A FEW mornings after de Bosky'spremieras director of the Royal Hungarian Orchestra, Mrs. Sparflight called Jane Emsdale's attention to a news "story" in theTimes. The headline was as follows:
A Royal Violinist
Prince de Bosky Leads the Orchestraat Spangler's
Three-quarters of a column were devoted to the first appearance in America of the royal musician; his remarkable talent; his glorious ancestry; his singular independence; and (through an interpreter) his impressions of New York.
"Oh, I am so glad," cried Jane, after she had read the story. "The poor fellow was so dreadfully up against it."
"We must go and hear him soon," said the other.
They were at the breakfast-table. Jane had been with the elder woman for nearly a week. She was happy, radiant, contented. Not so much as an inkling of the truth arose to disturb her serenity. She believed herself to be actually in the pay of "Deborah." From morning till night she went cheerfully about the tasks set for her by her sorely tried employer, who, as time went on, found herself hard put to invent duties for aconscientious private secretary. Jane was much too active, much too eager; such indefatigable energy harassed rather than comforted her employer. And, not for the world, would the latter have called upon her to take over any of the work downstairs. The poor lady lay awake nights trying to think of something that she could set the girl to doing in the morning!
A curt, pointed epistle had come to Mrs. Sparflight from Mrs. Smith-Parvis. That lady announced briefly that she had been obliged to discharge Miss Emsdale, and that she considered it her duty to warn Mrs. Sparflight against recommending her late governess to any one else.
"You may answer the note, my dear," the Marchioness had said, her eyes twinkling as she watched Jane's face. "Thank her for the warning and say that I regret having sent Miss Emsdale to her. Say that I shall be exceedingly careful in the future. Sign it, and append your initials. It isn't a bad idea to let her know that I do not regard her communication as strictly confidential,—between friends, you might say. And now you must get out for a long walk today. A strong, healthy English girl like you shouldn't go without stretching her legs. You'll be losing the bloom in your cheek if you stay indoors as you've been doing the past week."
Jane's dread of meeting her tormentor had kept her close to the apartment since the night of her rather unconventional arrival. Twice the eager Trotter, thrilled and exalted by his new-found happiness, had dashed in to see her, but only for a few minutes' stay on each occasion.
"How do you like your new position?" he had asked in the dimness at the head of the stairway. She could not see his face, but it was because he kept her head rather closely pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. Otherwise she might have detected the guilty flicker in his eyes.
"I love it. She is such a dear. But, really, Eric, I don't think I'm worth half what she pays me."
He chuckled softly. "Oh, yes, you are. You are certainly worth half what my boss pays me."
"But I do not earn it," she insisted.
"Neither do I," said he.
To return to the Marchioness and the newspaper:
"We will go off on a little spree before long, my dear. A good dinner at Spangler's, a little music, and a chat with the sensation of the hour. Get Mrs. Hendricks on the telephone, please. I will ask her to join us there some night soon with her husband. He is the man who wrote that delightful novel with the name I never can remember. You will like him, I know. He is so dreadfully deaf that all one has to do to include him in the conversation is to return his smiles occasionally."
And so, on a certain night in mid-April, it came to pass that Spangler's Café, gay and full of the din that sustains thegenusNew Yorker in his contention that there is no other place in the world fit to live in, had among its patrons a number of the persons connected with this story of the City of Masks.
First of all, there was the new leader of the orchestra, a dapper, romantic-looking young man in a flaming red coat. Ah, but you should have seen him! The admirable Mirabeau, true Frenchman that he was, had performedwonders with pomades and oils and the glossy brilliantine. The sleek black hair of the little Prince shone like the raven's wing; his dark, gipsy eyes, rendered more vivid by the skilful application of "lampblack," gleamed with an ardent excitement; there was colour in his cheeks, and a smile on his lips.
At a table near the platform on which the orchestra was stationed, sat the Honourable Cornelius McFaddan, his wife, and a congenial party of friends. In a far-off corner, remote from the music, you would have discovered the Marchioness and her companions; the bland, perpetually smiling Mr. Hendricks who wrote the book, his wife, and the lovely, blue-eyed Jane.
By a strange order of coincidence, young Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis, quite mellow and bereft of the power to focus steadily with eye or intellect, occupied a seat,—and frequently a seat and a half,—at a table made up of shrill-voiced young women and bald-headed gentlemen of uncertain age who had a whispering acquaintance with the head waiter and his assistants.
The Countess du Bara, otherwise Corinne, entertained a few of the lesser lights of the Opera and two lean, hungry-looking critics she was cultivating against an hour of need.
At a small, mean table alongside the swinging door through which a procession of waiters constantly streamed on their way from the kitchen, balancing trays at hazardous heights, sat two men who up to this moment have not been mentioned in these revelations. Very ordinary looking persons they were, in business clothes.
One of them, a sallow, liverish individual, divided hisinterest between two widely separated tables. His companion was interested in nothing except his food, which being wholly unsatisfactory to him, relieved him of the necessity of talking about anything else. He spoke of it from time to time, however, usually to the waiter, who could only say that he was sorry. This man was a red-faced, sharp-nosed person with an unmistakable Cockney accent. He seemed to find a great deal of comfort in verbally longing for the day when he could get back to Simpson's in the Strand for a bit of "roast that is a roast."
The crowd began to thin out shortly after the time set for the lifting of curtains in all of the theatres. It was then that the sallow-faced man arose from his seat and, after asking his companion to excuse him for a minute, approached Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. That gentleman had been dizzily ogling a dashing, spirited young woman at the table presided over by Mr. McFaddan, a circumstance which not only annoyed the lady but also one closer at hand. The latter was wanting to know, in some heat, what he took her for. If he thought she'd stand for anything like that, he had another guess coming.
"May I have a word with you?" asked the sallow man, inserting his head between Stuyvesant and the protesting young woman.
"The bouncer," cried the young woman, looking up. "Good work. That's what you get for making eyes at strange—"
"Shut up," said Stuyvie, who had, after a moment's concentration, recognized the man. "What do you want?"
"A word in private," said the other.
Stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table in the rear.
"She is here," said the stranger. "Here in this restaurant. Not more than fifty feet from where we're sitting."
