Jack looked appealingly at Kate, who hesitated and gulped. "Mother, this—this is Mr. Robinson," she said.
"How do you do, Mr. Robinson," said Mrs. Storer in a voice like a little girl's. She affected to take no notice of Jack's grandeur though it must surely have been a notable sight in that poor little room. "I have not heard Katherine speak of you. Where did you meet Mr. Robinson, Katherine?"
"Mr. Robinson was—was formerly in our office," said poor Kate.
The little old lady made polite conversation for five minutes, and then having established the proprieties, like a thoroughbred mother, she made a transparent excuse to disappear and was seen no more.
"She's a corker!" said Jack.
Kate beamed on him.
Through the open window came the sounds of a violent, vulgar altercation from the flat below. Kate closed the window with an oblivious air.
"I expect you've had an exciting day," she said. "What did the papers mean by saying that you were fat, and that you had a good-looking secretary to whom you turned for everything?"
"I'm the good-looking one," said Jack, grinning.
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain in a minute, but first——"
"Please!" she said with an admonishing gesture.
"Kitty, I can't help it! I can't play up to you. If you knew how it hurt to find you living in such a place——"
"We don't have to live here," she said with quick pride. "We're saving our money so we can go abroad."
"That's not true. I know how much they pay in the sort of place where you work, and how much it costs to live. I have been through the mill. It takes every cent you earn to keep up this place. And you're always thinking, what would you do if you got sick or were without a job, even for a week. That's what makes that little line between your dear eyes."
Kate laughed delicately. "Mercy, you're quite a mind-reader!"
Jack floundered on. "And me with all this rotten money! Every cent I spend shames me, thinking of you here—and your mother."
"You haven't spent any since you met Mother, have you?" she suggested maliciously.
"Don't tease me! I'm in earnest. Why will you be so silly?"
"Are you proposing that I accept a gift of some of your new riches?"
"I'm proposing that you accept me."
"I would never marry a man that pitied me."
"Oh, Kate!" he said, graveled and reproachful. "How silly!"
Then he got his wind again. "That's only putting me off. What's pity got to do with it or anything? I just want you!"
"Why didn't you ask me when you were poor?" she murmured.
"How could I? I could scarcely keep myself."
"Then I am just a sort of luxury."
"Oh, Kitty! How unjust! You take a delight in putting me in the wrong!"
"It's no use," she said with a firm shake of the head. "I haven't changed since yesterday. If you insist on bringing this up every day, it will only have the effect of spoiling my naturally amiable temper. Let's change the subject. Tell me all your adventures since yesterday."
He was no match for her. He had to obey.
But if she was cruel in other respects, she made a rare listener. Her eyes sparkled and her soft cheeks glowed with excitement as his tale unfolded. When the devilish workings of the blackmailing scheme were made clear to her, her indignation knew no bounds.
"The wretches! Thebeasts!" she murmured. "Oh, they must not be allowed to go free. That poor, lonely old man! It is fine of you to pledge yourself to run them down. It's a crusade in a way, isn't it—and a dangerous one!" She gave him an extraordinary look through her lashes. "Come to me after you have done your work," she murmured, "and perhaps my answer will be different!"
"Oh, Kate!" he said, reaching for her hand.
She neatly evaded him. "Afterwards, I said. Now tell me what you mean to do."
He told her.
"I wish I could help!" she said involuntarily.
Jack had a dazzling inspiration. It must have been his good fairy that sent him that lovely idea all complete and ready to work. "Why, you can help!" he cried.
"How?"
He made out, of course, that the idea had been in his head all the time. "Listen. As Jack Norman's secretary I'm bound to become a pretty well-known figure around town, and it stands to reason I can't do much sleuthing in that character. I've get to have a disguise. I've got to lead a double life. I'll work while Bobo sleeps."
"Yes, but what has that got to do with me?"
"Listen, I'm coming to that. I've told you about our suite at the Madagascar, and Silas Gyde's two little rooms, and the secret way into the house next door. Now, you see, I'll go to bed in the hotel as Jack Norman's secretary, and in the morning I'll come out of the house next door prepared for work in another character."
"But what am I to do?"
"That house belongs to me, you know, though the deed has never been transferred. You must appear to rent it, furnish it and open it as a first-class boarding-house—no, furnished apartments would be easier for you."
"But"——
"Wait a minute. Then I can rent the second floor rear from you in my new character. I can pass back and forth through the vault as I like, and no one can possibly trace the connection between Jack Norman's secretary and the sober little business man who lives in your house. See?"
