"Naturally I cannot descend to the discussion of anything so perfectly vile. Your conduct this afternoon is sufficient—ah,—sufficient unto the day. Iam forced to dismiss you without a reference. Furthermore, I consider it my duty to protect other women as unsuspecting as I have been. You are in no way qualified to have charge of young and well-bred girls. No apology is desired," she hastily declared, observing symptoms of protest in the face of the delinquent; "so please restrain yourself. I do not care to hear a single word of apology, or any appeal to be retained. You may go now, my girl. Spare us the tears. I am not turning you out into the streets tonight. You may remain until tomorrow morning."
"I am going tonight," said Jane, quite white,—with suppressed anger.
"It isn't necessary," said the other, loftily.
"Where are you going?" inquired Mr. Smith-Parvis, senior, fumbling with his nose-glasses. "Have you any friends in the city?"
Miss Emsdale ignored the question. She picked up the check and folded it carefully.
"I should like to say good-bye to the—to Eudora and Lucille," she said, with an effort.
"That is out of the question," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis.
Jane deliberately turned her back upon Mrs. Smith-Parvis and moved toward the door. It was an eloquent back. Mrs. Smith-Parvis considered it positively insulting.
"Stop!" she cried out. "Is that the way to leave a room, Miss Emsdale? Please remember who and what you are. I can not permit a servant to be insolent to me."
"Oh, come now, Angela, dear," began Mr. Smith-Parvis,uncomfortably. "Seems to me she walks properly enough. What's the matter with her—There, she's gone! I can't see what—"
"You would think the hussy imagines herself to be the Queen of England," sputtered Mrs. Smith-Parvis angrily. "I've never seen such airs."
The object of her derision mounted the stairs and entered her bed-chamber on the fourth floor. Her steamer-trunk and her bags were nowhere in sight. A wry little smile trembled on her lips.
"Must you be going?" she said to herself, whimsically, as she adjusted her hat in front of the mirror.
There was no one to say good-bye to her, except Peasley, the footman. He opened the big front door for her, and she passed out into the foggy March night. A fine mist blew upon her hot face.
"Good-bye, Miss," said Peasley, following her to the top of the steps.
"Good-bye, Peasley. Thank you for taking down my things."
"You'll find 'em in the taxi," said he. He peered hard ahead and sniffed. "A bit thick, ain't it? Reminds one of London, Miss." He referred to the fog.
At the bottom of the steps she encountered the irrepressible and somewhat jubilant scion of the house. His soft hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and the collar of his overcoat was turned up about his ears. He promptly accosted her, his voice lowered to an eager, confident undertone.
"Don't cry, little girl," he said. "It isn't going to be bad at all. I—Oh, I say, now, listen to me!"
She tried to pass, but he placed himself directly inher path. The taxi-cab loomed up vaguely through the screen of fog. At the corner below an electric street lamp produced the effect of a huge, circular vignette in the white mist. The raucous barking of automobile horns, and the whir of engines came out of the street, and shadowy will-o'-the-wisp lights scuttled through the yielding, opaque wall.
"Be good enough to let me pass," she cried, suddenly possessed of a strange fear.
"Everything is all right," he said. "I'm not going to see you turned out like this without a place to go—"
"Will you compel me to call for help?" she said, backing away from him.
"Help? Why, hang it all, can't you see that I'm trying to help you? It was a rotten thing for mother to do. Poor little girl, you sha'n't go wandering around the streets looking for—Why, I'd never forgive myself if I didn't do something to offset the cruel thing she's done to you tonight. Haven't I told you all along you could depend on me? Trust me, little girl. I'll—"
Suddenly she blazed out at him.
"I see it all! That isyourtaxi, not mine! So that is your game, is it? You beast!"
"Don't be a damn' fool," he grated. "I ought to be sore as a crab at you, but I'm not. You need me now, and I'm going to stand by you. I'll forgive all that happened today, but you've got to—"
She struck his hand from her arm, and dashed out to the curb.
"Driver!" she cried out. "If you are a man you will protect me from this—"
"Hop in, Miss," interrupted the driver from his seat. "I've got all your bags and things up but,—What's that you're saying?"
"I shall not enter this cab," she said resolutely. "If you are in the pay of this man—"
"I was sent here in answer to a telephone call half an hour ago. That's all I know about it. What's the row?"
"There is no row," said Stuyvesant, coming up. "Get in, Miss Emsdale. I'm through. I've done my best to help you."
But she was now thoroughly alarmed. She sensed abduction.
"No! Stay on your box, my man! Don't get down. I shall walk to my—"
"Go ahead, driver. Take those things to the address I just gave you," said Stuyvesant. "We'll be along later."
"I knew! I knew!" she cried out. In a flash she was running down the sidewalk toward the corner.
He followed her a few paces and then stopped, cursing softly.
"Hey!" called out the driver, springing to the sidewalk. "What's all this? Getting me in wrong, huh? That's what the little roll of bills was for, eh? Well, guess again! Get out of the way, you, or I'll bat you one over the bean."
In less time than it takes to tell it, he had whisked the trunk from the platform of the taxi and the three bags from the interior.
"I ought to beat you up anyhow," he grunted."The Parkingham Hotel, eh? Fine little place, that! How much did you say was in this roll?"
"Never mind. Give it back to me at once or I'll—I'll call the police."
"Go ahead! Call your head off. Goodnight!"
Ten seconds later, Stuyvesant alone stood guard over the scattered effects on the curb. A tail-light winked blearily at him for an additional second or two, the taxi chortled disdainfully, and seemed to grind its teeth as it joined the down-town ghosts.
"Blighter!" shouted Stuyvesant, and urged by a sudden sense of alarm, strode rapidly away,—not in the wake of Miss Emsdale nor toward the house from which she had been banished, but diagonally across the street. A glance in the direction she had taken revealed no sign of her, but the sound of excited voices reached his ear. On the opposite sidewalk he slowed down to a walk, and peering intently into the fog, listened with all his ears for the return of the incomprehensible governess, accompanied by a patrolman!
A most amazing thing had happened to Lady Jane. At the corner below she bumped squarely into a pedestrian hurrying northward.
"I'm sorry," exclaimed the pedestrian. He did not say "excuse me" or "I beg pardon."
