He grew sober at once.
"I'm—I'm sorry," he said. "Thank you,—and God bless you, Jane. It's fine. You're a brick. But,—but I can't accept it. Please don't say anything more about it, dear. I justcan't,—that's all."
"Oh, dear," she sighed. "And—and you refuse to go away? You will not escape while there is yet—"
"See here, dear," he began, his jaw setting, "I am not underrating the seriousness of this affair. They may have put up a beast of a job on me. They fixed it so that I hadn't a chance three years ago. Perhaps they've decided to finish the job and have done with me for ever. I don't put it above them, curse them. Here's the story in a nutshell. I have two cousins in the Army,sons of my mother's sisters. They're a pair of rotters. It was they who hatched up the scheme to disgrace me in the service,—and, by gad, they did it to the queen's taste. I had to get out. There wasn't a chance for me to square myself. I—I sha'n't go into that, dear. You'll understand why. It—it hurts. Cheating at cards. That's enough, isn't it? Well, they got me. My grandfather and I—he is theirs as well as mine,—we never hit it off very well at best. My mother married Lord Temple. Grandfather was opposed to the match. Her sisters did everything in their power to widen the breach that followed the marriage. It may make it easier for you to understand when I remind you that my grandfather is one of the wealthiest peers in England.
"Odd things happen in life. When my father died, I went to Fenlew Hall with my mother to live. Grandfather's heart had softened a little, you see. I was Lord Eric Temple before I was six years old. My mother died when I was ten. For fifteen years I lived on with Lord Fenlew, and, while we rowed a good deal,—he is a crotchety old tyrant, bless him!—he undoubtedly preferred me to either of my cousins. God bless him for that! He showed his good sense, if I do say it who shouldn't.
"So they set to work. That's why I am here,—without going into details. That's why I am out of the Army. And I loved the Army, Jane,—God bless it! I used to pray for another war, horrible as it may sound, so that I could go out and fight for England as those lads did who went down to the bottom of Africa. I would cry myself to sleep because I was so young then,and so useless. I am not ashamed of the tears you see in my eyes now. You can't understand what it means to me, Jane."
He drew a deep breath, cleared his throat, and then went on.
"Lord Fenlew turned me out,—disowned me. Don't blame the old boy. They made out a good enough case against me. I was given the choice of resigning from the regiment or—well, the other thing. My father was practically penniless when he died. I had nothing of my own. It was up to me to earn an honest living,—or go to the devil. I thought I'd try out the former first. One can always go to the devil, you know. So off into the far places of the earth I wandered,—and I've steered pretty clear of the devil up to date.
"It's easy to earn a living, dear, if you just half try.
"And now for this new complication. For the three years that I have been away from England, not a single word have I sent home. I daresay they know that I am alive, and that I'll turn up some day like the bad penny. I was named in my grandfather's will. He once told me he intended to leave the bulk of the unentailed property to me,—not because he loved me well but because he loved my two cousins not at all. For all I know, he may never have altered his will. In that case, I still remain the chief legatee and a source of tremendous uneasiness to my precious aunts and their blackguard sons. It is possible, even probable, that they have decided the safest place to have me is behind the bars,—at least until Lord Fenlew has changed his will for the last time and lies securely in the familyvault. I can think of no other explanation for the action of Scotland Yard. But, don't worry, dear. I haven't done anything wrong, and they can't stow me away in—"
"The beasts!" cried Jane, furiously.
He stroked her clenched fingers.
"I wouldn't call 'em names, dear," he protested. "They're honest fellows, and simply doing—"
"They are the most despicable wretches on earth."
"You must be referring to my cousins. I thought—"
"Now, Eric," she broke in firmly, "I sha'n't let you give yourself up. You owe something to me. I love you with all my soul. If they were to take you back to London and—and put you in prison,—I'd—I'd die. I could not endure—" She suddenly broke down and, burying her face on his shoulder, sobbed chokingly.
He was deeply distressed.
"Oh, I say, dearest, don't—don't go under like this. I—I can't stand it. Don't cry, darling. It breaks my heart to see you—"
"I—I can't help it," she sobbed. "Give—give me a little—time. I'll be all right in a—minute."
He whispered consolingly: "That's right. Take your time, dear. I never dreamed you cared so much."
She looked up quickly, her eyes flashing through the tears.
"And do you care less for me, now that you see what a weak, silly—"
"Good Lord, no! I adore you more than ever. I— Who's there?"
M. Mirabeau, coughing considerately, was rattling the latch of the door that separated the shop from the store-room beyond. A moment later he opened the door slowly and stuck his head through the aperture. Then, satisfied that his warning cough had been properly received, he entered the shop. The lovers were sitting bolt upright and some distance apart. Lady Jane was arranging a hat that had been somehow forgotten up to that instant.
"A thousand pardons," said the old Frenchman, his voice lowered. "We must act at once. Follow me,—quickly, but as quietly as possible. He is downstairs. I have listened from the top of the steps. Poor old Bramble is doing his best to divert him. I have just this instant heard the villain announce that his watch needs looking into, and from that I draw a conclusion. He will come to my shop in spite of all that Bramble can do. Come! I know the way to safety."
"But I'm not going to hide," began Trotter.
Jane seized his arm and dragged him toward the door.
"Yes, you are," she whispered fiercely. "You belong to me, Eric Temple. I shall do what I like with you. Don't be mulish, dear. I sha'n't leave you,—not for anything in the world."
"Bravo!" whispered M. Mirabeau.
Swiftly they stole through the door and past the landing. Scraps of conversation from below reached their ears. Jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm. She recognized the voice of Mr. Alfred Chambers.
"De Bosky will do the rest," whispered the clockmaker, as they were joined by the musician at the farend of the stock-room. "I must return to the shop. He will suspect at once if I am not at work when he appears,—for appear he will, you may be sure."
He was gone in a second. De Bosky led them into the adjoining room and pointed to a tall step-ladder over in the corner. A trap-door in the ceiling was open, and blackness loomed beyond.
"Go up!" commanded the agitated musician, addressing Trotter. "It is an air-chamber. Don't break your head on the rafters. Follow close behind, Lady Jane. I will hold the ladder. Close the trap after you,—and do not make a sound after you are once up there. This is the jolliest moment of my life! I was never so thrilled. It is beautiful! It is ravishing! Sh! Don't utter a word, I command you! We will foil him,—we will foil old Scotland Yard. Be quick! Splendid! You are wonderful, Mademoiselle. Such courage,—such grace,—such— Sh! I take the ladder away! Ha, he will never suspect. He—"
"But how the deuce are we to get down from here?" groaned Trotter in a penetrating whisper from aloft.