"Oh, I couldn't!"
"Why?"
"Mother wouldn't like it. And I—I'm not fitted for that sort of thing."
"You could make a bluff at it. You said you wanted to help."
"But would it be helping? I think you're just trying to make an excuse to get us out of this place."
"Nonsense! I had it in mind before I ever came to-night. It's absolutely necessary to the success of my plans!"
"You're just trying to get around me."
"I'm not! How could I trust anybody else with the secret of that vault?"
Jack had struck the right line at last. She could not resist this subtle form of flattery, and in the end she gave in. "But I warn you I'll make that house pay," she said.
"Oh, go as far as you like."
They discussed their arrangements in detail. Once she had consented, Kate entered into it with a will. In the midst of their talk a clock struck one.
"Half-past nine!" said Jack, starting up. "I clean forgot Bobo downstairs!"
"Why didn't you bring him up?" said Kate. "I'm curious to see him."
"Thanks," said Jack, "but for once I wanted to play first fiddle myself."
At the door he gave her her final instructions. "You will start in to-morrow?"
"Yes," she said promptly. "I know a girl that will be pleased to pieces to substitute for me at the typewriter."
"Oh, you'll never go back there," said Jack.
"We'll see," she said demurely. As a matter of fact her heart was singing at the prospect of release from horrible monotony.
"My lawyer will come here in the morning with the keys and the necessary funds," said Jack.
"Oh, don't have him come here. I'll go to his office."
"Very well, if you'd rather. I'll write down the address. You and I mustn't see each other again, until I come to you to apply for a room. Can you open up in three days?"
"Three days!" she cried, aghast.
"Oh, things are made easy for you, I find, when you have the coin."
"Well, I'll try."
Jack went down the stairs two steps at a time, not at all displeased with himself. Had he not rescued Kate from her squalid surroundings, and made sure of being able to see her as often as he wanted? Let her fight him as she would, she was his partner already. She must come all the way some day soon. It was silly for her to make out she didn't mind poverty. She had given it away, in spite of herself.
The elegant limousine still rested at the curb, the chauffeur fast asleep in the corner of the front seat. The dome light was now out and Jack could not see into the body of the car. He was astonished when he opened the door to find it empty. The chauffeur woke up instinctively.
"Where is Mr. Norman?" demanded Jack, staring at the spot where he ought to have been.
"'Deed I don't know, sir. He was inside, all right, when I dropped off. I heard you tell him to take a snooze, so I thought I——"
"Sure, that's all right," said Jack. "He's big enough to take care of himself."
He looked anxiously up and down the street, but there was no sign of his silk-hatted friend.
Jack was at a loss which way to turn. Suddenly at a street level window of the apartment house he had just left, he saw a fat woman resting her folded arms on a pillow on the sill. She looked as if she had been there for hours. He approached, lifting his hat.
"Excuse me, madam, but did you see my friend get out of the car?"
"Sure, I see him," she replied in scornful accents. "Didn't he get out and walk up and down gapping and stretching like he was tired of waiting for you!"
"I'm sorry," murmured Jack. She seemed to expect it. Then: "Which way did he go?"
"Well, a fellow come along from Lexington avenue way, and they got into talk like. The fellow said: 'Fine night, friend.' And your friend said: 'Right you are!' One thing led to another, and the fellow said: 'That your car?' And your friend says: 'One of them.'"
"Oh, the fool!" groaned Jack inwardly. Aloud he asked: "When was this?"
"Half an hour ago, maybe. And the fellow says: 'What make is it?' 'Goodwin twelve, ninety horse,' said the other fellow. And——"
"Yes, I know, but which way did they go?"
But the fat woman was not going to be cheated of the telling of her tale. "I'm coming to that. And the fellow said—I don't mean your friend, but the other fellow, he said: 'She's new, ain't she?' And the other fellow said, that's the swell guy I'm referrin' to, the swell guy says: 'Just out of the shop!' Bye and bye the fellow said: 'Will you drink with me? And your friend says: 'Sure!' And they went in the side door of the saloon on the corner yonder."
"Much obliged," said Jack, darting across the road.
His quarry had flown. There were half a dozen men lined up before the mahogany, but Bobo was not among them. Neither was he in the small sitting-room behind. Jack applied himself to the white-jacketed bar-tender.
"Did a friend of mine come in here about half an hour ago?"
"Fellow dressed like yourself?"
Jack nodded.