The listener blinked. His brain was foggy.
"What's that?" he mumbled, thickly.
"The girl you're lookin' for," said the man.
Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to clear.
"You mean—Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly.
The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the English girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation.
"Yes. Stand up and take a look. Keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there with the white-haired old lady. Am I right? She's the one, ain't she?"
Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,—there's not the slightest doubt. How—how long has she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl. She—"
"What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once.
"I know you are," said the other soothingly.
"Darn the luck," growled Stuyvie, following a heroic effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "I wouldn't have had her see me here with this crowd for half the money in New York. She'll get a bad impression of me. Look at 'em! My Lord, they're all stewed. I say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose at the head of my table that I've been suddenly called away, and—"
"Take my advice, and sit tight."
Stuyvie's mind wandered. "Say, do you know who that rippin' creature is over there with the fat Irishman? She's a dream."
The sallow man did not deign to look. He bent a little closer to Mr. Smith-Parvis.
"Now, what is the next move, Mr. Smith-Parvis? I've located her right enough. Is this the end of the trail?"
"Sh!" cautioned Stuyvie, loudly. Then even more loudly: "Don't you know any better than to roar like that? There's a man sitting up there—"
"He can't understand a word of English. Wop. Just landed. That's the guy the papers have been—"
"I am not in the least interested in your conversation," said Stuyvie haughtily. "What were you saying?"
"Am I through? That's what I want to know."
"You have found out where she's stopping?"
"Yep. Stayin' with the white-haired old lady. Dressmaking establishment. The office will make a full report to you tomorrow."
"Wait a minute. Let me think."
The sallow man waited for some time. Then he said: "Excuse me, Mr. Smith-Parvis, but I've got a friend over here. Stranger in New York. I'm detailed to entertain him."
"You've got to shake him," said Stuyvie, arrogantly. "I want you to follow her home, and I'm going with you. As soon as I know positively where she lives, I'll decide on the next step we're to take. We'll have to work out some plan to get her away from that dressmakin' 'stablishment."
The other gave him a hard look. "Don't count our people in on any rough stuff," he said levelly. "We don't go in for that sort of thing."
Stuyvie winked. "We'll talk about that when the time comes."
"Well, what I said goes. We're the oldest and most reliable agency in—"
"I know all that," said Stuyvie, peevishly. "It is immaterial to me whether your agency or some other one does the job. Remember that, will you? I want that girl, and I don't give a—"
"Good night, Mr. Smith-Parvis."
"Wait a minute,—waita minute. Now, listen. When you see her getting ready to leave this place, rush out and get a taxi. I'll join you outside, and we'll—"
"Very well. That's part of my job, I suppose. I will have to explain to my friend. He will understand." He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "He's in the same business. Special from Scotland Yard. My God, what bulldogs these Britishers are. He's been clear around the world, lookin' for a young English swell who lit out a couple of years ago. We've beentaken in on the case,—and I'm on the job with him from now—"
"And say," broke in Stuyvie, irrelevantly, "before you leave find out who that girl is over there with the fat Irishman. Understand?"
Prince Waldemar de Bosky's thoughts and reflections, up to the beginning of this duologue, were of the rosiest and most cheerful nature. He was not proud to be playing the violin in Spangler's, but he was human. He was not above being gratified by the applause and enthusiasm of the people who came to see if not to hear a prince of the blood perform.
His friends were out there in front, and it was to them that he played. He was very happy. And the five thousand dollars in the old steel safe at the shop of Mirabeau the clockmaker! He had been thinking of them and of the letter he had posted to the man "up the river,"—and of the interest he would take in the reply when it came. Abruptly, in the midst of these agreeable thoughts, came the unlovely interruption.
At first he was bewildered, uncertain as to the course he should pursue. He never had seen young Smith-Parvis before, but he had no difficulty in identifying him as the disturber of Trotter's peace of mind. That there was something dark and sinister behind the plans and motives of the young man and his spy was not a matter for doubt. How was he to warn Lady Jane? He was in a fearful state of perturbation as he stepped to the front of the platform for the next number on the program.
As he played, he saw Smith-Parvis rejoin his party. He watched the sallow man weave his way among thediners to his own table. His anxious gaze sought out the Marchioness and Jane, and he was relieved to find that they were not preparing to depart. Also, he looked again at McFaddan and the dashing young woman at the foot of his table. He had recognized the man who once a week came under his critical observation as a proper footman. As a matter of fact, he had been a trifle flabbergasted by the intense stare with which McFaddan favoured him. Up to this hour he had not associated McFaddan with opulence or a tailor-made dress suit.
After the encore, he descended from the platform and made his way, bowing right and left to the friendly throng, until he brought up at the Marchioness's table. There he paused and executed a profound bow.
The Marchioness proffered her hand, which he was careful not to see, and said something to him in English. He shook his head, expressive of despair, and replied in the Hungarian tongue.
"He does not understand English," said Jane, her eyes sparkling. Then she complimented him in French.
De Bosky affected a faint expression of hope. He managed a few halting words in French. Jane was delighted. This was rare good fun. The musician turned to the others at the table and gave utterance to the customary "Parle vouz Francais, madame—m'sieu?"
"Not a word," said Mrs. Hendricks. "Heunderstands it but he can't hear it," she went on, and suddenly turned a fiery red. "How silly of me," she said to the Marchioness, giggling hysterically.
De Bosky's face cleared. He addressed himself to Jane; it was quite safe to speak to her in French. He forgot himself in his eagerness, however, and spoke with amazing fluency for one who but a moment before had been so at a loss. In a few quick, concise sentences he told her of Stuyvesant's presence, his condition and his immediate designs.
Both Jane and the Marchioness were equal to the occasion. Although filled with consternation, they succeeded admirably in concealing their dismay behind a mask of smiles and a gay sort of chatter. De Bosky beamed and smirked and gesticulated. One would have thought he was regaling them with an amusing story.
"He is capable of making a horrid scene," lamented Jane, through smiling lips. "He may come over to this table and—"
"Compose yourself," broke in de Bosky, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. "If he should attempt to annoy you here, I—I myself will take him in hand. Have no fear. You may depend on me."