"You can't get down,—but as he can't get up, why bother your head about that? Close the trap!"
"Oh-h!" shuddered Jane, in an ecstasy of excitement. She was kneeling behind her companion, peering down through the square little opening into which he had drawn her a moment before.
Trotter cautiously lowered the trap-door,—and they were in Stygian darkness. She repeated the exclamation, but this time it was a sharp, quick gasp of dismay.
For a long time they were silent, listening for soundsfrom below. At last he arose to his feet. His head came in contact with something solid. A smothered groan escaped his lips.
"Good Lord!— Be careful, dear! There's not more than four feet head-room. Sit still till I find a match."
"Are you hurt? What a dreadful bump it was. I wonder if he could have heard?"
"They heard it in heaven," he replied, feeling his head.
"How dark it is," she shuddered. "Don't you dare move an inch from my side, Eric. I'll scream."
He laughed softly. "By Jove, it's rather a jolly lark, after all. A wonderful place this is for sweethearts." He dropped down beside her.
After a time, she whispered: "You mentioned a match, Eric."
"So I did," said he, and proceeded to go through the pocket in which he was accustomed to carry matches. "Thunderation! The box is empty."
She was silent for a moment. "I really don't mind, dear."
"I remember saying this morning that I never have any luck on Friday," said he resignedly. "But," he added, a happy note in his voice, "I never dreamed there was such luck as this in store for me."
SPEAKING of Friday and the mystery of luck. Luck is supposed to shift in one direction or another on the sixth day of every week in the year. It is supposed to shift for everybody. A great many people are either too ignorant or too supercilious to acknowledge this vast and oppressive truth, however. They regard Friday as a plain, ordinary day, and go on being fatuously optimistic.
On the other hand, when it comes Friday, the capable and the far-seeing are prone to accept it as it was intended by the Creator, who, from confidential reports, paused on the sixth day (as we reckon it) of his labours and looked back on what already had been accomplished. He was dissatisfied. He set to work again. Right then and there Friday became an unlucky day, according to a great many philosophers. If the Creator had stopped then and let well-enough alone, there wouldn't have been any cause for complaint. He would have failed to create Adam (an afterthought), and the human race, lacking existence, would not have been compelled to put up with life,—which is a mess, after all.
If more people would pause to consider the futility of living between Thursday and Saturday, a great deal of woe and misfortune might be avoided.
For example, when Mrs. Smith-Parvis called onMrs. McFaddan on the Monday of the week that is now making history through these pages, she completely overlooked the fact that there was a Friday still to be reckoned with.
True, she had in mind a day somewhat more remote when, after coming face to face with the blooming Mrs. MCFaddan who happened to open her own front door,—it being Maggie's day out,—she had been compelled to substitute herself in person for the cards she meant to leave. Mrs. McFaddan had cordially sung out to her from the front stoop, over the head of the shocked footman, that she was at home and would Mrs. Smith-Parvis please step in.
Thursday, two weeks hence, was the day Mrs. Smith-Parvis had in mind. She had not been in the McFaddan parlour longer than a minute and a half before she realized that an invitation by word of mouth would do quite as well as an expensively engraved card by post. There was nothing formal about Mrs. McFaddan. She was sorry that Con wasn't home; he would hate like poison to have missed seeing Mrs. Smith-Parvis when she did them the honour to call. But Con was not likely to be in before seven,—he was that busy, poor man,—and it would be asking too much of Mrs. Smith-Parvis to wait till then.
So, the lady from the upper East Side had no hesitancy in asking the lady from the lower West Side to dine with her on Thursday the nineteenth.
"I am giving a series of informal dinners, Mrs. McFad-dan," she explained graciously.
"They're the nicest kind," returned Mrs. McFaddan, somewhat startled by the pronunciation of her husband'sgood old Irish name. She knew little or nothing of French, but somehow she rather liked the emphasis, crisply nasal, her visitor put upon the final syllable. Before the visit came to an end, she was mentally repeating her own name after Mrs. Smith-Parvis, and wondering whether Con would stand for it.
"What date did you say?" she inquired, abruptly breaking in on a further explanation. The reply brought a look of disappointment to her face. "We can't come," she said flatly. "We're leaving on Saturday this week for Washington to be gone till the thirtieth. Important business, Con says."
Mrs. Smith-Parvis thought quickly. Washington, eh?
"Could you come on Friday night of this week, Mrs. McFad-dan?"
"We could," said the other. "Don't you worry about Con cooking up an excuse for not coming, either. He does just about what I tell him."
"Splendid!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, arising. "Friday at 8:30."
"Have plenty of fish," said Mrs. McFaddan gaily.
"Fish?" faltered the visitor.
"It's Friday, you know."
Greatly to Mrs. Smith-Parvis's surprise,—and in two or three cases, irritation,—every one she asked to meet the McFaddans on Friday accepted with alacrity. She asked the Dodges, feeling confident that they couldn't possibly be had on such short notice,—and the same with the Bittinger-Stuarts. Theydidhave previous engagements, but they promptly cancelled them. It struck her as odd,—and later on significant,—that,without exception, every woman she asked said she was just dying for a chance to have a little private "talk" with the notorious Mr. McFaddan.
People who had never arrived at a dinner-party on time in their lives, appeared on Friday at the Smith-Parvis home all the way from five to fifteen minutes early.
The Cricklewicks were not asked. Mr. Smith-Parvis remembered in time that the Irish hate the English, and it wouldn't do at all.
Mr. McFaddan and his wife were the last to arrive. They were so late that not only the hostess but most of her guests experienced a sharp fear that they wouldn't turn up at all. There were side glances at the clock on the mantel, surreptitious squints at wrist-watches, and a queer, unnatural silence while the big clock in the upper hall chimed a quarter to nine.
"Really, my dear," said Mrs. Dodge, who had the New York record for tardiness,—an hour and three-quarters, she claimed,—"I can't understand people being late for a dinner,—unless, of course, they mean to be intentionally rude."
"I can't imagine what can have happened to them," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis nervously.