"Sure, he come in here with a little guy with a bad eye."
"What d'ye mean, bad eye?"
"Crooked. He had a face you could break rocks on. I thought at the time it was a case of a come-on, but it weren't my place to interfere. 'Specially as your friend seemed sober enough. But he certainly was lappin' 'em up!"
Jack began to get seriously anxious.
"They downed four whiskeys in less'n ten minutes. Least your friend did. Little guy just tasted hisn. Then they left."
"Where did they go?"
"Search me! Little guy says he knows a better place down the Avenue, but I didn't hear the name of it. Swell guy says he can't go because he's waiting for his friend, but little fellow says: 'Ahh, we'll be back in fifteen minutes', and swell guy says: 'He's callin' on a dame acrost the street, so I guess he's good for another half hour.' Then they went out the front door."
One of the regulars of the place who had heard Jack's inquiry took up the story here. "They got in a taxi-cab," he said. "I was watching out of the window. It was Gus Harris' car, it was."
"Gus'll tell you where he took 'em," said the bar-tender soothingly.
"He'll be back in a minute if he don't pick up another fare in the street," the other speaker said. "Just stick around awhile."
By this time everybody present was interested in Jack's quest. "Here he is! Here's Gus!" half a dozen voices cried, as a battered taxi-cab came to a stand before the door. They all followed him out on the pavement.
"Did you pick up a friend of mine here?" asked Jack of the driver.
"You know, Gus. Swell guy with the tile and the wedding fixings," some one added.
"Sure!" said Gus.
"Where did you take him?"
"McGann's, Third near Fifty-Eighth."
The name had an ominous ring. "McGann's?" said Jack. "Hasn't that place a bad name?"
"The worst in town," said Gus cheerfully. "Want me to take you there?"
"Thanks, my own car is around the corner," said Jack.
He hastened to it.
Jack's heart sank at the aspect of McGann's. Never had he been in a place better suited to deeds of evil. In front there was an ordinary bar of the humbler kind. It was empty except for the bartenders busy pouring drinks, which were carried behind a screen at the rear by a waiter whose blotched face and furtive eyes suggested an unimagined degradation. Bartender and waiter stared at Jack with a sneer.
"What, another!" the former said under his breath.
Behind the screen Jack found himself in a big, low-ceiled room set with tables more than half filled with drinkers of both sexes. The walls were dark and greasy, the air thick with the smoke of unspeakable cigars. The strangest feature of the place was the silence that filled it. The drinkers for the most part sat huddled in their chairs with eyes cast down or caps pulled low. When they conversed it was in hoarse whispers. When one wanted more drink he held up a finger. It was a strange scene of merrymaking.
The presiding genius of the place was a head-waiter or "bouncer," who did not soil his hands with serving, but lolled about the place watching his patrons with a hard, ironical eye like an animal-trainer. Jack, instinctively lowering his voice to suit the hushed air of the place, addressed his usual question to this individual.
The man looked him over insolently before replying. A defiant sneer turned the corners of his lips. "He ain't been here," he said curtly. His look said: "Sure, I'm lying. What are you going to do about it?"
Jack flushed, and clenched his teeth. Turning his back on the man, he addressed the room at large with raised voice.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine. Young fellow about twenty-four, full habit, red cheeks, wearing a silk hat, white muffler, black overcoat. Have any of you seen him? I'll pay for information."
Those huddled around the walls stirred in discomfort at the sound of a voice so boldly raised in that place of whispers. None answered Jack. None would look at him directly. The bouncer laughed unpleasantly.
"Are you satisfied? Now you can get out!"
It was galling to Jack's pride, but he saw nothing for it but to obey. He walked out slowly with as much dignity as a man could muster under the circumstances. He was in horrid expectation of a cowardly kick from behind. But he would not turn around.
He paused in front of the place, and looked up and down for a policeman. While he stood there one of the furtive figures slouched out of the doorway behind him, and without stopping, whispered:
"Follow me a little way, and I'll tell you."
The man led him into the shadow of a nearby doorway. There were plenty of people passing, and Jack's own chauffeur was still within hail. He was not under any apprehension of an attack.
"Is it worth a fiver to you?" the man whined. "McGann would half kill me if he knew I told."
Jack displayed a five-dollar bill. "It is worth a fiver," he said, "but I'll hang on to it, until I hear what you have to say."
"That's fair enough. Your friend come into McGann's about half an hour back. He was with a guy that's well known there. Wouldn't do you no good to know his name. He's a friend of the boss and a bad egg. They had one or two and your friend got groggy."