He was interrupted at this juncture by a brass-buttoned page who passed the table, murmuring the name of Mrs. Sparflight.
Spangler's is an exceptional place. Pages do not bawl out one's name as if calling an "extra." On the contrary, in quiet, repressed tones they politely inquire at each table for the person wanted. Mr. Spangler was very particular about this. He came near to losing his license years before simply because a page had meandered through the restaurant bellowing the name of a gentleman whose influence was greater at City Hall than it was at his own fireside,—from which, by the way,he appears to have strayed on the night in question.
"Dear me," cried the Marchioness, her agitation increasing. "No one knows I am here. How on earth—Here, boy!"
A note was delivered to her. It was from Thomas Trotter. Her face brightened as she glanced swiftly through the scrawl.
"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "It is from Mr. Trotter. He is waiting outside with his automobile."
She passed the note to Jane, whose colour deepened. De Bosky drew a deep breath of relief, and, cheered beyond measure by her reassuring words, strode off, his head erect, his white teeth showing in a broad smile.
Trotter wrote: "It is raining cats and dogs. I have the car outside. The family is at the theatre. Don't hurry. I can wait until 10:15. If you are not ready to come away by that time, you will find my friend Joe Glimm hanging about in front of the café,—drenched to the skin, I'll wager. You will recall him as the huge person I introduced to you recently as from Constantinople. Just put yourselves under his wing if anything happens. He is jolly well able to protect you. I know who's in there, but don't be uneasy. He will not dare molest you."
"Shall I keep it for you?" asked Jane, her eyes shining.
"I fancy it was intended for you, my dear," said the other drily.
"How very interesting," observed Mr. Hendricks, who occasionally offered some such remark as his contribution to the gaiety of the evening. He had found it to be a perfectly safe shot, even when fired at random.
In the meantime, Mr. McFaddan had come to the conclusion that the young man at the next table but one was obnoxious. It isn't exactly the way Mr. McFaddan would have put it, but as he would have put it less elegantly, it is better to supply him with a word out of stock.
The dashing young woman upon whom Stuyvesant lavished his bold and significant glances happened to be Mrs. McFaddan, whose scant twelve months as a wife gave her certain privileges and a distinction that properly would have been denied her hearth-loving predecessor who came over from Ireland to marry Con McFaddan when he was promoted to the position of foreman in the works,—and who, true to her estate of muliebrity, produced four of the most exemplary step-children that any second wife could have discovered if she had gone storking over the entire city.
Cornelius had married his stenographer. It was not his fault that she happened to be a very pretty young woman, nor could he be held responsible for the fact that he was approximately thirty years of age on the day she was born. Any way you look at it, she was his wife and dependent on him for some measure of protection.
And Mr. McFaddan, being an influence, sent for the proprietor of the café himself, and whispered to him. Whereupon, Mr. Spangler, considering the side on which his bread was buttered, whispered back that it should be attended to at once.
"And," pursued Mr. McFaddan, purple with suppressed rage, "if you don't, I will."
A minute or two later, one of the waiters approachedyoung Mr. Smith-Parvis and informed him that he was wanted outside at once.
Stuyvesant's heart leaped. He at once surmised that Miss Emsdale, repentant and envious, had come off her high horse and was eager to get away from the dull, prosaic and stupidly respectable old "parties" over in the corner. Conceivably she had taken a little more champagne than was good for her. He got up immediately, and without so much as a word of apology to his host, made his way eagerly, though unsteadily, to the entrance-hall.
He expected Miss Emsdale to follow; he was already framing in his beaddled brain the jolly little lecture he would give her when—
A red-faced person jostled him in a most annoying manner.
"Look sharp there," said Stuyvie thickly. "Watch where you're going."
"Steady, sir,—steady!" came in a hushed, agitated voice from Mr. Spangler, who appeared to be addressing himself exclusively to the red-faced person. "Let me manage it,—please."
"Who the devil is this bally old blighter?" demanded Stuyvie loudly.
"Leave him to me, Spangler," said the red-faced man. "I have a few choice words I—"
"Here! Confound you! Keep off of my toes, you fool! I say, Spangler, what's the matter with you? Throw him out! He's—"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"
"I ought to knock your block off," said Mr. McFaddan, without raising his voice. As his face was withinsix inches of Stuyvesant's nose, the young man had no difficulty whatever in hearing what he said, and yet it should not be considered strange that he failed to understand. In all fairness, it must be said that he was bewildered. Under the circumstances any one would have been bewildered. Being spoken to in that fashion by a man you've never seen before in your life is, to say the least, surprising. "I'll give you ten seconds to apologize."
"Ap—apologize? Confound you, what do you mean? You're drunk."
"I said ten seconds," growled Cornelius.
"And then what?" gulped Stuyvie.
"A swat on the nose," said Mr. McFaddan.
At no point in the course of this narrative has there been either proof or assertion that Smith-Parvis, Junior, possessed the back-bone of a caterpillar. It has been stated, however, that he was a young man of considerable bulk. We have assumed, correctly, that this rather impressive physique masked a craven spirit. As a matter of fact, he was such a prodigious coward that he practised all manner of "exercises" in order to develop something to inspire in his fellow-men the belief that he would be a pretty tough customer to tackle.
Something is to be said for his method. It has been successfully practised by man ever since the day that Solomon, in all his glory, arrayed himself so sumptuously that the whole world hailed him as the wisest man extant.
Stuyvie took great pride in revealing his well-developed arms; it was not an uncommon thing for him toask you to feel his biceps, or his back muscles, or the cords in his thigh; he did a great deal of strutting in his bathing suit at such places as Atlantic City, Southampton and Newport. In a way, it paid to advertise.
Now when Mr. McFaddan, a formidable-looking person, made that emphatic remark, Stuyvesant realized that there was no escape. He was trapped. Panic seized him. In sheer terror he struck blindly at the awful, reddish thing that filled his vision.
He talked a good deal about it afterwards, explaining in a casual sort of way just how he had measured the distance and had picked out the point of the fat man's jaw. He even went so far as to say that he felt sorry for the poor devil even before he delivered the blow.