"Accident on the Subway, no doubt," drawled Mr. Bittinger-Stuart, and instantly looked around in a startled sort of way to see if there was any cause for repenting the sarcasm.
"Where is Stuyvesant?" inquired Mrs. Millidew the elder, who had arrived a little late. She had been obliged to call a taxi-cab at the last moment on account of the singular defection of her new chauffeur,—who,she proclaimed on entering, was to have his walking papers in the morning. Especially as it was raining pitchforks.
"He is dressing, my dear," explained Stuyvesant's mother, with a maternal smile of apology.
"I should have known better," pursued Mrs. Millidew, still chafing, "than to let him go gallivanting off to Long Island with Dolly."
"I said he was dressing, Mrs. Millidew," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis stiffly.
"If I could have five minutes alone with Mr. McFaddan," one of the ladies was saying to the host, "I know I could interest him in our plan to make Van Cortlandt Park the most attractive and the most exclusive country club in—"
"My dear," interrupted another of her sex, "if you get him off in a corner and talk to him all evening about that ridiculous scheme of yours, I'll murder you. You know how long Jim has been working to get his brother appointed judge in the United States District Court,—his brother Charlie, you know,—the one who doesn't amount to much,—and I'll bet my last penny I can fix it if—"
"It's an infernal outrage," boomed Mr. Dodge, addressing no one in particular. "Yes, sir, a pernicious outrage."
"As I said before, the more you do for them the worse they treat you in return," agreed Mrs. Millidew. "It doesn't pay. Treat them like dogs and they'll be decent. If you try to be kind and—"
Mr. Dodge expanded.
"You see, it will cut straight through the centre ofthe most valuable piece of unimproved property in New York City. It isn't because I happen to be the owner of that property that I'm complaining. It's the high-handed way—Now, look! This is the Grand Concourse, and here is Bunker Avenue." He produced an invisible diagram with his foot, jostling Mr. Smith-Parvis off of the rug in order to extend the line beyond the intersection to a point where the proposed street was to be opened. "Right smack through this section of—"
At that instant Mr. and Mrs. McFaddan were announced.
"Where the deuce is Stuyvie?" Mr. Smith-Parvis whispered nervously into the ear of his wife as the new arrivals approached.
"Diplomacy," whispered she succinctly. "All for effect. Last but not least. He—Good evening, dear Mrs. McFad-dán!"
In the main hall, a moment before, Mr. McFaddan had whispered inhiswife's ear. He transmitted an opinion of Peasley the footman.
"He's a mutt." He had surveyed Peasley with a discriminating and intensely critical eye, taking him in from head to foot. "Under-gardener or vicar's man-of-all-work. Trained in a Sixth Avenue intelligence office. Never saw livery till he—"
"Hush, Con! The man will hear you."
"And if he should, he can't accuse me of betrayin' a secret."
To digress for a moment, it is pertinent to refer to the strange cloud of preoccupation that descended upon Mr. McFaddan during the ride uptown,—not in theSubway, but in his own Packard limousine. Something back in his mind kept nagging at him,—something elusive yet strangely fresh, something that had to do with recent events. He could not rid himself of the impression that the Smith-Parvises were in some way involved.
Suddenly, as they neared their destination, the fog lifted and his mind was as clear as day. His wife's unctuous reflections were shattered by the force of the explosion that burst from his lips. He remembered everything. This was the house in which Lady Jane Thorne was employed, and it was the scion thereof who had put up the job on young Trotter. Old Cricklewick had come to see him about it and had told him a story that made his blood boil. It was all painfully clear to him now.
Their delay in arriving was due to the protracted argument that took place within a stone's throw of the Smith-Parvis home. Mr. McFaddan stopped the car and flatly refused to go an inch farther. He would be hanged if he'd have anything to do with a gang like that! His wife began by calling him a goose. Later on she called him a mule, and still later, in sheer exasperation, a beast. He capitulated. He was still mumbling incoherently as they mounted the steps and were admitted by the deficient Peasley.
"What shall I say to the dirty spalpeen if he tries to shake hands with me?" Mr. McFaddan growled, three steps from the top.
"Say anything you like," said she, "but, for God's sake, say it under your breath."
However: the party was now complete with one notable exception. Stuyvie was sound asleep in his room. He had reached home late that afternoon and was in an irascible frame of mind. He didn't know the McFad-dáns, and he didn't care to know them. Dragging him home from Hot Springs to meet a cheap bounder,—what the deuce did she mean anyhow, entertaining that sort of people? And so on and so forth until his mother lost her temper and took it out on the maid who was dressing her hair.
Peasley was sent upstairs to inform Mr. Stuyvesant that they were waiting for him.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis met her son at the foot of the stairs when he came lounging down. He was yawning and making futile efforts to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, having reposed soundly in it for the better part of an hour.
"You must be nice to Mr. McFad-dán," said she anxiously. "He has a great deal of influence with the powers that be."
He stopped short, instantly alert.
"Has a—a warrant been issued?" he demanded, leaping to a very natural and sickening conclusion as to the identity of the "powers."
"Not yet, of course," she said, benignly. "It is a little too soon for that. But it will come, dear boy, if we can get Mr. McFad-dán on our side. That is to be the lovely surprise I spoke about in my—"
"You—you callthatlovely?" he snapped.
"If everything goes well, you will soon be at the Court of St. James. Wouldn't you call that lovely?"
He was perspiring freely. "My God, that's just the thing I'm trying to avoid. If they get me into court, they'll—"
"You do not understand. The diplomatic court,—corps, I mean. You are to go to London,—into the legation. The rarest opportunity—"
"Oh, Lord!" gasped Stuyvesant, passing his hand over his wet brow. A wave of relief surged over him. He leaned against the banister, weakly. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"
"You must be very nice to Mr. McFad-dán," she said, taking his arm. "And to Mrs. McFad-dán also. She is rather stunning—and quite young."
"That's nice," said Stuyvie, regaining a measure of his tolerant, blasé air.
Now, while the intelligence of the reader has long since grasped the fact that the expected is about to happen, it is only fair to state that the swiftly moving events of the next few minutes were totally unexpected by any one of the persons congregated in Mrs. Smith-Parvis's drawing-room.
Stuyvesant entered the room, a forced, unamiable smile on his lips. He nodded in the most casual, indifferent manner to those nearest the door. It was going to be a dull, deadly evening. The worst lot of he-fossils and scrawny-necked—
"For the love o' Mike!"