"Doped?" said Jack.
The man shrugged. "I didn't name it. Pretty soon the fellow that brought him there says to Stinger—Stinger's the big guy, the bouncer there—he says to Stinger: 'Me friend's real sick,' he says. 'We better put him to bed.' We all knows what that means."
"What does that mean?" demanded Jack.
"Oh, they was just going to roll him. But just as they was liftin' him up, a stranger come in, old man short and stoutish with a big mustache and a little chin whisker, not to say a swell guy but dressed real decent and genteel-like. He was old, but My God! he had his nerve with him.
"'Put that man down,' says he.
"'W'at the Hell is it to you?' says Stinger.
"'He's a friend of mine,' the old feller says; 'I'll take him home.'
"'The Hell you will!' says Stinger. 'Get out of here before I throw you out!'
"'You won't do that,' the old man says, smiling real polite.
"Then Stinger makes for him. The old guy pulled a police whistle. Stinger slung a chair at him, but he ducked the chair, and blew his whistle. The guy that brought your friend in, and some other guys that was wanted, beat it out the back way. The rest of us just sat there. Stinger rushed the old guy, but he pulled a gun and backed him off.
"Well, a cop come running in, and here's the funny part. The old guy didn't make out to lay no charge against Stinger, but all of a sudden he made out to be friends with him. The old guy says:
"'Sorry to trouble you, officer, but I had a friend here fightin' drunk, and he tried to make a rough-house when I wanted him to come home. But he's all in now; he won't give no more trouble. Just help me carry him out to my car, will you?'
"Well, the cop on this beat didn't want to get in wrong with McGann, and Stinger didn't want no trouble with the police neither. So it all ended friendly-like. The cop and Stinger carried your friend out between them, and put him in the old guy's automobile. But say, Stinger cursed the old guy good when he was gone.
"You don't know where they took my friend?" Jack asked.
The man shrugged. "Headed downtown," he said. "That's all I know. But I took good note of the car, if it's any good to you. It was one of these here, now, limousines, like yours yonder, but with a long body like a private ambulance, and painted black. It carried a Connecticut license."
"What number?"
"Ahh! I didn't have no pencil to take it down. I forget."
This was all the information Jack could extract. He handed over the bill, and the man scuttled away. Jack returned to his car, and stood with his foot on the running-board, trying to plan out some reasonable course of action.
"Old man, short and thick-set," he thought, "heavy mustache and a little chin whisker; sounds like our friend who dropped us the note last night. Looks like out of the frying-pan into the fire for Bobo. But why should the Red Gang kidnap him when we've paid up? Maybe my whole theory of the case is wrong."
He could think of nothing better to do than go to Police Headquarters and send out an alarm for a long black limousine with a Connecticut license. This would play havoc with his carefully laid plans. Nevertheless he was about to give the order to his chauffeur, when a boy of the street stopped beside him, and with inimitable grinning impudence said:
"Say, fella, you'll find what you're lookin' for at the Hotel Madagascar."
Jack, greatly startled, caught the boy by the arm. "Here, you, give an account of yourself!" he demanded.
The boy wriggled in his grasp and whimpered: "Ahh! I ain't done nottin'!"
"Who told you to tell me that?"
"Old guy in a big black limousine. Lemme go! I ain't done nottin'!"
"Where?"
"At the next corner there. I was just standin' there when the car come acrost Third and stopped beside me. Old guy stuck his head out and ast me did I want to make half a dollar. I says sure. And he gimme it. And he says tell that guy in the silk hat standin' by the car in front of McGann's that he'll find what he's lookin' for at the Hotel Madagascar. Then he spoke to his shuffer and they went on towards the Bridge."
"Was he alone in the car?"
"Sure. Except the shuffer."
Jack was at a loss how much of this to believe. As a matter of precaution, he decided to hang on to the boy for the present. "You come along with me," he said.
The boy obeyed with mixed feelings. He was still scared, but the prospect of such a ride cheered him. His attitude persuaded Jack that his tale was probably true. If he had had any connection with the Red Gang, he would scarcely have yielded himself up to Jack so willingly. Jack gave the word to return to the Madagascar. As they drove off the boy waved his hand to his envious companions in the street. At the hotel, Jack left him in charge of the chauffeur.
He found Bobo safe on his own bed.