The fact of the matter is, Stuyvie's wild, terrified swing,—delivered with the eyes not only closed but covered by the left arm,—landed squarely on Mr. McFaddan's jaw. And when the aggressor, after a moment or two of suspense, opened his eyes and lowered his arm, expecting to find his adversary's fist on its irresistible approach toward his nose, there was no Mr. McFaddan in sight;—at least, he was not where he had been the moment before.
Mr. McFaddan lay in a crumpled heap against a chair, ten feet away.
Stuyvie was suddenly aware that some one was assisting him into his coat, and that several men were hustling him toward the door.
"Get out,—quick!" said one, who turned out to be the agitated Mr. Spangler. "Before he gets up. He is a terrible man."
By this time they were in the vestibule.
"I will not tell him who you are," Mr. Spangler was saying. "I will give you another name,—Jones or anything. He must never know who you are."
"What's the difference?" chattered Stuyvie. "He's—he's dead, isn't he?"
IT was raining hard. Stuyvesant, thoroughly alarmed and not at all elated by his astonishing conquest, halted in dismay. The pelting torrent swept up against the side of the canvas awning that extended to the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost afloat. Headlights of automobiles drawn up to the curb blazed dimly through the screen of water. He peered out beyond the narrow opening left for pedestrians and groaned.
"Taxi!" he frantically shouted to the doorman. Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He started as if a gun had gone off at his back. It was all up! For once the police were on the spot when—A voice was shouting:
"By thunder, I didn't think it was in you!"
He whirled to face, not the expected bluecoat, but the sallow detective.
"My God, how you startled me!"
"I'd have bet my last dollar you hadn't the nerve to—ahem! I—I—Say, take a tip from me. Beat it! Don't hang around here waitin' for that girl. That guy in there is beginning to see straight again, and if he was to bust out here and find you—Well, it would be something awful!"
"Get me a taxi, you infernal idiot!" roared the conqueror in flight, addressing the starter.
"Have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi starter, grabbing up the telephone.
"Five minutes?" gasped Stuyvie, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Oh, Lord! Tell one of those chauffeurs out there I'll give him ten dollars to run me to the Grand Central Station. Hurry up!"
"The Grand Central?" exclaimed the detective. "Great Scott, man, you don't have to beat it clear out of town, you know. What are you going to the Station for?"
"For a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted Stuyvie. "Say, who was that man in there?"
"Didn't you know him?"
"Never saw him in my life before,—the blighter. Who is he?"
The detective stared. He opened his mouth to reply, and as suddenly closed it. He, too, knew on which side his bread was precariously buttered.
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,—and mine, too, curse them," chattered Stuyvie.
"Don't you think it," said the other promptly. "There won't be a word about it, take it from me. That guy,—whoever he is,—ain't going to have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you."
The insult passed unnoticed. Stuyvie was gazing, pop-eyed, at a man who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a dripping raincoat.
The newcomer's eyes were upon him. They were steady, unfriendly eyes. He advanced slowly.
"I sha'n't wait," said Stuyvie, and swiftly passed out into the deluge. No other course was open to him. There was trouble ahead and trouble behind.
Thomas Trotter laughed. The sallow-faced man made a trumpet of his hands and shouted after the departing one:
"Beat it! He's coming!"
The retreating footsteps quickened into a lively clatter. Trotter distinctly heard the sallow-faced man chuckle.
The Marchioness and Jane went home in the big Millidew limousine instead of in a taxi. They left the restaurant soon after the departure of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. The pensive-looking stranger from Scotland Yard came out close upon their heels. He was looking for his American guide.
Trotter brought his car up to the awning and grinned broadly as he leaned forward for "orders."
"Home, James," said Lady Jane, loftily.
"Very good, my lady," said Trotter.
The man from Scotland Yard squinted narrowly at the chauffeur's face. He moved a few paces nearer and stared harder. For a long time after the car had rolled away, he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, frowning perplexedly. Then he shook his head and apparently gave it up. He went inside to look for his friend.
The next day, the sallow-faced detective received instructions over the telephone from one who refused to give his name to the operator. He was commanded to keep close watch on the movements of a certain party, and to await further orders.
"I shall be out of town for a week or ten days," explained young Mr. Smith-Parvis.
"I see," said the sallow-faced man. "Good idea. That guy—" But the receiver at the other end clicked rudely and without ceremony.
Stuyvesant took an afternoon train for Virginia Hot Springs. At the Pennsylvania Station he bought all of the newspapers,—morning, noon and night. There wasn't a line in any one of them about the fracas. He was rather hurt about it. He was beginning to feel proud of his achievement. By the time the train reached Philadelphia he had worked himself into quite a fury over the way the New York papers suppress things that really ought to be printed. Subsidized, that's what they were. Jolly well bribed. He had given the fellow,—whoever he was,—a well-deserved drubbing, and the world would never hear of it! Miss Emsdale would not hear of it. He very much wished her to hear of it, too. The farther away he got from New York the more active became the conviction that he owed it to himself to go back there and thrash the fellow all over again, as publicly as possible,—in front of the Public Library at four o'clock in the afternoon, while he was about it.
He had been at Hot Springs no longer than forty-eight hours when a long letter came from his mother. She urged him to return to New York as soon as possible. It was imperative that he should be present at a very important dinner she was giving on Friday night. One of the most influential politicians in New York was to be there,—a man whose name was ahousehold word,—and she was sure something splendid would come of it.
"You must not fail me, dear boy," she wrote. "I would not have him miss seeing you for anything in the world. Don't ask me any questions. I can't tell you anything now, but I will say that a great surprise is in store for my darling boy."
Meanwhile the nosy individual from Scotland Yard had not been idle. The fleeting, all too brief glimpse he had had of the good-looking chauffeur in front of Spangler's spurred him to sudden energy in pursuit of what had long since shaped itself as a rather forlorn hope. He got out the photograph of the youngster in the smart uniform of the Guard, and studied it with renewed intensity. Mentally he removed the cocky little moustache so prevalent in the Army, and with equal arrogance tried to put one on the smooth-faced chauffeur. He allowed for elapsed time, and the wear and tear of three years knocking about the world, and altered circumstances, and still the resemblance persisted.