Up to that instant, one could have dropped a ten-pound weight on the floor without attracting the slightest attention. For a second or two following the shrill ejaculation, the crash of the axiomatic pin could have been heard from one end of the room to the other.
Every eye, including Stuyvie's, was fixed upon the shocked, surprised face of the lady who uttered the involuntary exclamation.
Mrs. McFaddan was staring wildly at the newcomer. Stuyvesant recognized her at once. The dashing, vivid face was only too familiar. In a flash the whole appalling truth was revealed to him. An involuntary "Oh, Lord!" oozed from his lips.
Cornelius McFaddan suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth, smothering the words that surged up from the depths of his injured soul. He became quite purple in the face.
"This is my son Stuyvesant, Mr. McFaddan," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, in a voice strangely faint and faltering. And then, sensing catastrophe, she went on hurriedly: "Shall we go in to dinner? Has it been announced, Rogers?"
Mr. McFaddan removed his hand.
The hopes and ambitions, the desires and schemes of every one present went hurtling away on the hurricane of wrath that was liberated by that unfortunate action of Cornelius McFaddan. An unprejudiced observer would have explained, in justice to poor Cornelius, that the force of the storm blew his hand away, willy-nilly, despite his heroic efforts to check the resistless torrent.
I may be forgiven for a confessed inadequacy to cope with a really great situation. My scope of delivery is limited. In a sense, however, short-comings of this nature are not infrequently blessings. It would be a pity for me or any other upstart to spoil, through sheer feebleness of expression, a situation demanding the incomparable virility of a Cornelius McFaddan.
Suffice to say, Mr. McFaddan left nothing to the imagination. He had the stage to himself, and he stood squarely in the centre of it for what seemed like an age to the petrified audience. As a matter of fact, it was all over in three minutes. He was not profane. At no time did he forget there were ladies present. But from the things he said, no one doubted, then or afterwards, that the presence of ladies was the only thing that stood between Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis and an unhallowed grave.
It may be enlightening to repeat his concluding remark to Stuyvie.
"And if I thought ye'd even dream of settin' foot outside this house I'd gladly stand on the sidewalk in the rain, without food or drink, for forty-eight hours, waitin' for ye."
And as that was the mildest thing he said to Stuyvie, it is only fair to state that Peasley, who was listening in the hall, hastily opened the front door and looked up and down the street for a policeman. With commendable foresight, he left it ajar and retired to the foot of the stairs, hoping, perhaps, that Stuyvesant might undertake to throw the obnoxious guest into the street,—in which case it would be possible for him to witness the whirlwind without being in the path of it.
To Smith-Parvis, Senior, the eloquent McFaddan addressed these parting words:
"I don't know what you had in mind when you invited me here, Mr. Smith-Parvis, but whatever it was you needn't worry about it,—not for a minute. Put it out of your mind altogether, my good man. Andif I've told you anything at all about this pie-faced son of yours that ye didn't already know or suspect, you're welcome to the information. He's a bad egg,—and if ye don't believe me, ask Lady Jane Thorne,—if she happens to be about."
He spoke without thinking, but he did no harm. No one there had the remotest idea who he meant when he referred to Lady Jane Thorne.
"Come, Peggy, we'd better be going," he said to his wife. "If we want a bite o' dinner, I guess we'll have to go over to Healy's and get it."
Far in the night, Mrs. Smith-Parvis groaned. Her husband, who sat beside her bed and held her hand with somnolent devotion, roused himself and inquired if the pain was just as bad as ever.
She groaned again.
He patted her hand soothingly. "There, there, now,—go to sleep again. You'll be all right—"
"Again?" she cried plaintively. "How can you say such a thing? I haven't closed my eyes."
"Oh, my dear," he expostulated. "You've been sound asleep for—"
"I have not!" she exclaimed. "My poor head is splitting. You know I haven't been asleep, so why will you persist in saying that I have?"
"At any rate," said he, taking up a train of thought that had become somewhat confused and unstable by passing through so many cat-naps, "we ought to be thankful it isn't worse. The dear boy might have gone to the electric chair if we had permitted him to follow the scoundrel to the sidewalk."
Mrs. Smith-Parvis turned her face toward him. Aspark of enthusiasm flashed for an instant in her tired eyes.
"How many times did he knock him down at Spangler's?" she inquired.
"Four," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, proudly.
"And that dreadful woman was the cause of it all, writing notes to Stuyvesant and asking him to meet her—What was it Stuyvesant called them?"
"Crush-notes, Angie. Now, try to go to sleep, dearie."
"GOODNESS! What's that?" whispered Lady Jane, starting violently.
For what seemed to them many hours, she and Thomas Trotter had sat, quite snugly comfortable, in the dark air-chamber. Comfortable, I say, but I fear that the bewildering joy of having her in his arms rendered him impervious to what under other conditions would most certainly have been a severe strain upon his physical endurance. In other words, she rested very comfortably and cosily in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder, while he, sitting bolt upright with no support whatsoever—But why try to provide him with cause for complaint when he was so obviously contented?
Her suppressed exclamation followed close upon the roar and crash of an ear-splitting explosion. The reverberation rolled and rumbled and dwindled away into the queerest silence. Almost immediately the clatter of falling debris assailed their ears. She straightened up and clutched his arm convulsively.
"Rain," he said, with a short laugh. For an instant his heart had stood still. So appalling was the crash that he involuntarily raised an arm to shield his beloved companion from the shattered walls that were so soon to tumble about their ears. "Beating on the tin roof," he went on, jerkily.
"Oh,—wasn't it awful?" she gasped, in smothered tones. "Are you sure?"
"I am now," he replied, "but, by Jove, I wasn't a second or two ago. Lord, I thought it was all over."
"If we could only see!" she cried nervously.
"Any how," he said, with a reassuring chuckle, "we sha'n't get wet."
By this time the roar of rain on the roof so close to their heads was deafening.
"Goodness, Eric,—it's—it's leaking here," she cried out suddenly, after a long silence.
"That's the trouble with these ramshackle old—Oh, I say, Jane, your frock! It will be ruined. My word! The confounded roof's like a sieve."
He set out,—on all fours,—cautiously to explore.
"I—I am frightfully afraid of thunder," she cried out after him, a quaver in her voice. "And, Eric, wouldn't it be dreadful if the building were to be struck by lightning and we should be found up here in this—this unexplainable loft? Whatcouldwe say?"