Inquiry at the office revealed the fact that half an hour before he had been brought home very much the worse for wear by an elderly friend, who departed as soon as he had put him in his room. Jack dismissed the boy and sent the car to the garage.
Returning to their suite, Jack gazed grimly at the recumbent Bobo, who appeared to have suffered no permanent harm. He lay sprawling on the bed, breathing stertorously. The big white shirt bosom was rumpled and stained. His overcoat lay in a heap beside the bed. Jack was greatly relieved, but indignant, and more puzzled than ever.
"I didn't suspect our friend with the imperial of being a philanthropist," he thought. "His letters certainly didn't read that way. Why the deuce did he take the risk of kidnapping Bobo from McGann's if he only meant to bring him home? It beats the Dutch!"
Suddenly Bobo sat up with a grunt. "Wassa matter?" he asked thickly.
"That's what I'd like to know," said Jack.
Recollection returned to Bobo in a flash, and he clapped his head between his hands. "Lord! But I'm sick!" he groaned hollowly.
"Get up," said Jack coldly. "Go into the bathroom, and stick your head in cold water. I'll send for a pot of coffee for you."
Bobo put a hand to his waistcoat pocket, and seemed about to burst into tears. "My watch is gone!" he wailed.
"You're lucky to be here yourself! A nice chase you've led me!"
"What time is it?"
Jack consulted his watch. "Ten-fifteen. It's been a busy forty-five minutes!"
It was a much chastened Bobo that presently returned to the room. "What happened to me?" he asked.
"I'll tell you. You fell into the hands of the Red Gang, that's all; the same little gentleman with the Imperial that dropped us a line last night. Why, after capturing you, he was content to give you up again, I don't know."
Bobo turned pale, and his knees weakened under him. He dropped in a chair. "The Red Gang!" he murmured. "Oh, my God! Never again! Never again, s'elp me Bob! Never another drop unless you are right there to take care of me!"
Jack grunted scornfully.
Jack picked up the overcoat from the floor. As he did so, he discovered a piece of white paper pinned to the lapel.
"Ha! Maybe this is the key to the mystery!" he cried, pouncing on it.
It was written upon by the same hand that had indited the note of the night before.
"To the Secretary:
"For Heaven's sake try to teach this addle-pate the danger of drinking with strangers. His foolishness to-night almost wrecked all our plans. We have saved him from the worst den of thugs in New York, not from any love of him, you may be sure, but because when the right time comes we mean to get him ourselves.
"The Red Gang."
"Oh, Lor'! Oh, Lor'! Oh, Lor'!" groaned Bobo. "What's the use! They'll get me anyhow!"
Jack laughed suddenly.
"What are you laughing at? I don't see anything to laugh at."
"Cheer up! This doesn't exactly mean what it says. I see it all now."
"What does it mean then?" said Bobo irritably.
"It means your skin is worth five hundred a month to the Red Gang, and they've no notion of letting McGann's crew damage their property!"
Bobo was of a very elastic temperament. The pot of coffee quickly completed his restoration. "Say," he said, "I feel all right now. I've got a clean shirt. It's not too late to go to Mrs. Cleaver's."
"Well!" said Jack. "I was thinking you'd had enough company for to-night."
"She'll be sore if we don't come," said Bobo.
"Well, I don't mind. Put on your things, and I'll telephone for the car to be sent back."
Mrs. Cleaver had a modest little house in the Murray Hill district. When Jack learned more about such things he appreciated her astuteness in thus setting up her banner in the stronghold of yesterday's aristocracy. The great people of day before yesterday still linger north of Washington Square, but they hardly count nowadays. A house on Murray Hill though still gives its owner a cachet of exclusiveness that the grandest mansion uptown may lack.
The modest aspect of Mrs. Cleaver's house was limited to the Park avenue façade. "My little house," she always called it. But once inside one was astonished by the great sweep of salon, hall, music room. Below there was a billiard room; above, a library and a little salon. Strangers wondered where the inmates lived.
Jack and Bobo were not too late, for other cars were still rolling up to the door.
"None sweller than this outfit," Bobo remarked with satisfaction.
They trod a red carpet under a peppermint striped awning.
"Lord! What'll we do when we get inside?" whispered Bobo in a sudden panic.
"Just drift on the current," said Jack. "I expect things will be made easy for us."
And they were. On the entrance floor there were cloak rooms as efficiently run as those in a hotel—indeed, the house was in all ways like a hotel. They presently found themselves mounting the main stairway without having made a break. The whole floor above was thrown into one room, and as they mounted a roar of polite conversation met them like an advancing wave.