Jane gasped. "Tom—Mr. Trotter!"
"Jane!" cried the man in surprise. "I say, what's up? 'Gad, you're trembling like a leaf."
She tried to tell him.
"Take a long breath," he suggested gently, as the words came swiftly and disjointedly from her lips.
She did so, and started all over again. This time he was able to understand her.
"Wait! Tell me the rest later on," he interrupted. "Come along! This looks pretty ugly to me. By gad, I—I believe he was planning to abduct you or something as—"
"I must have a policeman," she protested, holding back. "I was looking for one when you came up."
"Nonsense! We don't need a bobby. I can take care of—"
"But that man will make off with my bags."
"We'll see," he cried, and she was swept along up the street, running to keep pace with his prodigious strides. He had linked his arm through hers.
They found her effects scattered along the edge of the sidewalk. Trotter laughed, but it was not a good-humoured laugh.
"Skipped!" he grated. "I might have known it. Now, let me think. What is the next, the best thing to do? Go up there and ring that doorbell and—"
"No! You are not to do that. Sit down here beside me. My—my knees are frightfully shaky. So silly of them. But I—I—really it was quite a shock I had, Mr. Trotter."
"Better call me Tom,—for the present at least," he suggested, sitting down beside her on the trunk.
"What a strange coincidence," she murmured. There was not much room on the trunk for two. He sat quite on one end of it.
"You mean,—sitting there?" he inquired, blankly.
"No. Your turning up as you did,—out of a clear sky."
"I shouldn't call it clear," said he, suddenly diffident. "Thick as a blanket."
"It was queer, though, wasn't it?"
"Not a bit. I've been walking up and down past this house for twenty minutes at least. We were bound to meet. Sit still. I'll keep an eye out for an empty taxi. The first thing to do is to see that you get safely down to Mrs. Sparflight's."
"How did you know I was to go there?" she demanded.
"She told me," said he bluntly.
"She wasn't to tell any one—at present." She peered closely,—at the side of his face.
He abruptly changed the subject. "And then I'll come back here and wait till he ventures out. I'm off till nine o'clock. I sha'n't pull his nose this time."
"Please explain," she insisted, clutching at his arm as he started to arise. "Did she send you up here, Mr. Trotter?"
"No, she didn't," said he, almost gruffly, and stood up to hail an approaching automobile. "Can't see a thing," he went on. "We'll just have to stop 'em till we catch one that isn't engaged. Taxi?" he shouted.
"No!" roared a voice from the shroud of mist.
"The butler telephoned for one, I am sure," said she. "He must have been sent away before I came downstairs."
"Don't think about it. You'll get yourself all wrought up and—and—Everything's all right, now, Lady Jane,—I should say Miss—"
"Call me Jane," said she softly.
"You—you don't mind?" he cried, and sat down beside her again. The trunk seemed to have increased in size. At any rate there was room to spare at the end.
"Not—not in the least," she murmured.
He was silent for a long time. "Would you mind calling me Eric,—just once?" he said at last, wistfully. His voice was very low. "I—I'm rather homesick for the sound of my own name, uttered by one of my own people."
"Oh, you poor dear boy!"
"Say 'Eric,'" he pleaded.
"Eric," she half-whispered, suddenly shy.
He drew a long, deep breath, and again was silent for a long time. Both of them appeared to have completely forgotten her plight.
"We're both a long, long way from home, Jane," he said.
"Yes, Eric."
"Odd that we should be sitting here like this, on a trunk, on the sidewalk,—in a fog."
"The 'two orphans,'" she said, with feeble attempt at sprightliness.
"People passing by within a few yards of us and yet we—we're quite invisible." There was a thrill in his voice.
"Almost as if we were in London, Eric,—lovely black old London."
Footsteps went by in the fog in front of them, automobiles slid by behind them, tooting their unheard horns.
"Oh, Jane, I—I can't help it," he whispered in her ear, and his arm went round her shoulders. "I—I love you so."
She put her hand up to his cheek and held it there.
"I—I know it, Eric," she said, ever so softly.
It may have been five minutes, or ten minutes—even so long as half an hour. There is no way to determine the actual lapse of time, or consciousness, that followed her declaration. The patrolman who came up and stopped in front of them, peering hard at the dense, immobile mass that had attracted his attention for the simple reason that it wasn't there when he passed on his uptown round, couldn't have thrown any light on the question. He had no means of knowing just when it began.
"Well, what's all this?" he demanded suspiciously.
Jane sighed, and disengaged herself. Trotter stood up, confronting the questioner.
"We're waiting for a taxi," he said.
"What's this? A trunk?" inquired the officer, tapping the object with his night-stick.
"It is," said Trotter.
"Out of one of these houses along here?" He described a half-circle with his night-stick.
"Right in front of you."
"That's the Smith-Parvis house. They've got a couple of cars, my bucko. What you givin' me? Whadda you mean taxi?"
"She happens not to be one of the family. The courtesy of the port is not extended to her, you see."
"Hired girl?"
"In a way. I say, officer, be a good fellow. Keep your eye peeled for a taxi as you go along and send it up for us. She had one ordered, but—well, you can see for yourself. It isn't here."
"That's as plain as the nose on your face. I guess I'll just step up to the door and see if it's all right. Stay where you are. Looks queer to me."
"Oh, it isn't necessary to inquire, officer," broke in Jane nervously. "You have my word for it that it's all right."
"Oh, I have, have I? Fine! And what if them bags and things is filled with silver and God knows what? You don't—"
"Go ahead and inquire," said Trotter, pressing her arm encouragingly. "Ask the butler if he didn't call a cab for Miss Emsdale,—and also ask him why in thunder it isn't here."
The patrolman hesitated. "Who are you," he asked, stepping a little closer to Trotter.
"I am this young lady's fiancé," said Trotter, with dignity.
"Her what?"
"Her steady," said Trotter.
The policeman laughed,—good-naturedly, to their relief.
"Oh, well,thatbeing the case," said he, and started away. "Excuse me for buttin' in."
"Sure," said Trotter amiably. "If you see a taxi, old man."
"Leave it to me," came back from the fog.
Jane nestled close to her tall young man. His arm was about her.
"Wasn't he perfectly lovely?" she murmured.