"Nothing, dearest," he replied, consolingly. "That is, provided the lightning did its work properly. Ouch! It's all right! Don't bother, dear. Nothing but a wall. Seems dry over here. Don't move. I'll come back for you."
"It's—it's rather jolly, isn't it?" she cried nervously as his hand touched her shoulder. She grasped it eagerly. "Much jollier than if we could see." A few moments later: "Isn't it nice and dry over here. How clever of you, Eric, to find it in the dark."
On their hands and knees they had crept to the place of shelter, and were seated on a broad, substantial beamwith their backs against a thin, hollow-sounding partition. The journey was not without incident. As they felt their way over the loose and sometimes widely separated boards laid down to protect the laths and plaster of the ceiling below, his knee slipped off and before he could prevent it, his foot struck the lathing with considerable force.
"Clumsy ass!" he muttered.
After a long time, she said to him,—a little pathetically:
"I hope M. Mirabeau doesn't forget we are up here."
"I should hope not," he said fervently. "Mrs. Millidew is going out to dinner this evening. I'd—"
"Oh-h!" she whispered tensely. "Look!"
A thin streak of light appeared in front of them. Fascinated, they watched it widen, slowly,—relentlessly.
The trap-door was being raised from below. A hand and arm came into view,—the propelling power.
"Is that you, de Bosky?" called out Trotter, in a penetrating whisper.
Abruptly the trap flew wide open and dropped back on the scantlings with a bang.
The head and shoulders of a man,—a bald-headed man, at that,—rose quickly above the ledge, and an instant later a lighted lantern followed.
"Oh, dear!" murmured Lady Jane, aghast. "It—it isn't Mr. de Bosky, Eric. It's that man."
"I beg your pardon, Lord Temple," said Mr. Alfred Chambers, setting the lantern down in order to brush the dust off of his hands. "Are you there?"
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" demanded theyoung man on the beam, blinking rapidly in the unaccustomed glare.
Mr. Chambers rested his elbows on the ledge. The light of the lantern shone full on his face, revealing the slow but sure growth of a joyous grin.
"Permit me to introduce myself, your lordship. Mr. Alfred Chambers, of—"
"I know,—I know!" broke in the other impatiently. "What the devil do you want?"
"Good evening, Miss Emsdale," said Mr. Chambers, remembering his manners. "That is to say,—your ladyship. 'Pon my word, you can't possibly be more surprised than I am,—either of you. I shouldn't have dreamed of looking in this—this stuffy hole for—for anything except bats." He chortled.
"I can't understand why some one below there doesn't knock that ladder from under you," said Mr. Trotter rudely.
"I was on the point of giving up in despair," went on Mr. Chambers, unoffended. "You know, I shouldn't have thought of looking up here for you."
His quarry bethought himself of the loyal, conspiring friends below.
"See here, Mr. Chambers," he began earnestly, "I want you to understand that those gentlemen downstairs are absolutely innocent of any criminal complicity in—"
"I understand perfectly," interrupted the man from Scotland Yard. "Perfectly. And the same applies to her ladyship. Everything's as right as rain, your lordship. Will you be so good, sir, as to come down at once?"
"Certainly," cried the other. "With the greatest pleasure. Come, Jane,—"
"Wait!" protested Jane. "I sha'n't move an inch until he promises to—to listen to reason. In the first place, this gentleman is a Mr. Trotter," she went on rapidly, addressing the head and shoulders behind the lantern. "You will get yourself into a jolly lot of trouble if you—"
"Thanks, Jane dear," interrupted her lover gently. "It's no use. He knows I am Eric Temple,—so we'll just have to make the best of it."
"He doesn't know anything of the kind," said she. "He noticed a resemblance, that's all."
Mr. Chambers beamed.
"Quite so, your ladyship. I noticed it at once. If I do say it myself, there isn't a man in the department who has anything on me when it comes to that sort of thing. The inspector has frequently mentioned—"
"By the way, Mr. Snooper, will you be kind enough to—"
"Chambers, your lordship," interrupted the detective.
"Kind enough to explain how you discovered that we were up here?"
"Well, you see we were having our coffee,—after a most excellent dinner, your lordship, prepared, I am bound to say, for your discussion by the estimable Mr. Bramble,—"
"Dinner? By George, you remind me that I am ravenously hungry. It must be quite late."
"Half-past eight, sir,—approximately. As I was saying, we were enjoying our coffee,—the three of us only,—"
Trotter made a wry face. "In that case, Mrs. Millidew will sack me in the morning, Jane. I had orders for eight sharp."
"It really shouldn't matter, your lordship," said Mr. Chambers cheerfully. "Not in the least, if I may be so bold as to say so. However, to continue, sir. Or rather, to go back a little if I may. You see, I was rather certain you were hiding somewhere about the place. At least, I was certain her ladyship was. She came in and she didn't go out, if you see what I mean. I insisted on my right to search the premises. Do you follow me, sir?"
"Reluctantly."
"In due time, I came to the little dining-room, where I discovered the cook preparing dinner. You were not in evidence, your ladyship. I do not mind in the least confessing that I was ordered out by the cook. I retired to the clock-shop of M. Mirabeau and sat down to wait. The Polish young gentleman was there. As time went on, Mr. Bramble joined us. They were extremely ill-at-ease, your lordship, although they tried very hard to appear amused and unconcerned. The slightest noise caused them to fidget. Once, to test them, I stealthily dropped my pocket knife on the floor. Now, you would say, wouldn't you, that so small an object as a pen-knife—but that's neither here nor there. They jumped,—every blessed one of them. Presently the young Polish gentleman, whose face is strangely familiar to me,—I must have seen him in London,—announced that he was obliged to depart. A little later on,—you see, it was quite dark by this time,—the clockmaker prepared to close up for thenight. Mr. Bramble looked at his watch two or three times in rapid succession, notwithstanding the fact that he was literally surrounded by clocks. He said he feared he would have to go and see about the dinner,—and would I kindly get out. I—"
"They should have called in the police," interrupted his male listener indignantly. "That's what I should have done, confound your impudence."