A superb major-domo at the head of the stairs threw terror into Bobo's soul by demanding his name. Bobo stared at him dumbly, but Jack caught on and answered for both. Their names were bellowed to the roof.
"Mr. Norman!"
"Mr. Robinson!"
Mrs. Cleaver having allowed it to become known that the amazing young millionaire of a day, New York's latest sensation, might be expected, the sound of his name had an electrical effect. The conversational surf was stilled as if by magic, and every face was turned towards the two young men.
Bobo suddenly discovering that "society" people, of whom he had stood secretly in awe, were no harder to impress than those of the hotel, soared like a balloon. He advanced with languid eyebrows, lacking only the monocle to give a perfect imitation of his hero, the imported actor. Jack followed at his heels, smiling.
Mrs. Cleaver, leaving the greatest persons there, came swimming to meet them. Figuratively they rubbed their eyes at the sight of her. She was one who went in frankly for hothouse effects. Her hair was the color of cherrywood stain, her cheeks tinted to match. Her dress was one of those outlandish creations one occasionally sees in the shop-windows, just for an advertisement, one supposes.
"A beaded bib and a torn piano cover!" Jack described it to himself.
Jack naturally had to content himself with the briefest of nods from their hostess. Her heavy ammunition was reserved for Bobo.
"How good of you to come! I hardly dared hope—on such short notice! I hope I am the first to present you to the great world. Everybody is here to-night. But I'm not going to introduce you to a soul until I've had you to myself for awhile!" etc., etc.
Pausing only long enough to unload Jack on a neglected female sitting in the corner, she carried Bobo off. She was still gushing like the great geyser, and Bobo had nothing to do but fiddle in his waistcoat pockets, and incline a languid, attentive head, a part he played to perfection. Jack had no anxiety on his account. Whatever breaks he made, they would simply call him an "original." Was he not a hundred times a millionaire?
Jack discovered that his companion like many a neglected female was not without spice.
"A queer gang, isn't it?" was her opening remark.
"I don't know," said Jack, "haven't had a chance to give 'em the once over yet."
"You don't look as if you belonged," she said with a sharp look. "You look almost human."
"Oh, you're too discerning. How did you get here yourself?"
"I'm not human. A girl of my attractions can't afford it. I'm Sonia Kharkov."
"I wouldn't have thought it of you."
"Everything's Russian nowadays. I write poems about surgical operations. My last was entitled 'Appendectomy.'"
"How thrilling! Sorry I never read any."
"Oh, I don't publish. I only talk about them. It gets me many a good meal."
"Well, you're a good sport," said Jack.
More than an hour passed before Jack caught sight of Bobo again. In the meantime he was parted from the poetess, and the deafening clamor began to weary him.
"There's enough hot air let out here to fill one of the Consolidated gas-tanks," he had said to the poetess.
"Yes, but it's not illuminating gas," she had retorted.
He reflected that he would most likely run across Bobo in the vicinity of the refreshments, and conducting an investigation, he discovered an excellent buffet supper set forth in one of the rooms below. Sure enough, Bobo presently drifted in here.
"Where have you been?" asked Jack.
"Oh, Mrs. Cleaver took me up to the library where she receives a few of the principal guests," he drawled.
"My word!" said Jack, fixing him with an imaginary monocle.
The sarcasm was lost on Bobo. He exhibited a new preoccupation. He had a faraway gaze, and ever and anon he heaved a sigh. Even his appetite was affected. He ate nothing at all; not a thing except a couple ofvol au ventsof chicken livers, a helping of lobster Newburgh, a handful of sandwiches, a cup of punch or two, and a plate ofpetits fours.
"Come away," he said with his mouth full. "I want to talk to you."
They found an unoccupied corner under the stairs, and lit cigarettes.
"I'm in love!" announced Bobo.
"No!" said Jack.
"'S a fact! The real thing! Bowled me right over! Floored me! I feel—I feel all gone here!" He laid a plump hand on the pit of his stomach.
"You need nourishment," said Jack. "Come on back!"
"Don't josh me! This is serious. I'm completely changed. I feel as if I never wanted to eat again. Her name is Miriam Culbreth."
"Um-yummie," said Jack.
"She's the most beautiful girl in the whole world. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew it was all up with me. No other girl ever made me feel like that. And the wonderful part of it is she took to me right off the bat."
"Hm!" said Jack cynically.
