a tall woman, in rather neglected attire.
“So you're back,” she said.
“Yes, my dear, home again. As the poet says, 'There is no place like home.'”
“I should hope there wasn't,” said Mrs. Montgomery, looking about her disdainfully. “A very delightful home it makes with such a charming prospect of the back yard. I've been moping here all day.”
“You've found something to console you, I see,” said her husband, glancing at the table, on which might be seen a bottle of brandy, half-emptied, and a glass.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Montgomery; “I felt so bad I had to send out for something. It took every cent I had. And, by the way, Mrs. Flagg sent in her bill, this morning, for the last two weeks' board; she said she must have it.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Montgomery, “she shall have it.”
“You don't mean to say you've got the money, Tony!” exclaimed his wife, in surprise.
“No, I haven't got the money; but I've got what's just as good.”
“What have you got?”
“What do you say to this?” and Mr. Montgomery drew from his pocket the diamond ring, whose loss was so deeply felt by our hero.
“Is that genuine?” asked the lady.
“It's the real thing.”
“What a beauty! Where did you get it?”
“It was kindly presented me by a young man of the tender age of fifteen or thereabouts, who had no further use for it.”
“You did him out of it, that is. Tell me how you did it.”
Mr. Montgomery told the story. His wife listened with interest and appreciation.
“That was a smart operation, Tony,” she said.
“I should say it was, Maria.”
“How much is the ring worth?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Can you get that for it?”
“I can get that for it.”
“Tony, you are a treasure.”
“Have you just found that out, my dear?”
It will be inferred, from the preceding conversation, that Mrs. Montgomery was not likely to be shocked by the lack of honesty in her husband. Her conscience was as elastic as his; and she was perfectly willing to help him spend his unlawful gains.
“How soon are you going to sell the ring?” she asked.
“I should like to dispose of it at once, Maria.”
“You will need to. Mrs. Flagg wants her bill paid at once.”
“I quite understand the necessity of promptness, my dear. Only, you know, one has to be cautious about disposing of articles obtained in this way.”
“You say you left the boy locked up. It seems to me, you'd better sell the ring before he has a chance to get out and interfere.”
“I don't know but you're right, my dear. Well, we'll get ready.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Yes; it will disarm suspicion if you are with me. I think I'll go as a country parson.”
“Country parsons are not apt to have diamond rings to dispose of.”
“Very true, my dear. The remark does credit to your good judgment and penetration. But I know how to get over that.”
“As how?”
“Be a little more particular about your speech, my dear. Remember, you are a minister's wife, and must use refined expressions. What is easier than to say that the ring was given me by a benevolent lady of my congregation, to dispose of for the benefit of the poor?”
“Well thought of, Tony. You've got a good head-piece.”
“You're right, my dear. I don't like to indulge in self-praise, but I believe I know a thing or two. And now for the masquerade. Where are the duds?”
“In the black trunk.”
“Then we'd better lose no time in putting them on.”
Without describing the process of transformation in detail, it will be sufficient to say that the next twenty minutes wrought a decided change in the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Felix Montgomery. The former was arrayed in a suit of canonical black, not of the latest cut. A white neckcloth was substituted for the more gaudy article worn by the jeweler from Syracuse, and a pair of silver-bowed spectacles, composed of plain glass, lent a scholarly air to his face. His hair was combed behind his ears, and, so far as appearance went, he quite looked the character of a clergyman from the rural districts.
“How will I do, my dear?” he asked, complacently.
“Tiptop,” answered the lady. “How do I look?”
Mrs. Montgomery had put on a dress of sober tint, and scant circumference, contrasting in a marked manner with the mode then prevailing. A very plain collar encircled her neck. Her hands were incased in brown silk gloves, while her husband wore black kids. Her bonnet was exceedingly plain, and her whole costume was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity.
Her husband surveyed her with satisfaction.
“My dear,” he said, “you are a fitting helpmeet for the Rev. Mr. Barnes, of Hayfield Centre. By Jove, you do me credit!”
“'By Jove' is not a proper expression for a man of your profession, Mr. Barnes,” said the new minister's wife, with a smile.
“You are right, my dear. I must eschew profanity, and cultivate a decorous style of speech. Well, are we ready?”
“I am.”
“Then let us set forth on our pilgrimage. We will imagine, Mrs. Barnes, that we are about to make some pastoral calls.”
They emerged into the street. On the way downstairs they met Mrs. Flagg, the landlady, who bowed respectfully. She was somewhat puzzled, however, not knowing when they were let in.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Mr. Barnes. “Are you the landlady of this establishment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have been calling on one of your lodgers—Mr. Anthony Blodgett (this was the name by which Mr. Felix Montgomery was known in the house). He is a very worthy man.”