"Ah, nowthereis a point I should have touched upon before," explained Mr. Chambers, casting an uneasy glance down into the room below. "I may as well confess to you,—quite privately and confidentially, of course, your lordship,—that I—er—rather deceived the old gentlemen. Do not be alarmed. I am quite sure they can't hear what I am saying. You see. I told them in the beginning that I had surrounded the place with policemen and plain-clothes men. They—"
"And hadn't you?" demanded Mr. Trotter quickly, a reckless light appearing in his eyes.
"Not at all, sir,—not at all. Why should I? I am quite capable of handling the case single-handed. The less the police had to do with it the better for all parties concerned. Still, it was necessary to frighten them a little. Otherwise, theymighthave ejected me—er—bodily, if you know what I mean. Or, for that matter, they might have called in the police, as you suggest. So I kept them from doing either by giving them to understand that if there was to be any calling of the police it would be I who would do it with my little whistle."
He paused to chuckle.
"You are making a long story of it," growled Mr. Trotter.
"I beg your pardon, sir. The interruptions, you see,—ahem! I followed Mr. Bramble to the dining-room. He was very nervous. He coughed a great deal, and very loudly. I was quite convinced that you were secreted somewhere about the place, but, for the life of me, I couldn't imagine where."
"I suppose it hadn't occurred to you that we might have gone down the back stairway and escaped into the side-street," said Mr. Trotter sarcastically.
Mr. Chambers cleared his throat and seemed curiously embarrassed.
"Perhaps I should have stated before that a—er—a chap from a local agency was posted at the bottom of the kitchen stairway,—as a favour to me, so to speak. A chap who had been detailed to assist me,—But I shall explain all that in my report. So, you see, you couldn't have gone out that way without—Yes, yes,—as I was saying, I accompanied Mr. Bramble to the dining-room. The cook was in a very bad temper. The dinner was getting cold. I observed that three places had been laid. Fixing my eye upon Mr. Bramble I inquired who the third place was for. I shall never forget his expression, nor the admirable way in which he recovered himself. He was quite wonderful. He said it was forme. Rather neat of him, wasn't it?"
"You don't mean to say you had the brass to—Well, 'pon my soul, Chambers, thatwasgoing it a bit strong."
"Under the circumstances, your lordship, I couldn't very well decline," said Mr. Chambers apologetically. "He is such a decent, loyal old chap, sir, that it would have been cruel to let him see that I knew he was lying."
"But, confound you, that wasmydinner," exclaimed Trotter wrathfully.
"So I suspected, your lordship. I knew itcouldn'tbe her ladyship's. Well, we had got on to the coffee, and I was just on the point of asking Mr. Bramble for the loan of an umbrella, when there was a loud thump on the ceiling overhead. An instant later a large piece of plaster fell to the floor, not three feet behind my chair. I—"
"By Jove! What a pity it didn't fall three feet nearer," exclaimed Trotter, a note of regret in his voice.
Mr. Chambers generously overlooked the remark.
"After that it was plain sailing," said he, quite pleasantly. "Now you know how I came to discover you, and how I happen to be here."
"And those poor old dears," cried Lady Jane in distress; "where are they? What have you done to them?"
"They are—" he looked downward again before answering—"yes, they are holding the ladder for me. Coming, gentlemen!" he called out. "We'll all be down in a jiffy."
"Before we go any farther," said Trotter seriously, "I should like to know just what the charge is against me."
"Beg pardon?"
"The charge. What are you going to chuck me into prison for?"
"Prison? My God, sir! Who said anything about prison?" gasped Mr. Chambers, staring wide-eyed at the young man.
Trotter leaned forward, his face a study in emotions. Lady Jane uttered a soft little cry.
"Then,—then they haven't trumped up some rotten charge against me?"
"They? Charge? I say!" He bellowed the last to the supporters below. "Hold this bally thing steady, will you? Do you want me to break my neck?"
"Well, don't jiggle it like that," came the voice of Mr. Bramble from below. "We can't hold it steady if you're going todanceon it."
Mr. Chambers once more directed his remarks to Mr. Trotter.
"So far as I am aware, Lord Temple, there is no—er—charge against you. The only complaint I know of is that you haven't kept your grandfather informed as to your whereabouts. Naturally he is a bit annoyed about it. You see, if you had dropped him a line occasionally—"
"Get on, man,—get on," urged Trotter excitedly.
"He wouldn't have been put to the expense of having a man detached from Scotland Yard to look the world over for you. Personal influence did it, of course. He went direct to the chief and asked for the best man in the service. I happened to be on another case at the time," explained Mr. Chambers modestly, "but they took me off at once and started me out. I—"
"In a nutshell, you represent my grandfather and not the King of England," interrupted Trotter.
"On detached duty," said Mr. Chambers.
"And you do not intend to arrest him?" cried Lady Jane.
"Bless me, no!" exclaimed Mr. Chambers.
"Then, what the deuce do you mean by frightening Miss Emsdale and my friends downstairs?" demanded Lord Fenlew's grandson. "Couldn't you have said in the beginning that there was no criminal charge against me?"
"I hadn't the remotest idea, your lordship, that any one suspected you of crime," said Mr. Chambers, with dignity.
"But, confound you, why didn't you explain the situation to Bramble? That was the sensible,—yes, the intelligent thing to do, Mr. Chambers."
"That is precisely what I did, your lordship, while we were at dinner,—we had a bottle of the wine Mr. Bramble says you are especially partial to,—but it wasn't until your heel came through the ceiling that they believedanythingat all. Subsequently I discovered that her ladyship had prepared them for all sorts of trickery on my part. She had made them promise to die rather than give you up. Now that I see things as they are in a clear light, it occurs to me that your ladyship must have pretty thoroughly convinced the old gentlemen that Lord Temple is a fit subject for the gallows,—or at the very least, Newgate Prison. I fancy—"
Lady Jane laughed aloud, gaily, unrestrainedly.
"Oh, dear! What a mess I've made of things!" she cried. "Can you ever forgive me, Eric?"
"Never!" he cried, and Mr. Chambers took that very instant to stoop over for a word with the men at the foot of the ladder. He went farther and had several words with them. Indeed, it is not unlikely that he, in his eagerness to please, would have stretched it into areal chat if the object of his consideration had not cried out:
"And now let us get down from this stuffy place, Eric. I am sure there must be rats and all sorts of things up here. And it was such a jolly place before the lantern came."
"Can you manage it, sir?" inquired Mr. Chambers anxiously, as Eric prepared to lower her through the trap-door.