For a matter of ten months he had been seeking the young gentleman who bore such a startling resemblance to the smiling chauffeur. He had traced him to Turkey, into Egypt, down the East Coast of Africa, over to Australia, up to Siam and China and Japan, across the Pacific to British Columbia, thence to the United States, where the trail was completely lost. His quarry had a good year and a half to two years the start of him.
Still, a chap he knew quite well in the Yard, afterchasing a man twice around the world, had nabbed him at the end of six years. So much for British perseverance.
Inquiry had failed to produce the slightest enlightenment from the doorman or the starter at Spangler's. He always remembered them as the stupidest asses he had ever encountered. They didn't recognize the chauffeur, nor the car, nor the ladies; not only were they unable to tell him the number of the car, but they couldn't, for the life of them, approximate the number of ladies. All they seemed to know was that some one had been knocked down by a "swell" who was "hot-footing it" up the street.
His sallow-faced friend, however, had provided him with an encouraging lead. That worthy knew the ladies, but somewhat peevishly explained that it was hardly to be expected that he should know all of the taxi-cab drivers in New York,—and as he had seen them arrive in a taxi-cab it was reasonable to assume that they had departed in one.
"But it wasn't a taxi-cab," the Scotland Yard man protested. "It was a blinking limousine."
"Then, all I got to say is that they're not the women I mean. If I'd been out here when they left I probably could have put you wise. But I was in there listenin' to what Con McFaddan was sayin' to poor old Spangler. The woman I mean is a dressmaker. She ain't got any more of a limo than I have. Did you notice what they looked like?"
The Scotland Yard man, staring gloomily up the rain-swept street, confessed that he hadn't noticed anything but the chauffeur's face.
"Well, there you are," remarked the sallow-faced man, shrugging his shoulders in a patronizing, almost pitying way.
The Londoner winced.
"I distinctly heard the chauffeur say 'Very good, my lady,'" he said, after a moment. "That was a bit odd, wasn't it, now? You don't have any such things as titles over 'ere, do you?"
"Sure. Every steamer brings one or two of 'em to our little city."
The Englishman scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened.
"I remember, after all,—in a vague sort of way, don't you know,—that one of the ladies had white hair. I recall an instant's speculation on my part. I remember looking twice to be sure that it was hair and not a bit of lace thrown—"
"That's the party," exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "Now we're getting somewhere."
The next afternoon, the man from Scotland Yard paid a visit to Deborah's. Not at all abashed at finding himself in a place where all save angels fear to tread, he calmly asked to be conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sparflight. He tactfully refrained from adding "alias Deborah, Limited. London, Paris and New York." He declined to state his business.
"Madam," said he, coming straight to the point the instant he was ushered into the presence of the white-haired proprietress, "I sha'n't waste your time,—and mine, I may add,—by beating about the bush, as you Americans would say. I represent—"
"If you are an insurance agent or a book agent, youneed not waste any time at all," began Mrs. Sparflight. He held up his hand deprecatingly.
"—Scotland Yard," he concluded, fixing his eyes upon her. The start she gave was helpful. He went on briskly. "Last night you were at a certain restaurant. You departed during the thunder-storm in a limousine driven by a young man whose face is familiar to me. In short, I am looking for a man who bears a most startling resemblance to him. May I prevail upon you to volunteer a bit of information?"
Mrs. Sparflight betrayed agitation. A hunted, troubled look came into her eyes.
"I—I don't quite understand," she stammered. "Who—who did you say you were?"
"My name is Chambers, Alfred Chambers, Scotland Yard. In the event that you are ignorant of the character of the place called Scotland Yard, I may explain that—"
"I know what it is," she interrupted hastily. "What is it that you want of me, Mr. Chambers?" She was rapidly gaining control of her wits.
"Very little, madam. I should very much like to know whose car took you away from Sprinkler's last night."
She looked him straight in the eye. "I haven't the remotest idea," she said.
He nodded his head gently. "Would you, on the other hand, object to telling me how long James has been driving for her ladyship?"
This was a facer. Mrs. Sparflight's gaze wavered.
"Her ladyship?" she murmured weakly.
"Yes, madam,—unless my hearing was temporarily defective," he said.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Your companion was a young lady of—"
"My good man," interrupted the lady sharply, "my companion last night was my own private secretary."
"A Miss Emsdale, I believe," said he.
She gulped. "Precisely."
"Um!" he mused. "And you do not know whose car you went off in,—is that right?"
"I have no hesitancy in stating, Mr. Chambers, that the car does not belong to me or to my secretary," she said, smiling.
"I trust you will pardon a seemingly rude question, Mrs. Sparflight. Is it the custom in New York for people to take possession of private automobiles—"
"It is the custom for New York chauffeurs to pick up an extra dollar or two when their employers are not looking," she interrupted, with a shrug of her shoulders. She was instantly ashamed of her mendacity. She looked over her shoulder to see if Mr. Thomas Trotter's sweetheart was anywhere within hearing, and was relieved to find that she was not. "And now, sir, if it is a fair question, may I inquire just what this chauffeur's double has been doing that Scotland Yard should be seeking him so assiduously?"
"He has been giving us a deuce of a chase, madam," said Mr. Chambers, as if that were the gravest crime a British subject could possibly commit. "By the way, did you by any chance obtain a fair look at the man who drove you home last night?"
"Yes. He seemed quite a good-looking fellow."
"Will you glance at this photograph, Mrs. Sparflight, and tell me whether you detect a resemblance?" He took a small picture from his coat pocket and held it out to her.
She looked at it closely, holding it at various angles and distances, and nodded her head in doubtful acquiescence.
"I think I do, Mr. Chambers. I am not surprised that you should have been struck by the resemblance. This man was a soldier, I perceive."
Mr. Chambers restored the photograph to his pocket.
"The King's Own," he replied succinctly. "Perhaps your secretary may be able to throw a little more light on the matter, madam. May I have the privilege of interrogating her?"
"Not today," said Mrs. Sparflight, who had anticipated the request. "She is very busy."
"Of course I am in no position to insist," said he pleasantly. "I trust you will forgive my intrusion, madam. I am here only in the interests of justice, and I have no desire to cause you the slightest annoyance. Permit me to bid you good day, Mrs. Sparflight. Thank you for your kindness in receiving me. Tomorrow, if it is quite agreeable to you, I shall call to see Miss Emsdale."