"Everything is perfectly lovely," said he, vastly reassured. He had taken considerable risk with the word "fiancé."
THE weather turned off warm. The rise in the temperature may have been responsible for the melting of Princess Mariana Theresa Sebastano Michelini Celestine di Pavesi's heart, or it may have sharply revealed to her calculating mind the prospect of a long and profitless season in cold storage for Prince de Bosky's fur-lined coat. In any event, she notified him by post to call for his coat and take it away with him.
The same post brought a letter from the Countess du Bara advising him that her brother-in-law, who conducted an all-night café just off Broadway in the very heart of the thriftless district, had been compelled to dismiss the leader of his far-famed Czech orchestra, and that she had recommended him for the vacancy. He would have to hurry, however.
In a postscript, she hoped he wouldn't mind wearing a red coat.
The Countess du Bara was of the Opera, where she was known as Mademoiselle Belfort and occupied a fairly prominent position in the front row of chorus sopranos. Some day she was to make her début as a principal. The Director of the Opera had promised her that, and while she regarded his promise as being as good as gold, it was, unfortunately, far more elastic, as may be gathered from the fact that it already hadstretched over three full seasons and looked capable of still further extension without being broken.
But that is neither here nor there. It is only necessary to state that the Countess, being young and vigorous and satisfactorily endowed with good looks, was not without faith in the promises of man. In return for the Director's faith in her, she was one day going to make him famous as the discoverer of Corinne Belfort. For the moment, her importance, so far as this narrative is concerned, rests on the fact that her brother-in-law conducts a café and had named his youngest daughter Corinne, a doubtful compliment in view of his profane preference for John or even George. He was an American and had five daughters.
De Bosky was ecstatic. Luck had turned. He was confident, even before he ventured to peer out of his single little window, that the sun was shining brightly and that birds were singing somewhere, if not in the heart of the congested East Side. And sure enough the sun was shining, and hurdy-gurdies were substituting for bobolinks, and the air was reeking of spring. A little wistfully he regretted that the change had not come when he needed the overcoat to shield his shivering body, and when the "opportunity" would have insured an abundance of meat and drink, to say nothing of a couple of extra blankets,—but why lament?
There was a sprightliness in his gait, a gleam in his eyes, and a cheery word on his lips as he forged his way through the suddenly alive streets, and made his way to the Subway station. This morning he would not walk. There was something left of the four dollars he had earned the week before shovelling snow into thecity's wagons. True, his hands were stiff and blistered, but all that would respond to the oil of affluence. There was no time to lose. She had said in the postscript that he would have to hurry.
Two hours later he burst excitedly into the bookshop of J. Bramble and exclaimed:
"And now, my dear, good friend, I shall soon be able to return to you the various amounts you have advanced me from time to time, out of the goodness of your heart, and I shall—what do I say?—blow you off to a banquet that even now, in contemplation, makes my own mouth water,—and I shall—"
"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bramble. "Would you mind sayingallof it in English? What is the excitement? Just a moment, please." The latter to a mild-looking gentleman who was poising a book in one hand and inquiring the price with the uplifting of his eyebrows.
De Bosky rapped three or four times on the violin case tucked under his arm.
"After all the years and all the money I spent in mastering this—But, you are busy, my good friend. Pray forgive the interruption—"
"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Bramble, uneasily.
"I have fallen into a fortune. Twenty-five dollars a week,—so!" he said whimsically. "Also I shall restore the five dollars that Trotter forced me to take,—and the odd amounts M. Mirabeau has—Yes, yes, my friend, I am radiant. I am to lead the new orchestra at Spangler's café. I have concluded negotiations with—ah, how quickly it was done! And Iapproached him with fear and trembling. I would have played for him, so that he might judge,—but no! He said 'No, no!' It was not necessary. Corinne's word was enough for him. You do not know Corinne. She is beautiful. She is an artiste! One day she will be on the lips of every one. Go! Be quick! The gentleman is departing. You will have lost a—a sale, and all through the fault of me. I beseech you,—catch him quick. Do not permit me to bring you bad luck. Au revoir! I go at once to acquaint M. Mirabeau with—au revoir!"
He dashed up the back stairway, leaving Mr. Bramble agape.
"It was only a ten-cent book," he muttered to the back of the departing customer. "And, besides, you do not belong to the union," he shouted loudly, addressing himself to de Bosky, who stopped short on the stairs.
"The union?"
"The union will not permit you to play," said the bookseller, mounting the steps. "It will permit you to starve but not to play."
"But the man—the man he said it was because I do not belong to the union that he engages me. He says the union holds him, up, what? So! He discharge the union—all of them. We form a new orchestra. Then we don't give a damn, he say. Not a tinkle damn! And Corinne say also not a tinkle damn! And I say not a tinkle damn!Voila!"
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, shaking his head.
M. Mirabeau rejoiced. He embraced the little musician,he pooh-hooed Mr. Bramble's calamitous regard for the union, and he wound up by inviting de Bosky to stop for lunch with him.
"No, no,—impossible," exclaimed de Bosky, feeling in his waistcoat pocket absent-mindedly, and then glancing at a number of M. Mirabeau's clocks in rotation; "no, I have not the time. Your admirable clocks urge me to be off. See! I am to recover the overcoat of my excellent friend, the safe-blower. This letter,—see! Mrs. Moses Jacobs. She tells me to come and take it away with me. Am I not the lucky dog,—no, no! I mean am I not the lucky star? I must be off. She may change her mind. She—"
"Mon dieu! I'd let her change it if I were you," cried M. Mirabeau. "I call it the height of misfortune to possess a fur coat on a day like this. One might as well rejoice over a linen coat in mid-winter. You are excited! Calm yourself. A bit of cold tongue, and a salad, and—"
"Au revoir!" sang out de Bosky from the top of the steps. "And remember! I shall repay you within the fortnight, monsieur. I promise! Ah, it is a beautiful, a glorious day!"
The old Frenchman dashed to the landing and called down after his speeding guest:
"Fetch the coat with you to luncheon. I shall order some moth-balls, and after we've stuffed it full of them, we'll put the poor thing away for a long, long siesta. It shall be like the anaconda. I have a fine cedar chest—"
But Mr. Bramble was speaking from the bottom of the steps.