"Perfectly, thank you," said the young man. "If you will be good enough to stand aside and make room at the top of the ladder," he added, with a grin.
Mr. Chambers also grinned. "There's a difference between walking on air and standing on it," said he, and hurriedly went down the steps.
Presently they were all grouped at the foot of the ladder. Mr. Bramble was busily engaged in brushing the dust and cobwebs from the excited young lady's gown.
M. Mirabeau rattled on at a prodigious rate. He clapped Trotter on the back at least half-a-dozen times, and, forgetting most of his excellent English, waxed eloquent over the amazing turn of affairs. The literal, matter-of-fact Mr. Bramble after a time succeeded in stemming the flow of exuberance.
"If you don't mind, Mirabeau, I have a word I'd like to get in edgewise," he put in loudly, seizing an opportunity when the old Frenchman was momentarily out of breath.
M. Mirabeau threw up his hands.
"At a time like this?" he gasped incredulously.
"And why not?" said Mr. Bramble stoutly. "It'stime we opened that last bottle of Chianti and drank to the health of Lord Eric Temple,—and the beautiful Lady Jane."
"The most sensible thing that has been uttered this evening," cried M. Mirabeau, with enthusiasm.
Lord Temple took this occasion to remind them,—and himself as well,—that he was still Thomas Trotter and that the deuce would be to pay with Mrs. Millidew.
"By George, she'll skin me alive if I've been the cause of her missing a good dinner," he said ruefully.
"That reminds me,—" began Mr. Bramble, M. Mirabeau and Mr. Chambers in unison. Then they all laughed uproariously and trooped into the dining-room, where the visible signs of destruction were not confined to the floor three feet back of the chair lately occupied by the man from Scotland Yard. A very good dinner had been completely wrecked.
Mrs. O'Leary, most competent of cooks, was already busily engaged in preparing another!
"Now, Mr. Chambers," cried Jane, as she set her wine glass down on the table and touched her handkerchief to her lips, "tell us everything, you dear good man."
Mr. Chambers, finding himself suddenly out of employment and with an unlimited amount of spare time on his hands, spent the better part of the first care-free hour he had known in months in the telling of his story.
In a ruthlessly condensed and deleted form it was as follows: Lord Fenlew, quietly, almost surreptitiously, had set about to ascertain just how much of truth and how much of fiction there was in the unpublished charges that had caused his favourite grandson to abandon theArmy and to seek obscurity that inevitably follows real or implied disgrace for one too proud to fight. His efforts were rewarded in a most distressing yet most satisfactory manner. One frightened and half-decent member of the little clique responsible for the ugly stories, confessed that the "whole bally business" was a put-up job.
Lord Fenlew lost no time in putting his grandsons on the grill. He grilled them properly; when they left his presence they were scorched to a crisp, unsavoury mess. Indeed, his lordship went so far as to complain of the stench, and had the windows of Fenlew Hall opened to give the place a thorough airing after they had gone forth forevermore. With characteristic energy and promptness, he went to the head of the War Office, and laid bare the situation. With equal forethought and acumen he objected to the slightest publicity being given the vindication of Eric Temple. He insisted that nothing be said about the matter until the maligned officer returned to England and to the corps from which he had resigned. He refused to have his grandson's innocence publicly advertised! That, he maintained, would be to start more tongues to wagging, and unless the young man himself were on the ground to make the wagging useless, speculation would have a chance to thrive on winks and head-shakings, and the "bally business" would be in a worse shape than before. Moreover, he argued, it wasn't Eric's place to humiliate himself byadmittinghis innocence. He wouldn't have that at all.
Instead of beginning his search for the young man through the "lost," "wanted" or "personal" columnsof an international press, he went to Scotland Yard. He abhorred the idea of such printed insults as these: "If Lord Eric Temple will communicate with his grandfather he will learn something to his advantage" or "Will the young English nobleman who left London under a cloud in 1911 please address So-and-So"; or "Eric: All is well. Return at once and be forgiving"; or "£5,000 reward will be paid for information concerning the present whereabouts of one Eric Temple, grandson of Lord Fenlew, of Fenlew Hall"; etc., etc.
"And now, Lord Temple," said Mr. Alfred Chambers, after a minute and unsparing account of his own travels and adventures, "your grandfather is a very old man. I trust that you can start for England at once. I am authorized to draw upon him for all the money necessary to—"
Lord Temple held up his hand. His eyes were glistening, his breast was heaving mightily, and his voice shook with suppressed emotion as he said, scarcely above a whisper:
"First of all, I shall cable him tonight. He'd like that, you know. Better than anything."
"A word direct from you, dear," said Jane softly, happily. "It will mean more to him than anything else in the world."
"As you please, sir," said Mr. Chambers. "The matter is now entirely in your hands. I am, you understand, under orders not to return to England without you,—but, I leave everything to you, sir. I was only hoping that it would be possible for me to get back to my wife and babies before,—er,—well, I was about to say before they forget what I look like, but thatwould have been a stupid thing to say. They're not likely to forget a mug like mine."
"I am sorry to say, Mr. Chambers, that you and I will have to be content to leave the matter of our departure entirely to the discretion of a third party," said Eric, and blushed. A shy, diffident smile played about his lips as he turned his wistful eyes upon Lady Jane Thorne.
"Leave that to me, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard promptly and with decision, but with absolutely no understanding. "I shall be happy to attend to any little—Ow! Eh, what?"
M. Mirabeau's boot had come violently in contact with his ankle. By a singular coincidence, Mr. Bramble, at precisely the same instant, effected a sly but emphatic prod in the ribs.
"Ignoramus!" whispered the latter fiercely.
"Imbecile!" hissed the former, and then, noting the bewildered look in the eyes of Mr. Chambers, went on to say in his most suave manner: "Can't you see that you are standing in the presence of the Third Party?"
"Any fool could see that," said Mr. Chambers promptly, and bowed to Lady Jane. Later on he wanted to know what the deuce M. Mirabeau meant by kicking him on the shin.
"How soon canyoube ready to start home, dear?" inquired Eric, ignoring the witnesses.
Jane's cheeks were rosy. Her blue eyes danced.
"It depends entirely on Mrs. Sparflight," said she.
"What has Mrs. Sparflight to do with it?"
"You dear silly, I can't go to Fenlew Hall with absolutely nothing to wear, can I?"