At that moment, the door opened and Miss Emsdale came into the little office.
"You rang for me, Mrs. Sparflight?" she inquired, with a quick glance at the stranger.
Mrs. Sparflight blinked rapidly. "Not at all,—not at all. I did not ring."
Miss Emsdale looked puzzled. "I am sure the buzzer—"
"Pardon me," said Mr. Chambers, easily. "I fancy I can solve the mystery. Accidentally,—quite accidentally, I assure you,—I put my hand on the button on your desk, Mrs. Sparflight,—while you were glancing at the photograph. Like this,—do you see?" He put his hand on the top of the desk and leaned forward, just as he had done when he joined her in studying the picture a few moments before.
A hot flush mounted to Mrs. Sparflight's face, and her eyes flashed. The next instant she smiled.
"You are most resourceful, Mr. Chambers," she said. "It happens, however, that your cleverness gains you nothing. This young lady is one of our stenographers. I think I said that Miss Emsdale is my private secretary. She has no connection whatever with the business office. The button you inadvertently pressed simply disturbed one of the girls in the next room. You may return to your work, Miss Henry."
She carried it off very well. Jane, sensing danger, was on the point of retiring,—somewhat hurriedly, it must be confessed,—when Mr. Chambers, in his most apologetic manner, remarked:
"May I have a word with you, your ladyship?"
It was a bold guess, encouraged by his discovery that the young lady was not only English but of a class distinctly remote from shops and stenography.
Under the circumstances, Jane may be forgiven for dissembling, even at the cost of her employer's honour. She stopped short, whirled, and confronted the stranger with a look in her eyes that convicted her immediately.Her hand flew to her heart, and a little gasp broke from her parted lips.
Mr. Chambers was smiling blandly. She looked from him to Mrs. Sparflight, utter bewilderment in her eyes.
"Oh, Lord!" muttered that lady in great dismay.
The man from Scotland Yard hazarded another and even more potential stroke while the iron was hot.
"I am from Scotland Yard," he said. "We make some mistakes there, I admit, but not many." He proceeded to lie boldly. "I know who you are, my lady, and—But it is not necessary to go into that at present. Do not be alarmed. You have nothing to fear from me,—or from Scotland Yard. I—"
"Well, I should hopenot!" burst out Mrs. Sparflight indignantly.
"What does he want?" cried Jane, in trepidation. She addressed her friend, but it was Mr. Chambers who answered.
"I want you to supply me with a little information concerning Lord Eric Temple,—whom you addressed last evening as James."
Jane began to tremble. Scotland Yard!
"The man is crazy," said Mrs. Sparflight, leaping into the breach. "By what right, sir, do you come here to impose your—"
"No offence is intended, ma'am," broke in Mr. Chambers. "Absolutely no offence. It is merely in the line of duty that I come. In plain words, I have been instructed to apprehend Lord Eric Temple and fetch him to London. You see, I am quite frank about it. You can aid me by being as frank in return, ladies."
By this time Jane had regained command of herself. Drawing herself up, she faced the detective, and, casting discretion to the winds, took a most positive and determined stand.
"I must decline,—no matter what the cost may be to myself,—to give you the slightest assistance concerning Lord Temple."
To their infinite amazement, the man bowed very courteously and said:
"I shall not insist. Pardon my methods and my intrusion. I shall trouble you no further. Good day, madam. Good day, your ladyship."
He took his leave at once, leaving them staring blankly at the closed door. He was satisfied. He had found out just what he wanted to know, and he was naturally in some haste to get out before they began putting embarrassing questions to him.
"Oh, dear," murmured Jane, distractedly. "Whatarewe to do? Scotland Yard! That can mean but one thing. His enemies at home have brought some vile, horrible charge against—"
"We must warn him at once, Jane. There is no time to be lost. Telephone to the garage where Mrs. Millidew—"
"But the man doesn't know that Eric is driving for Mrs. Millidew," broke in Jane, hopefully.
"Hewillknow, and in very short order," said the other, sententiously. "Those fellows are positively uncanny. Go at once and telephone." She hesitated a moment, looking a little confused and guilty. "Lay aside your work, dear, for the time being. There is nothing very urgent about it, you know."
In sheer desperation she had that very morning set her restless charge to work copying names out of theSocial Register,—names she had checked off at random between the hours of ten and two the previous night.
Jane's distress increased to a state bordering on anguish.
"Oh, dear! He—he is out of town for two or three days."
"Out of town?"
"He told me last night he was to be off early this morning for Mrs. Millidew's country place somewhere on Long Island. Mrs. Millidew had to go down to see about improvements or repairs or something before the house is opened for the season."
"Mrs. Millidew was in the shop this morning for a 'try-on,'" said the other. "She has changed her plans, no doubt."
Jane's honest blue eyes wavered slightly as she met her friend's questioning gaze.
"I think he said that young Mrs. Millidew was going down to look after the work for her mother-in-law."
THE "drawing-room" that evening lacked not only distinction but animation as well. To begin with, the attendance was small. The Marchioness, after the usual collaboration with Julia in advance of the gathering, received a paltry half-dozen during the course of the evening. The Princess was there, and Count Antonio,—(he rarely missed coming), and the Hon. Mrs. Priestley-Duff. Lord Eric Temple and Lady Jane Thorne were missing, as were Prince Waldemar de Bosky, Count Wilhelm von Blitzen and the Countess du Bara. Extreme dulness prevailed. The Princess fell asleep, and, on being roused at a seasonable hour, declared that her eyes had been troubling her of late, so she kept them closed as much as possible on account of the lights.
Mrs. Priestley-Duff, being greatly out-of-sorts, caustically remarked that the proper way to treat bothersome eyes is to put them to bed in a sound-proof room.
Cricklewick yawned in the foyer, Moody yawned in the outer hall, and McFaddan in the pantry. The latter did not yawn luxuriously. There was something half-way about it.
"Why don't you 'ave it out?" inquired Moody, sympathetically, after solicitous inquiry. "They say the bloomin' things are the cause of all the rheumatism we're 'aving nowadays. Is it a wisdom tooth?"