Bobo never heeded. "We started right in talking as if we had known each other for years. We found out that we both like the same things. I never met a girl that understood me so well. She said she admired me."
"Discriminating," murmured Jack.
"Such eyes!" sighed Bobo. "When she looks at you like this, through her lashes, you feel—you feel as if you were going up in an airplane. And she has the nature of a child!"
"What are your intentions towards this sweet child?"
"Intentions! No man could have any but the most honorable intentions towards her!"
"Sure! Then how are you going to support her in the style to which she has been accustomed?"
"Oh, she's well fixed. You should see the way she dresses!"
"Be careful! The best dressers are poor girls. It's a life and death matter with them. This girl is displaying her goods on the basis of a hundred million. You can't honestly accept it for less."
"There isn't a mercenary thought in her head. If she ever marries it will be for love alone. She told me so herself. You don't understand her. She's as simple and natural as—as a wild-flower!"
"I haven't noticed many wild-flowers around here."
"She isn't like these people. She's different from other girls."
"Did she tell you that, too?"
"Why, yes, how did you know?"
"They generally do."
"You must come and meet her. I told her about you."
"What!" asked Jack sharply.
"I mean, I told her I had had the luck to secure a secretary, who was a very clever fellow, and could do everything for me."
"Now that was nice of you!"
"Come on up to the library and I'll introduce you."
"But I'm not one of the distinguished guests."
"That's all right. Mrs. Cleaver said I was to treat the house as if it was my own!"
Bobo paused only long enough to snatch another mouthful or two, and they made their way up two flights of the broad stairs. On the main floor the racket was undiminished, though it was long past midnight. Somewhere in the distance one seemed to be frantically sawing on a violin, but it was impossible to be sure. On the floor above the groups were smaller, and one had a pleasant sense of rising above pandemonium.
Bobo led the way into the front room. In the corner a lovely lady reclined in a low basket chair filled with cushions. Three cavaliers were in attendance. Quick to spot the approach of newcomers, she dismissed the three with charming insolence.
"Run along, boys. I'm tired of you now."
The departing ones greeted the arrivals with no friendly glances.
Jack could not but commend Bobo's taste in beauty. The girl was indeed lovely to look at. She had great brown eyes, capable of working havoc in the most indurated male heart, an exquisite naturally pale complexion, and a glorious crown of chestnut hair. She was enveloped in slinky draperies of black silk, and her ankles were truly poetic.
But when she began to talk, Jack did not feel obliged to alter the opinion he had formed of her in advance. There was nothing simple about her—or rather, her simplicity was the effect of well-nigh perfect art. Jack was not much more experienced in these matters than Bobo, but he had a healthy instinct of incredulity.
Her method with Jack was much more subtle than with Bobo, and she had no objection whatever to letting Jack see that it was. It was part of her system of delicate flattery to allow him to understand that she recognized him at once as of a superior intelligence to Bobo. Jack was flattered of course, but she made a mistake with him at the start that spoilt all her work with him. It never occurred to her that Jack might be honest at heart.
No man, however safeguarded, could escape the effect of her beauty. For Jack there was but one woman in the world, but even his breast was shaken by a sudden lift of the brown eyes. They had a mysterious, haunting beauty, which even this bigness and softness was not sufficient to explain. Jack, when he had an opportunity to look closer, saw that they were not brown at all, but hazel; that is to say gray, with a rim of brown around the iris. It was the effect of these strangely-colored eyes looking through curved black lashes that moved men to reckless deeds.
Her conversation was not clever. It had no need to be. If she had recited the Thirty-Nine Articles Bobo would have hung on her lips entranced. Jack was too busy trying to explore the mystery of her real self to pay much attention to what she chose to give out.
"Hazel eyes!" he was thinking. "Where have I heard of another girl with hazel eyes? Oh, yes, it was the pretty stenographer who tried to spy on Silas Gyde. She had chestnut hair, too, and a mole inside her right forefinger. I don't suppose these tapering fingers ever jarred the keys."
"What are you thinking of, Mr. Robinson?" Miss Culbreth asked in silvery tones. "I declare you are one of those dreadful men that bore you through and through with their eyes and never say a word."
"I'd rather bore you with my eyes than with my conversation."
"Mercy! Clever, too! I'm frightened to death of you!"
"Didn't I tell you he was clever?" put in poor Bobo, without at all appreciating what was going on.
"The worst of it is," said Miss Culbreth, "that the men who won't talk are those who really have something to say."