LATER in the evening, Mr. Thomas Trotter—(so far as he knew he was still in the service of Mrs. Millidew, operating under chauffeur's license No. So-and-So, Thomas Trotter, alien)—strode briskly into a Western Union office and sent off the following cablegram, directed to Lord Fenlew, Fenlew Hall, Old-marsh, Blightwind Banks, Surrey:
"God bless you. Returning earliest possible date. Will wire soon as wedding day is set. Eric."
"God bless you. Returning earliest possible date. Will wire soon as wedding day is set. Eric."
It was a plain, matter-of-fact Britannical way of covering the situation. He felt there was nothing more that could be said at the moment, and his interest being centred upon two absorbing subjects he touched firmly upon both of them and let it go at that.
Quite as direct and characteristic was the reply that came early the next day.
"Do nothing rash. Who and what is she? Fenlew."
"Do nothing rash. Who and what is she? Fenlew."
This was the beginning of a sharp, incisive conversation between two English noblemen separated by three thousand miles of water.
"Loveliest girl in the world. You will be daffy over her. Take my word for it. Eric."
"Loveliest girl in the world. You will be daffy over her. Take my word for it. Eric."
(While we are about it, it is just as well to set forth the brisk dialogue now and get over with it. Somethinglike forty-eight hours actually were required to complete the transoceanic conversation. We save time and avoid confusion, to say nothing of interrupted activities, by telling it all in a breath, so to speak, disregarding everything except sequence.)
Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "I repeat, who and what is she?"
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Forgive oversight. She is daughter of late Earl of Wexham. I told you what she is."
Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "What is date of wedding? Must know at once."
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "I will ask her and let you know."
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew—(the next day): "Still undecided. Something to do with gowns."
Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Nonsense. I cannot wait."
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Gave her your message. She says you'll have to."
Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Tell her I can't. I am a very old man."
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Thanks. That brought her round. May fifteenth in this city."
Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "My blessings. Draw on me for any amount up to ten thousand pounds. Wedding present on the way."
Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Happiness complete."
An ordinary telegram signed "Eric Temple" was delivered on board one of the huge American cruisers at Hampton Roads during this exchange of cablegrams.It was directed to Lieut. Samuel Pickering Aylesworth, who promptly replied: "Heartiest congratulations. Count on me for anything. Nothing could give me greater happiness than to stand up with you on the momentous occasion. It is great to know that you are not only still in the land of the living but that you are living in the land that I love best. My warmest felicitations to the future Lady Temple."
Now, to go back to the morning on which the first cablegram was received from Lord Fenlew. At precisely ten minutes past nine o'clock we take up the thread of this narrative once more and find Thomas Trotter standing in the lower hall of Mrs. Millidew's home, awaiting the return of a parlour-maid who had gone to inform her mistress that the chauffeur was downstairs and wanted to see her when it was convenient. The chauffeur did not fail to observe the anxious, concerned look in the maid's eyes, nor the glance of sympathy she sent over her shoulder as she made the turn at the top of the stairs.
Presently she came back. She looked positively distressed.
"My goodness, Tommie," she said, "I'd hate to be you."
He smiled, quite composedly. "Think I'd better beat it?" he inquired.
"She's in an awful state," said the parlour-maid, twisting the hem of her apron.
"I don't blame her," said Trotter coolly.
"What was you up to?" asked she, with some severity.
He thought for a second or two and then puzzled her vastly by replying:
"Up to my ears."
"Pickled?"
"Permanently intoxicated," he assured her.
"Well, all I got to say is you'll be sober when she gets through with you. I've been up against it myself, and Iknow. I've been on the point of quittin' half a dozen times."
"A very sensible idea, Katie," said he, solemnly.
She stiffened. "I guess you don't get me. I mean quittin' my job, Mr. Fresh."
"I daresay I'll be quitting mine," said he and smiled so engagingly that Katie's rancour gave way at once to sympathy.
"You poor kid! But listen. I'll give you a tip. You needn't be out of a job ten minutes. Young Mrs. Millidew is up there with the old girl now. They've been havin' it hot and heavy for fifteen minutes. The old one called the young one up on the 'phone at seven o'clock this morning and gave her the swellest tongue-lashin' you ever heard. Said she'd been stealin' her chauffeur, and—a lot of other things I'm ashamed to tell you. Over comes the young one, hotter'n fire, and they're havin' it out upstairs. I happened to be passin' the door a little while ago and I heard young Mrs. Millidew tell the Missus that if she fired you she'd take you on in two seconds. So, if you—"
"Thanks, Katie," interrupted Trotter. "Did Mrs. Millidew say when she would see me?"
"Soon as she gets something on," said Katie.
At that moment, a door slammed violently on the floor above. There was a swift swish of skirts, and then the vivid, angry face of Mrs. Millidew, the younger, came suddenly into view. She leaned far out over the banister rail and searched the hallway below with quick, roving eyes.
"Are you there, Trotter?" she called out in a voice that trembled perceptibly.
He advanced a few paces, stopping beside the newel post. He looked straight up into her eyes.
"Yes, Mrs. Millidew."
"You begin driving for me today," she said hurriedly. "Do you understand?"
"But, madam, I am not open to—"
"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You don't know it, but you are out of a job, Trotter."
"I am not surprised," he said.
"I don't care what you were doing last night,—that is your affair, not mine. You come to me at once at the same wages—"
"I beg your pardon," he broke in. "I mean to say I am not seeking another situation."
"If it is a question of pay, I will give you ten dollars a week more than you were receiving here. Now, don't haggle. That is sixty dollars a week. Hurry up! Decide! She will be out here in a minute. Oh, thunder!"
The same door banged open and the voice of Mrs. Millidew, the elder, preceded its owner by some seconds in the race to the front.
"You are not fired, Trotter," she squealed. Her head, considerably dishevelled, appeared alongside thegay spring bonnet that bedecked her daughter-in-law. "You ought to be fired for what you did last night, but you are not. Do you understand? Now, shut up, Dolly! It doesn't matter if Ididsay I was going to fire him. I've changed my mind."
"You are too late," said the younger Mrs. Millidew coolly. "I've just engaged him. He comes to me at—"
"You little snake!"
"Ladies, I beg of you—"
"The next time I let him go gallivanting off with you for a couple of days—andnights,—you'll know it," cried the elder Mrs. Millidew, furiously. "I can see what you've been up to. You've been doing everything in your power to get him away from me—"