"No," said McFaddan, with a suddenness that startled Moody; "it ain't. It's a whole jaw. It's a dam' fool jaw at that."
"Now that I look at you closer," said Moody critically, "it seems to be a bit discoloured. Looks as though mortification had set in."
"Ye never said a truer thing," said McFaddan. "It set in last night."
The man from Scotland Yard waited across the street until he saw the lights in the windows of the third, fourth and fifth floors go out, and then strolled patiently away. Queer looking men and women came under his observation during the long and lonely vigil, entering and emerging from the darkened doorway across the street, but none of them, by any chance, bore the slightest resemblance to the elusive Lord Temple, or "her ladyship," the secretary. He made the quite natural error of putting the queer looking folk down as tailors and seamstresses who worked far into the night for the prosperous Deborah.
Two days went by. He sat at a window in the hotel opposite and waited for the young lady to appear. On three separate occasions he followed her to Central Park and back. She was a brisk walker. She had the free stride of the healthy English girl. He experienced some difficulty in keeping her in sight, but even as he puffed laboriously behind, he was conscious of a sort of elation. It was good to see some one who walked as if she were in Hyde Park.
For obvious reasons, his trailing was in vain. Jane did not meet Lord Temple for the excellent reason that Thomas Trotter was down on Long Island with thebeautiful Mrs. Millidew. And while both Jane and Mrs. Sparflight kept a sharp lookout for Mr. Chambers, they failed to discover any sign of him. He seemed to have abandoned the quest. They were not lured into security, however. He would bob up, like Jack-in-the-box, when least expected.
If they could only get word to Trotter! If they could only warn him of the peril that stalked him!
Jane was in the depths. She had tumbled swiftly from the great height to which joy had wafted her; her hopes and dreams, and the castles they had built so deftly, shrunk up and vanished in the cloud that hung like a pall about her. Her faith in the man she loved was stronger than ever; nothing could shatter that. No matter what Scotland Yard might say or do, actuated by enemy injustice, she would never believe evil of him. And she would not give him up!
"Marchioness," she said at the close of the second day, her blue eyes clouded with the agony of suspense, "is there not some way to resist extradition? Can't we fight it? Surely it isn't possible to take an innocent man out of this great, generous country—"
"My dear child," said the Marchioness, putting down her coffee cup with so little precision that it clattered in the saucer, "there isn'tanythingthat Scotland Yard cannot do." She spoke with an air of finality.
"I have been thinking," began Jane, haltingly. She paused for a moment. An appealing, wistful note was in her voice when she resumed, and her eyes were tenderly resolute. "He hasn't very much money, you know, poor boy. I have been thinking,—oh, I've been thinking of so many things," she broke off confusedly.
"Well, what have you been thinking?" inquired the other, helpfully.
"It has occurred to me that I can get along very nicely on half of what you are paying me,—or even less. If it were not for the fact that my poor brother depends solely upon me for support, I could spare practically all of my salary to—for—"
"Go on," said the Marchioness gently.
"In any case, I can give Eric half of my salary if it will be of any assistance to him,—yes, a little more than half," said Jane, a warm, lovely flush in her cheeks.
The Marchioness hastily pressed the serviette to her lips. She seemed to be choking. It was some time before she could trust herself to say:
"Bless your heart, my dear, he wouldn't take it. Of course," she went on, after a moment, "it would please him beyond words if you were to suggest it to him."
"I shall do more," said Jane, resolutely. "I shall insist."
"It will tickle him almost to death," said the Marchioness, again raising the napkin to her lips.
At twelve o'clock the next day, Trotter's voice came blithely over the telephone.
"Are you there, darling? Lord, it seems like a century since I—"
"Listen, Eric," she broke in. "I have something very important to tell you. Now,dolisten—are you there?"
"Right-o! Whisper it, dear. The telephone has a million ears. I want to hear you say it,—oh, I've been wanting—"
"It isn't that," she said. "You know I do, Eric. But this is something perfectly terrible."
"Oh, I say, Jane, you haven't changed your mind about—about—"
"As if Icould," she cried. "I love you more than ever, Eric. Oh, what a silly thing to say over the telephone. I am blushing,—I hope no one heard—"
"Listen!" said he promptly, music in his voice. "I'm just in from the country. I'll be down to see you about five this afternoon. Tell you all about the trip. Lived like a lord,—homelike sort of feeling, eh?—and—"
"I don't care to hear about it," said Jane stiffly. "Besides, you must not come here today, Eric. It is the very worst thing you could do. He would be sure to see you."
"He? What he?" he demanded quickly.
"I can't explain. Listen, dear. Mrs. Sparflight and I have talked it all over and we've decided on the best thing to do."
And she poured into the puzzled young man's ear the result of prolonged deliberations. He was to go to Bramble's Bookshop at half-past four, and proceed at once to the workshop of M. Mirabeau upstairs. She had explained the situation to Mr. Bramble in a letter. At five o'clock she would join him there. In the meantime, he was to keep off of the downtown streets as much as possible.
"In the name of heaven, what's up?" he cried for the third time,—with variations.
"A—a detective from Scotland Yard," she replied in a voice so low and cautious that he barely caughtthe words. "I—I can't say anything more now," she went on rapidly. "Something tells me he is just outside the door, listening to every word I utter."
"Wait!" he ordered. "A detective? Has that beastly Smith-Parvis crowd dared to insinuate that you—that you—Oh, Lord, I can't even say it!"
"I said 'Scotland Yard,' Eric," she said. "Don't you understand?"
"No, I'm hanged if I do. But don't worry, dear. I'll be at Bramble's and, by the lord Harry, if they're trying to put up any sort of a—Hello! Are you there?"
There was no answer.
Needless to say, he was at Bramble's Bookshop on the minute, vastly perturbed and eager for enlightenment.
"Don't stop down here an instant," commanded Mr. Bramble, glancing warily at the front door. "Do as I tell you. Don't ask questions. Go upstairs and wait,—and don't show yourself under any circumstance. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of him anywhere outside?"
"The street is full of 'hims,'" retorted Mr. Trotter in exasperation. "What the devil is all this about, Bramby?"