"And the unfeeling brutes may resort to violence. They often do. They have been known to inflict serious injury upon—"
"Tonight I shall play at Spangler's," cried de Bosky, slapping his chest. "In a red coat,—and I shall not speak the English language. I am the recent importation from Budapesth. So! I am come especially to direct the orchestra—at great expense! In big letters on the menu card it shall be printed that I am late of the Royal Hungarian Orchestra, and at the greatest expense have I been secured. The newspapers shall say that I came across the ocean in a special steamer, all at Monsieur Spangler's expense. I and my red coat! So! Come tonight, my friend. Come and hear the great de Bosky in his little red coat,—and—"
"Do not forget that you are to return for luncheon," sang out M. Mirabeau from the top of the stairs.
There were tears in de Bosky's eyes. "God bless you both," he cried. "But for you I should have starved to death,—as long ago as last week. God bless you!"
His frail body swayed a little as he made his way down the length of the shop. Commanding all his strength of will, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his trembling knees, but not soon enough to delude the observing Mr. Bramble, who hurried after him, peering anxiously through his horn-rimmed spectacles.
"It is just like you foreigners," he said, overtaking the violinist near the door, and speaking with some energy. "Just like you, I say, to forget to eat breakfast when you are excited. You did not have a bite of breakfast, now did you? Up and out, all excited andeager, forgetting everything but—I say, Mirabeau, lend a hand! He is ready to drop. God bless my soul! Brace up, your highness,—I should say old chap—brace up! Damme, sir, what possessed you to refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? And it was the third time within the week. Answer me that, sir!"
De Bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before the two old men. They had led him to a chair at the back of the shop. Both were regarding him with justifiable severity. He smiled wanly as he passed his hand over his moist, pallid brow.
"You are poor men. Why,—why should I become a charge upon you?"
"Mon dieu!" sputtered M. Mirabeau, lifting his arms on high and shaking his head in absolute despair,—despair, you may be sure, over a most unaccountable and never-to-be-forgotten moment in which he found himself utterly and hopelessly without words.
Mr. Bramble suddenly rammed a hand down into the pocket of his ancient smoking-coat, and fished out a huge, red, glistening apple.
"Here! Eat this!"
De Bosky shook his head. His smile broadened.
"No, thank you. I—I do not like apples."
The bookseller was aghast. Moreover, pity and alarm rendered him singularly inept in the choice of a reply to this definite statement.
"Take it home to the children," he pleaded, with the best intention in the world.
By this time, M. Mirabeau had found his tongue. He took the situation in hand. With tact and an infiniteunderstanding, he astonished the matter-of-fact Mr. Bramble by appearing to find something amusing in the plight of their friend. He made light of the whole affair. Mr. Bramble, who could see no farther than the fact that the poor fellow was starving, was shocked. It certainly wasn't a thing one should treat as a joke,—and here was the old simpleton chuckling and grinning like a lunatic when he should be—
Lunatic! Mr. Bramble suddenly went cold to the soles of his feet. A horrified look came into his eyes. Could it be possible that something had snapped in the old Frenchman's—but M. Mirabeau was now addressing him instead of the smiling de Bosky.
"Come, come!" he was shouting merrily. "We're not following de Bosky to the grave. He is not even having a funeral. Cheer up! Mon dieu, such a face!"
Mr. Bramble grew rosy. "Blooming rubbish," he snorted, still a trifle apprehensive.
The clock-maker turned again to de Bosky. "Come upstairs at once. I shall myself fry eggs for you, and bacon,—nice and crisp,—and my coffee is not the worst in the world, my friend.Hisis abominable. And toast, hot and buttery,—ah, I am not surprised that your mouth waters!"
"It isn't my mouth that is watering," said de Bosky, wiping his eyes.
"Any fool could see that," said Mr. Bramble, scowling at the maladroit Mirabeau.
It was two o'clock when Prince Waldemar de Bosky took his departure from the hospitable home of the two old men, and, well-fortified in body as well as inspirit, moved upon the stronghold of Mrs. Moses Jacobs.
The chatelaine of "The Royal Exchange. M. Jacobs, Proprietor," received him with surprising cordiality.
"Well, well!" she called out cheerily as he approached the "desk." "I thought you'd never get here. I been waitin' since nine o'clock."
Her dark, heavy face bore signs of a struggle to overcome the set, implacable expression that avarice and suspicion had stamped upon it in the course of a long and resolute abstinence from what we are prone to call the milk of human kindness. She was actually trying to beam as she leaned across the gem-laden showcase and extended her coarse, unlovely hand to the visitor.
"I am sorry," said he, shaking hands with her. "I have been extremely busy. Besides, on a hot day like this, I could get along very nicely without a fur coat, Mrs. Jacobs."
"Sure!" said she. "It sure is hot today. You ought to thank God you ain't as fat as I am. It's awful on fat people. Well, wasn't you surprised?"
"It was most gracious of you, Mrs. Jacobs," he said with dignity. "I should have come in at once to express my appreciation of your—"
"Oh, that's all right. Don't mention it. You're a decent little feller, de Bosky, and I've got a heart,—although most of these mutts around here don't think so. Yes, sir, I meant it when I said you could tear up the pawn ticket and take the coat—with the best wishes of yours truly."
"Spoken like a lady," said he promptly. He was fanning himself with his hat.
"Mind you, I don't ask you for a penny. The slate is clean. There's the coat, layin' over there on that counter. Take it along. No one can ever say that I'd let a fellow-creature freeze to death for the sake of a five-dollar bill. No, sir! With the compliments of 'The Royal Exchange,'—if you care to put it that way."
"But I cannot permit you to cancel my obligation, Mrs. Jacobs. I shall hand you the money inside of a fortnight. I thank you, however, for the generous impulse—"
"Cut it out," she interrupted genially. "Nix on the sentiment stuff. I'm in a good humour. Don't spoil it by tryin' to be polite. And don't talk about handin' me anything. I won't take it."
"In that case, Mrs. Jacobs, I shall be obliged to leave the coat with you," he said stiffly.
She stared. "You mean,—you won't accept it from me?"
"I borrowed money on it. I can say no more, madam."
"Well, I'll be—" She extended her hand again, a look of genuine pleasure in her black eyes. "Shake hands again, Prince de Bosky. I—I understand."