Now, to tell the truth, Mrs. Flagg had not been particularly struck by the moral worth of her lodger, and this testimony led her to entertain doubts as to the discernment of her clerical visitor.
“You know him, then?”
“I know him as myself, madam. Have you never heard him mention the name of Rev. Mr. Barnes, of Hayfield Centre, Connecticut?”
“I can't say I have,” answered the landlady.
“That is singular. We were always very intimate. We attended the same school as boys, and, in fact, were like Damon and Pythias.”
Mrs. Flagg had never heard of Damon and Pythias, still she understood the comparison.
“You're in rather a different line now,” she remarked, dryly.
“Yes, our positions are different. My friend dwells in the busy metropolis, while I pass a quiet, peaceful existence in a secluded country village, doing what good I can. But, my dear, we are perhaps detaining this worthy lady from her domestic avocations. I think we must be going.”
“Very well, I am ready.”
The first sound of her voice drew the attention of the landlady. Mrs. Felix Montgomery possessed a thin somewhat shrill, voice, which she was unable to conceal, and, looking attentively at her, Mrs. Flagg penetrated her disguise. Then, turning quickly to the gentleman, aided by her new discovery, she also recognized him.
“Well, I declare,” said she, “if you didn't take me in beautifully.”
Mr. Montgomery laughed heartily.
“You wouldn't know me, then?” he said.
“You're got up excellent,” said Mrs. Flagg, with a slight disregard for grammar. “Is it a joke?”
“Yes, a little practical joke. We're going to call on some friends and see if they know us.”
“You'd do for the theatre,” said the landlady, admiringly.
“I flatter myself I might have done something on the stage, if my attention had been turned that way. But, my dear, we must be moving, or we shan't get through our calls.”
“I wonder what mischief they are up to now,” thought Mrs. Flagg, as she followed them to the door. “I know better than to think they'd take the trouble to dress up that way just to take in their friends. No, they're up to some game. Not that I care, as long as they get money enough to pay my bill.”
So the worldly-wise landlady dismissed them from her thoughts, and went about her work.
Mr. Barnes and his wife walked up toward Broadway at a slow, decorous pace, suited to the character they had assumed. More than one who met them turned back to look at what they considered a perfect type of the country minister and his wife. They would have been not a little surprised to learn that under this quiet garb walked two of the most accomplished swindlers in a city abounding in adventurers of all kinds.
Mr. Barnes paused a moment to reprove a couple of urchins who were pitching pennies on the sidewalk.
“Don't you know that it's wrong to pitch pennies?” he said gravely.
“None of your chaff, mister,” retorted one of the street boys, irreverently. “When did you come from the country, old Goggles?”
“My son, you should address me with more respect.”
“Just get out of the way, mister! I don't want to hear no preachin'.”
“I am afraid you have been badly brought up, my son.”
“I ain't your son, and I wouldn't be for a shillin'. Just you go along, and let me alone!”
“A sad case of depravity, my dear,” remarked Mr. Barnes to his wife. “I fear we must leave these boys to their evil ways.”
“You'd better,” said one of the boys.
“They're smart little rascals!” said Mr. Montgomery, when they were out of hearing of the boys. “I took them in, though. They thought I was the genuine article.”
“We'd better not waste any more time,” said his wife. “That boy might get out, you know, and give us trouble.”
“I don't believe he will get out in a hurry. I locked the door and he'd have to pound some time before he could make any one hear, I declare, I should like to see how he looked when he recovered from his stupor, and realized that his ring was gone.”
“What sort of boy was he, Tony?”
“Better not call me by that name, my dear. It might be heard, you know, and might not be considered in character. As to your question, he was by no means a stupid boy. Rather sharpish, I should say.”
“Then how came he to let you take him in?”
“As to that, I claim to be rather sharp myself, and quite a match even for a smart boy. I haven't knocked about the world forty-four years for nothing.”
They were now in Broadway. Turning the corner of Amity street, they walked a short distance downtown, and paused before the handsome jewelry store of Ball & Black.
“I think we had better go in here,” said Felix Montgomery—(I hesitate a little by which of his numerous names to call him).
“Why not go to Tiffany's?”
“I gather from what the boy told me that the ring has already been offered there. It would be very likely to be recognized and that would be awkward, you know.”
“Are you sure the ring has not been offered here? asked his wife.
“Quite sure. The boy would have mentioned it, had such been the case.”
“Very well. Let us go in then.”
The Rev. Mr. Barnes and his wife, of Hayfield Centre; entered the elegant store, and ten minutes later Paul Hoffman entered also, and took his station at the counters wholly unconscious of the near proximity of the man who had so artfully swindled him.