"She will be here at five. There's nothing suspicious in her coming in to buy a book. It's all been thought out. Most natural thing in the world that she should buy a book, don't you see? Only you must not be buying one at the same time. Now, run along,—lively. Prince de Bosky is with Mirabeau. And don't come down till I give you the word."
"See here, Bramble, if you let anything happen to her I'll—" Mr. Bramble relentlessly urged him up the steps.
Long before Jane arrived, Trotter was in possession of the details. He was vastly perplexed.
"I daresay one of those beastly cousins of mine has trumped up some charge that he figures will put me out of the running for ever," he said gloomily. He sat, slack and dejected, in a corner of the shop farthest removed from the windows. "I shouldn't mind so much if it weren't for Lady Jane. She—you see, M'sieur, she has promised to be my wife. This will hurt her terribly. The beastly curs!"
"Sit down!" commanded M. Mirabeau. "You must not go raging up and down past those windows."
"Confound you, Mirabeau, he doesn't know this place exists. He never will know unless he follows Lady Jane. I'll do as I jolly well please."
De Bosky, inspired, produced a letter he had just received from his friend, the cracksman. He had read it to the bookseller and clockmaker, and now re-read it, with soulful fervour, for the benefit of the new arrival. He interrupted himself to beg M. Mirabeau to unlock the safe and bring forth the treasure.
"You see what he says?" cried he, shaking the letter in front of Trotter's eyes. "And here is the money! See! Touch it, my friend. It is real. I thought I was also dreaming. Count them. Begin with this one. Now,—one hundred, two hundred—"
"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about," said Trotter, staring blankly at the money.
"What a fool I am!" cried de Bosky. "I beginat the back-end of the story. How could you know? Have you ever known such a fool as I, Mirabeau?"
"Never," said M. Mirabeau, who had his ear cocked for sounds on the stairway.
"And so," said the Prince, at the end of the hastily told story of the banknotes and the man up the river, "you see how it is. He replies to my carefully worded letter. Shall I read it again? No? But, I ask you, my dear Trotter, how am I to carry out his instructions? Naturally he is vague. All letters are read at the prison, I am informed. He says: 'And anything you may have come acrosst among my effects is so piffling that I hereby instructs you to burn it up, sos I won't have to be bothered with it when I come out, which ain't fer some time yet, and when I do get out I certainly am not coming to New York, anyhow. I am going west and start all over again. A feller has got a better chance out there.' That is all he has to say about this money, Trotter. I cannot burn it. What am I to do?"
Trotter had an inspiration.
"Put it into American Tobacco," he said.
De Bosky stared. "Tobacco?"
"Simplest way in the world to obey instructions. The easiest way to burn money is to convert it into tobacco. Slip down to Wall Street tomorrow and invest every cent of this money in American Tobacco, register the stock in the name of Henry Loveless and put it away for him. Save out enough for a round-trip ticket to Sing Sing, and run up there some day and tell him what you've done."
"By Jove!" exclaimed de Bosky, his eyes dancing. "But," he added, doubtfully, "what am I to do if he doesn't approve?"
"Tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the resourceful Mr. Trotter.
"You know," said the other admiringly, "I have never been one of those misguided persons who claim that the English have no sense of humour. I—"
"Sh!" warned M. Mirabeau from the top of the steps. And then, like a true Frenchman, he bustled de Bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door, leaving Trotter alone among the ticking clocks.
Jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued. Mr. Bramble was pledging something, in a squeaky undertone, from the store below.
"He may not have followed me," Jane called back in guarded tones, "but if he has, Mr. Bramble, you must be sure to throw him off the trail."
"Trust me,—trust me implicitly," came in a strangled sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor.
"Oh,—Eric, dearest! How you startled me!" cried Lady Jane a moment later. She gasped the words, for she was almost smothered in the arms of her lover.
"Forgive me," he murmured, without releasing her,—an oversight which she apparently had no immediate intention of resenting.
A little later on, she suddenly drew away from him, with a quick, embarrassed glance around the noisy little shop. He laughed.
"We are quite alone, Jane dear,—unless you count the clocks. They're all looking at us, but they nevertell anything more than the time of day. And now, dear, what is this beastly business?"
She closed the door to the stairway, very cautiously, and then came back to him. The frown deepened in his eyes as he listened to the story she told.
"But why should I go into hiding?" he exclaimed, as she stopped to get her breath. "I haven't done anything wrong. What if they have trumped up some rotten charge against me? All the more reason why I should stand out and defend—"
"But, dear, Scotland Yard is such a dreadful place," she cried, blanching. "They—"
"Rubbish! I'm not afraid of Scotland Yard."
"You—you're not?" she gasped, blankly. "But, Eric dear, youmustbe afraid of Scotland Yard. You don't know what you are saying."
"Oh, yes, I do. And as for this chap they've sent after me,—where is he? In two seconds I can tell him what's what. He'll go humping back to London—"
"I knew you would say something like that," she declared, greatly perturbed. "But I sha'n't let you. Do you hear, Eric? I sha'n't let you. Youmusthide. You must go away from New York,—tonight."
"And leave you?" he scoffed. "What can you be thinking of, darling? Am I— Sit down, dear,—here beside me. You are frightened. That infernal brute has scared you almost out of—"
"Iamfrightened,—terribly frightened. So is the Marchioness,—and Mr. Bramble." She sat beside him on the bench. He took her cold hands in his own and pressed them gently, encouragingly. His eyes were very soft and tender.
"Poor little girl!" For a long time he sat there looking at her white, averted face. A slow smile slowly struggled to the corners of his mouth. "I can't afford to run away," he said at last. "I've just got to stick by my job. It means a lot to me now, Jane dear."
She looked up quickly, her face clearing.
"I love you, Eric. I know you are innocent of anything they may charge you with. Iknowit. And I would give all I have in the world to help you in your hour of trouble. Listen, dear. I want you to accept this in the right spirit. Don't let pride stand in the way. It is really something I want to do,—something that will make me—oh, so happy, if you will just let me do it. I am earning five guineas a week. It is more than I need. Now, dear, just for a little while,—until you have found another place in some city far away from New York,—you must let me share my—What is there to laugh at, Eric?" she cried in a hurt voice.