"And I—I think I understand, Princess," said he, grasping the woman's hand.
"I hope you do," said she huskily. "I—I just didn't know how to go about it, that's all. Ever since that day you were in here to see me,—that bitterly cold day,—I've been trying to think of a way to—Andso I waited till it turned so hot that you'd know I wasn't trying to do it out of charity—Youdounderstand, don't you, Prince?"
"Perfectly," said he, very soberly.
"I feel better than I've felt in a good long time," she said, drawing a long breath.
"That's the way we all feel sometimes," said he, smiling. "No doubt it's the sun," he added. "We haven't seen much of it lately."
"Quit your kiddin'," she cried, donning her mask again and relapsing into the vernacular of the district.
He bore the coat in triumph to the work-shop of M. Mirabeau, and loudly called for moth-balls as he mounted the steps.
"I jest, good friend," he explained, as the old Frenchman laid aside his tools and started for the shelves containing a vast assortment of boxes and packages. "Time enough for all that. At four o'clock I am due at Spangler's for a rehearsal of the celebrated Royal Hungarian Orchestra, imported at great expense from Budapesth. I leave the treasure in your custody. Au revoir!" He had thrown the coat on the end of the work bench.
"You will return for dinner," was M. Mirabeau's stern reminder. "A pot roast tonight, Bramble has announced. We will dine at six, since you must report at seven."
"In my little red coat," sang out de Bosky blithely.
"Mon dieu!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in dismay, running his fingers over the lining of the coat. "They are already at work. The moths! See! Ah,le diable!They have devoured—"
"What!" cried de Bosky, snatching up the coat.
"The arm pits and—ah, the seams fall apart! One could thrust his hand into the hole they have made. Too late!" he groaned. "They have ruined it, my friend."
De Bosky leaned against the bench, the picture of distress. "What will my friend, the safe-blower, say to this? What will he think of me for—"
"Now we know how the estimable Mrs. Jacobs came to have softening of the heart," exploded M. Mirabeau, pulling at his long whiskers.
Mr. Bramble, abandoning the shop downstairs, shuffled into the room.
"Did I hear you say 'moths'?" he demanded, consternation written all over his face. "For God's sake, don't turn them loose in the house. They'll be into everything—"
"What is this?" cried de Bosky, peering intently between the crumbling edges of the rent, which widened hopelessly as he picked at it with nervous fingers.
Stitched securely inside the fur at the point of the shoulder was a thin packet made of what at one time must have been part of a rubber rain-coat. The three men stared at it with interest.
"Padding," said Mr. Bramble.
"Rubbish," said M. Mirabeau, referring to Mr. Bramble's declaration. He was becoming excited. Thrusting a keen-edged knife into de Bosky's hand, he said: "Remove it—but with care, with care!"
A moment later de Bosky held the odd little packet in his hand.
"Cut the threads," said Mr. Bramble, readjusting his big spectacles. "It is sewed at the ends."
The old bookseller was the first of the stupefied men to speak after the contents of the rubber bag were revealed to view.
"God bless my soul!" he gasped.
Bank notes,—many of them,—lay in de Bosky's palm.
Almost mechanically he began to count them. They were of various denominations, none smaller than twenty dollars. The eyes of the men popped as he ran off in succession two five-hundred-dollar bills.
Downstairs in the shop of J. Bramble, some one was pounding violently on a counter, but without results. He could produce no one to wait on him. He might as well have tried to rouse the dead.
"Clever rascal," said M. Mirabeau at last. "The last place in the world one would think of looking for plunder."
"What do you mean?" asked de Bosky, still dazed.
"It is quite simple," said the Frenchman. "Who but your enterprising friend, the cracksman, could have thought of anything so original as hiding money in the lining of a fur overcoat? He leaves the coat in your custody, knowing you to be an honest man. At the expiration of his term, he will reclaim—"
"Ah, but he has still a matter of ten or eleven years to serve," agreed de Bosky. "A great deal could happen in ten or eleven years. He would not have taken so great a risk. He—"
"Um!" mused M. Mirabeau, frowning. "That is so."
"What am I to do with it?" cried de Bosky. "Nearly three thousand dollars! Am I awake, Mr. Bramble?"
"We can't all be dreaming the same thing," said the bookseller, his fascinated gaze fixed on the bank notes.
"Ah-h!" exclaimed M. Mirabeau suddenly. "Try the other shoulder! There will be more. He would not have been so clumsy as to put it all on one side. He would have padded both shoulders alike."
And to the increased amazement of all of them, a similar packet was found in the left shoulder of the coat.
"What did I tell you!" cried the old Frenchman, triumphantly.
Included among the contents of the second bag, was a neatly folded sheet of writing-paper. De Bosky, with trembling fingers, spread it out, and holding it to the light, read in a low, halting manner:
"'Finder is keeper. This coat dont belong to me, and the money neither. It is nobodies buisness who they belonged to before. I put the money inside here becaus it is a place no one would ever look and I am taken a gamblers chanse on geting it back some day. Stranger things have happened. Something tells me that they are going to get me soon, and I dont want them to cop this stuff. It was hard earned. Mighty hard. I am hereby trusting to luck. I leave this coat with my neighbor, Mr. Debosky, so in case they get me, they wont get it when they search my room. My neighber is an honest man. He dont know what I am and he dont know about this money. If anybody has to findit I hope it will be him. Maybe they wont get me after all so all this writing is in vain. But Im taken no chance on that, and Im willing to take a chance on this stuff getting back to me somehow. I will say this before closing. The money belonged to people in various parts of the country and they could all afford to lose it, espeshilly the doctor. He is a bigger robber than I am, only he lets people see him get away with it. If this should fall into the hands of the police I want them to believe me when I say my neighber, a little forreigner who plays the violin till it brings tears to my eyes, has no hand in this business. I am simply asking him to take care of my coat and wear it till I call for it, whenever that may be. And the following remarks is for him. If he finds this dough, he can keep it and use as much of it as he sees fit. I would sooner he had it than anybody, because he is poorer than anybody. And what he dont know wont hurt him. I mean what he dont know about who the stuff belonged to in the beginning. Being of sound mind and so fourth I hereby subscribe myself, in the year of our lord, September 26, 1912."Henry Loveless."
"'Finder is keeper. This coat dont belong to me, and the money neither. It is nobodies buisness who they belonged to before. I put the money inside here becaus it is a place no one would ever look and I am taken a gamblers chanse on geting it back some day. Stranger things have happened. Something tells me that they are going to get me soon, and I dont want them to cop this stuff. It was hard earned. Mighty hard. I am hereby trusting to luck. I leave this coat with my neighbor, Mr. Debosky, so in case they get me, they wont get it when they search my room. My neighber is an honest man. He dont know what I am and he dont know about this money. If anybody has to findit I hope it will be him. Maybe they wont get me after all so all this writing is in vain. But Im taken no chance on that, and Im willing to take a chance on this stuff getting back to me somehow. I will say this before closing. The money belonged to people in various parts of the country and they could all afford to lose it, espeshilly the doctor. He is a bigger robber than I am, only he lets people see him get away with it. If this should fall into the hands of the police I want them to believe me when I say my neighber, a little forreigner who plays the violin till it brings tears to my eyes, has no hand in this business. I am simply asking him to take care of my coat and wear it till I call for it, whenever that may be. And the following remarks is for him. If he finds this dough, he can keep it and use as much of it as he sees fit. I would sooner he had it than anybody, because he is poorer than anybody. And what he dont know wont hurt him. I mean what he dont know about who the stuff belonged to in the beginning. Being of sound mind and so fourth I hereby subscribe myself, in the year of our lord, September 26, 1912.
"Henry Loveless."
"Henry Loveless."
"Henry Loveless."
"How very extraordinary," said Mr. Bramble after a long silence.
"Nearly five thousand dollars," said M. Mirabeau. "What will you do with it, de Bosky?"
The little violinist passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear away the last vestige of perplexity.
"There is but one thing to do, my friends," he said slowly, straightening up and facing them. "You willunderstand, of course, that I cannot under any circumstances possess myself of this stolen property."
Another silence ensued.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Bramble at last.
"It would be impossible," said M. Mirabeau, sighing.
"I shall, therefore, address a letter to my friend, acquainting him with the mishap to his coat. I shall inform him that the insects have destroyed the fur in the shoulders, laying bare the padding, and that while I have been negligent in my care of his property up to this time, I shall not be so in the future. Without betraying the secret, I shall in some way let him know that the money is safe and that he may expect to regain all of it when he—when he comes out."
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble warmly.
M. Mirabeau suddenly broke into uproarious laughter.
"Mon dieu!" he gasped, when he could catch his breath. The others were staring at him in alarm. "It is rare! It is exquisite! The refinement of justice! Thatthisshould have happened to the blood-sucking Mrs. Jacobs! Oho—ho—ho!"
MR. SMITH-PARVIS, Senior, entertained one old-fashioned, back-number idea,—relict of a throttled past; it was a pestiferous idea that always kept bobbing up in an insistent, aggravating way the instant he realized that he had a few minutes to himself.
Psychologists might go so far as to claim that he had been born with it; that it was, after a fashion, hereditary. He had come of honest, hard-working Smiths; the men and women before him had cultivated the idea with such unwavering assiduity that, despite all that had conspired to stifle it, the thing still clung to him and would not be shaken off.
In short, Mr. Smith-Parvis had an idea that a man should work. Especially a young man.
In secret he squirmed over the fact that his son Stuyvesant had never been known to do a day's work in his life. Not that it was actually necessary for the young man to descend to anything so common and inelegant as earning his daily bread, or that there was even a remote prospect of the wolf sniffing around a future doorway. Not at all. He knew that Stuyvie didn't have to work. Still, it grieved him to see so much youthful energy going to waste. He had never quite gotten over the feeling that a man could make something besides a meregentleman of himself, and do it without seriously impairing the family honour.
He had once suggested to his wife that Stuyvesant ought to go to work. He didn't care what he took up, just so he took up something. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was horrified. She would not listen to his reiterations that he didn't mean clerking in a drygoods shop, or collecting fares on a street car, or repairing electric doorbells, or anything of the kind, and she wouldn't allow him to say just what sort of work he did mean. The subject was not mentioned again for years. Stuyvesant was allowed to go on being a gentleman in his own sweet way.
One day Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to his surprise and joy, announced that she thought Stuyvesant ought to have a real chance to make something of himself,—a vocation or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,—and she couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before him. She actually blamed him for holding the young man back.
"I suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and settle down to—"
"Job? How I loathe that word. It is almost as bad as situation."
"Well, then, position," he amended. "You wouldn't hear to it."
"I have no recollection of any such conversation," said she firmly. "I have been giving the subject a great deal of thought lately. The dear boy is entitled to his opportunity. He must make a name for himself.I have decided, Philander, that he ought to go into the diplomatic service."
"Oh, Lord!"
"I don't blame you for saying 'Oh, Lord,' if you think I mean the American diplomatic service," she said, smiling. "That, of course, is not even to be considered. He must aim higher than that. I know it is a vulgar expression, but there is no class to the American embassies abroad. Compare our embassies with any of the other—"
"But, my dear, you forget that—"
"They are made up largely of men who have sprung from the most ordinary walks in life,—men totally unfitted for the social position that— Please do not argue, Philander. You know perfectly well that what I say is true. I shouldn't think of letting Stuyvesant enter the American diplomatic service. Do you remember that dreadful person who came to see us in Berlin,—about the trunks we sent up from Paris bygrande vitesse? Well, just think of Stuyvesant—"
"He was a clerk from the U. S. Consul's office," he interrupted doggedly. "Nothing whatever to do with the embassy. Besides, we can't—"
"It doesn't matter. I have been giving it a great deal of thought lately, trying to decide which is the best service for Stuyvesant to enter. The English diplomatic corps in this country is perfectly stunning, and so is the French,—and the Russian, for that matter. He doesn't speak the Russian language, however, so I suppose we will have to—"
"See here, my dear,—listen to me," he broke inresolutely. "Stuyvesant can't get into the service of any of these countries. He—"
"I'd like to know why not!" she cried sharply. "He is a gentleman, he has manner, he is— Well, isn't he as good as any of the young men one sees at the English or the French Legations in Washington?"
"I grant you all that, but he is an American just the same. He can't be born all over again, you know, with a new pair of parents. He's got to be in the American diplomatic corps, or in no corps at all. Now, get that through your head, my dear."
She finally got it through her head, and resigned herself to the American service, deciding that the Court of St. James offered the most desirable prospects in view of its close proximity to the other great capitals of Europe.
"Stuyvesant likes London next to Paris, and he could cross over to France whenever he felt the need of change."
Mr. Smith-Parvis looked harassed.
"Easier said than done," he ventured. "These chaps in the legations have to stick pretty close to their posts. He can't be running about, all over the place, you know. It isn't expected. You might as well understand in the beginning that he'll have to work like a nailer for a good many years before he gets anywhere in the diplomatic service."
"Nonsense. Doesn't the President appoint men to act as Ambassadors who never had an hour's experience in diplomacy? It's all a matter of politics. I'm sorry to say, Philander, the right men are never appointed.It seems to be the practice in this country to appoint men who, so far as I know, have absolutely no social standing. Mr. Choate was an exception, of course. I am sure that Stuyvesant will go to the top rapidly if he is given a chance. Now, how shall we go about it, Philander?" She considered the matter settled. Her husband shook his head.
"Have you spoken to Stuyvie about it?" he inquired.
"Oh, dear me, no. I want to surprise him."
"I see," said he, rather grimly for him. "I see. We simply say: 'Here is a nice soft berth in the diplomatic corps, Stuyvie. You may sail tomorrow if you like.'"
"Don't be silly. And please do not call him Stuyvie. I've spoken to you about that a thousand times, Philander. Now, don't you think you ought to run down to Washington and see the President? It may—"
"No, I don't," said he flatly. "I'm not a dee fool."
"Don't—don't you care to see your son make something of himself?" she cried in dismay.
"Certainly. I'd like nothing better than—"
"Then, try to take a little interest in him," she said coldly.
"In the first place," said he resignedly, "what are his politics?"
"The same as yours. He is a Republican. All the people we know are Republicans. The Democrats are too common for words."
"Well, his first attempt at diplomacy will be to change his politics," he said, waxing a little sarcastic as he gained courage. "And I'd advise you not to saynasty things about the Democrats. They are in the saddle now, you know. I suppose you've heard that the President is a Democrat?"
"I can't help that," she replied stubbornly.
"And he appoints nothing but Democrats."
"Is there likely to be a Republican president soon?" she inquired, knitting her brows.
"That's difficult to say."
"I suppose Stuyvesant could, in a diplomatic sort of way, pretend to be a Democrat, couldn't he, dear?"
"He lost nearly ten thousand dollars at the last election betting on what he said was a sure thing," said he, compressing his lips.
"The poor dear!"
"I can't see very much in this diplomatic game, anyhow," said Mr. Smith-Parvis determinedly.
"I asked you a direct question, Philander," she said stiffly.
"I—I seem to have forgotten just what—"
"I asked you how we are to go about securing an appointment for him."
"Oh," said he, wilting a little. "So you did. Well,—um—aw—let me think. There's only one way. He's got to have a pull. Does he know any one high up in the Democratic ranks? Any one who possesses great influence?" There was a twinkle in his eye.
"I—I don't know," she replied, helplessly. "He is quite young, Philander. He can't be expected to know everybody. But you! Now that I think of it, you must know any number of influential Democrats. There must be some one to whom you could go. You would simply say to him that Stuyvesant agrees toenter the service, and that he will do everything in his power to raise it to the social standard—"
"The man would die laughing," said he unfeelingly. "I was just thinking. Suppose I were to go to the only influential Democratic politician I know,—Cornelius McFaddan,—and tell him that Stuyvesant advocates the reconstruction of our diplomatic service along English lines, he would undoubtedly say things to me that I could neither forget nor forgive. I can almost hear him now."
"You refuse to make any effort at all, then?"
"Not at all," he broke in quickly. "I will see him. As a matter of fact, McFaddan is a very decent sort of chap, and he is keen to join the Oxford Country Club. He knows I am on the Board of Governors. In fact, he asked me not long ago what golf club I'd advise him to join. He thinks he's getting too fat. Wants to take up golf."
"But youcouldn'tpropose him for membership in the Oxford, Philander," she said flatly. "Only the smartest people in town—"
"Leave it to me," he interrupted, a flash of enthusiasm in his eyes. "By gad, I shouldn't be surprised if I could do something through him. He carries a good deal of weight."
"Would it be wise to let him reduce it by playing golf?" she inquired doubtfully.
He stared. "I mean politically. Figure of speech, my dear."
"Oh, I see."
"A little coddling on my part, and that sort of thing. They all want to break into society,—everylast one of them. You never can tell. A little soft soap goes a long way sometimes. I could ask him to have luncheon with me at Bombay House. Um-m-m!" He fell into a reflective mood.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis also was thoughtful. An amazing idea had sprouted in her head.
"Has he a wife?" she inquired, after many minutes.
"They always have, those chaps," said he. "And a lot of children."
"I was just wondering if it wouldn't be good policy to have them to dinner some night, Philander," she said.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and staring at her in astonishment.
"Every little helps," she said argumentatively. "It would be like opening the seventh heaven to her if I were to invite her here to dine. Just think what it would mean to her. She would meet—"
"They probably eat with their knives and tuck their napkins under their chins."
"I am sure that would be amusing," said she, eagerly. "It is so difficult nowadays to provide amusement for one's guests. Really, my dear, I think it is quite an idea. We could explain beforehand to the people we'll have in to meet them,—explain everything, you know. The plan for Stuyvesant, and everything."
He was still staring. "Well, who would you suggest having in with Mr. and Mrs. Con McFaddan?"
"Oh, the Cricklewicks, and the Blodgetts,—and old Mrs. Millidew,—I've been intending to have her anyway,—and perhaps the Van Ostrons and Cicely Braithmere, and I am sure we could get dear old Percy Tromboy.He would be frightfully amused by the McFinnegans, and—"
"McFaddan," he edged in.
"—and he could get a world of material for those screaming Irish imitations he loves to give. Now, when will you see Mr. McFaddan?"
"You'd have to call on his wife, wouldn't you, before asking her to dinner?"
"She probably never has heard of the custom," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis composedly.
The next day, Mr. Smith-Parvis strolled into the offices of Mr. Cornelius McFaddan, Contractor, and casually remarked what a wonderful view of the Bay he had from his windows.
"I dropped in, Mr. McFaddan," he explained, "to see if you were really in earnest about wanting to join the Oxford Country Club." He had decided that it was best to go straight to the point.
McFaddan regarded him narrowly. "Did I ever say I wanted to join the Oxford Country Club?" he demanded.
"Didn't you?" asked his visitor, slightly disturbed by this ungracious response.
"I did not," said Mr. McFaddan promptly.
"Dear me, I—I was under the impression—Ahem! I am sure you spoke of wanting to join a golf club."
"That must have been some time ago. I've joined one," said the other, a little more agreeably.
Mr. Smith-Parvis punched nervously with his cane at one of his pearl grey spats. The contractor allowed his gaze to shift. He didn't wear "spats" himself.
"I am sorry. I daresay I could have rushed you through in the Oxford. They are mighty rigid and exclusive up there, but—well, you would have gone in with a rush. Men like you are always shoved through ahead of others. It isn't quite—ah—regular, you know, but it's done when a candidate of special prominence comes up. Of course, I need not explain that it's—ah—quite sub rosa?"
"Sure," said Mr. McFaddan promptly; "I know. We do it at the Jolly Dog Club." He was again eyeing his visitor narrowly, speculatively. "It's mighty good of you, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Have a cigar?"
"No, thank you. I seldom— On second thoughts, I will take one." It occurred to him that it was the diplomatic thing to do, no matter what kind of a cigar it was. Besides, he wouldn't feel called upon to terminate his visit at once if he lighted the man's cigar. He could at least smoke an inch or even an inch and a half of it before announcing that he would have to be going. And a great deal can happen during the consumption of an inch or so of tobacco.
"That's a good cigar," he commented, after a couple of puffs. He took it from his lips and inspected it critically.
Mr. McFaddan was pleased. "It ought to be," he said. "Fifty cents straight."
The visitor looked at it with sudden respect. "A little better than I'm in the habit of smoking," he said ingratiatingly.
"What does it cost to join the Oxford Club?" inquired the contractor.
"Twelve hundred dollars admission, and two hundreda year dues," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, pricking up his ears. "Really quite reasonable."
"My wife don't like the golf club I belong to," said the other, squinting at his own cigar. "Rough-neck crowd, she says."
Mr. Smith-Parvis looked politely concerned.
"That's too bad," he said.
The contractor appeared to be weighing something in his mind.
"How long does it take to get into your club?" he asked.
"Usually about five years," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, blandly. "Long waiting list, you know. Some of the best people in the city are on it, by the way. I daresay it wouldn't be more than two or three months in your case, however," he concluded.
"I'll speak to the wife about it," said Mr. McFaddan. "She may put her foot down hard. Too swell for us, maybe. We're plain people."
"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Smith-Parvis readily. "Extremely democratic club, my dear McFaddan. Exclusive and all that, but quite—ah—unconventional. Ha-ha!"
Finding himself on the high-road to success, he adventured a little farther. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he got to his feet with an exclamation of well-feigned dismay.
"My dear fellow, I had no idea it was so near the luncheon hour. Stupid of me. Why didn't you kick me out? Ha-ha! Let me know what you decide to do, and I will be delighted to— But better still, can't you have lunch with me? I could tell you somethingabout the club and— What do you say to going around to Bombay House with me?"
"I'd like nothing better," said the thoroughly perplexed politician. "Excuse me while I wash me hands."
And peering earnestly into the mirror above the washstand in the corner of the office, Mr. McFaddan said to himself:
"I must look easier to him than I do to meself. If I'm any kind of a guesser at all he's after one of two things. He either wants his tax assessment rejuced or wants to run for mayor of the city. The poor boob!"
That evening Mr. Smith-Parvis announced, in a bland and casual manner, that things were shaping themselves beautifully.
"I had McFaddan to lunch with me," he explained. "He was tremendously impressed."
His wife was slightly perturbed. "And I suppose you were so stupid as to introduce him to a lot of men in the club who—"
"I didn't have to," interrupted Mr. Smith-Parvis, a trifle crossly. "It was amazing how many of the members knew him. I daresay four out of every five men in the club shook hands with him and called him Mr. McFaddan. Two bank presidents called him Con, and, by gad, Angela, he actually introduced me to several really big bugs I've been wanting to meet for ten years or more. Most extraordinary, 'pon my word."
"Did you—did you put out any feelers?"
"About Stuyvie—sant? Certainly not. That would have been fatal. I did advance a few tactful and pertinent criticisms of our present diplomatic service, however. I was relieved to discover that he thinksit can be improved. He agreed with me when I advanced the opinion that we, as sovereign citizens of this great Republic, ought to see to it that a better, a higher class of men represent us abroad. He said,—in his rough, slangy way: 'You're dead right. What good are them authors and poets we're sendin' over there now? What we need is good, live hustlers,—men with ginger instead of ink in their veins.' I remember the words perfectly. 'Ginger instead of ink!' Ha-ha,—rather good, eh?"
"You must dress at once, Philander," said his wife. "We are dining with the Hatchers."
"That reminds me," he said, wrinkling his brow. "I dropped in to see Cricklewick on the way up. He didn't appear to be very enthusiastic about dining here with the McFaddans."
"For heaven's sake, you don't mean to say you've already asked the man to dine with us!" cried his wife.
"Not in so many words," he made haste to explain. "He spoke several times about his wife. Seemed to want me to know that she was a snappy old girl,—his words, not mine. The salt of the earth, and so on. Of course, I had to say something agreeable. So I said I'd like very much to have the pleasure of meeting her."
"Oh, you did, did you?" witheringly.
"He seemed really quite affected, my dear. It was several minutes before he could find the words to reply. Got very red in the face and managed to say finally that it was very kind of me. I think it rather made a hit with him. I merely mentioned the possibility of dining together some time,—en famille,—and that I'd like him to meet you. Nothing more,—not a thingmore than that!" he cried, quailing a little under his wife's eye.
"And what did he say to that?" she inquired. The rising inflection was ominous.
"He was polite enough to say he'd be pleased to meet you," said he, with justifiable exasperation.