This was accompanied by the shadow of a disdainful glance in Bobo's direction, and a warm flash towards Jack, the suggestion being: "One has to humor the stupid rich, but one enjoys oneself with the witty poor!"
Jack was flattered through and through, but at the same time he was thinking: "She's a regular man-eater. I'll have to watch out for poor Bobo."
"You don't approve of me," she said, casting down the lovely eyes.
"Indeed I do," Jack protested. "What you mistake for disapproval is quite another feeling."
"And what is that?"
"Instinct of self-preservation!"
"Are women so dangerous?"
"Not all women."
Her bold, pleased glance at Jack said: "We can have fun right under his stupid nose, can't we?"
But Bobo was growing restless, and she turned to him promptly, as befitted a prudent, marriageable girl. "You were gone an awfully long time," she complained.
Bobo grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Did you miss me?"
She answered him with a long glance that visibly made his head reel. This was followed by a flash of intelligence in Jack's direction, signifying: "This is the sort of thing I'm obliged to hand out to them."
"Lord! But she's a conscienceless lovely devil!" thought Jack grimly. "I'd like to teach her a lesson. Anyhow, I'm hanged if I'm going to let her make me a party to her game with Bobo."
So he made a careless excuse and left them. Bobo did not mind, of course, but an ugly shadow flitted over Miss Culbreth's fair countenance.
Jack returned to the lower floor, where he could smoke and watch the crowd undisturbed. He had not been there long before Bobo came downstairs considerably agitated.
"Have you seen her?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Miriam—Miss Culbreth," he said, blushing. "We started downstairs to the refreshment room together, but I lost her somehow in the crowd. Can't find her anywhere."
"She will find herself when she wishes to, I expect," said Jack calmly.
"Maybe she's gone on in," said Bobo hopefully. He disappeared into the refreshment room.
As soon as he had gone a footman who had been standing near approached Jack. "Mr. Robinson?" he asked.
Jack nodded.
"Miss Culbreth sent me for you, sir. Will you please come with me."
It was a point of pride with Jack never to be surprised at anything. With a nod, he followed the man. They avoided the stairs, and were raised to the upper regions in a tiny elevator concealed behind the wainscoting. The young lady was found in still another part of the house, a dainty silk-paneled room at the back, and she was alone there with a tempting supper—spread for two. The footman evaporated.
"I was so hungry," she said, waving him to the seat opposite, "and I couldn't face the crowd downstairs. They paw one so! So I had it brought up here, and sent for you to keep me company."
"You make pretty free in the house," thought Jack.
"I live here," she said, as if she had read his thought. "Mrs. Cleaver is my cousin. Do you mind my sending for you?" she said meltingly.
"Mind!" said Jack. "I most certainly do! I shall return at once." And he sat down.
She laughed. "I like you, you're so unexpected. A little while ago you piqued my curiosity so, I couldn't rest without seeing you again." This was said with the wide-eyed seeming simplicity that was her trump suit. "You so plainly did not like me! And most people do!" This with an adorable, deprecating shrug.
"I did like you!" Jack protested with an inscrutable face. "I liked you so much, I felt I had to be very, very careful!"
"Don't be careful!" she murmured, turning on the full fire of those terrible eyes. "I despise careful men!"
Jack kept a prudent hold on himself. "I have no choice," he said calmly. "How long would I hold my job if I was not—well, careful?"
"You're afraid!" she said with provoking scorn.
He shrugged.
"Is it true he has a hundred million?" she asked idly.
"You can't prove it by me. I'm only his secretary."
"But you do everything for him. He depends on you absolutely. Anybody can see that."
Jack declined to be drawn into a discussion of Bobo.
"How long have you known him?" she asked.
"Oh, quite a while," he said vaguely. He could not tell what mythical details of their past Bobo might have given her.
"What a responsibility it will be on you! Looking after all that money and everything."
"Oh, the executor and the lawyer will take care of all that."
"Who is his lawyer?"
"What does she want to know that for?" thought Jack. She had overdone the carelessness with which she asked it. He gave her a fictitious name, and looked at her with a new interest. At the moment her profile was turned towards him, and the way the light fell on it certain lines of weariness were shown up. She looked older than she had seemed at first.
Jack thought: "Mr. Gyde said that, too, of the stenographer who worked for him. This is more than a coincidence. Wouldn't it be amazing if——!"
"What do you think of me?" she asked with a direct challenge. "I can see that you're revolving me in your head all the time."
"Well, you do make a man dizzy," he parried.
"No, I'm serious. How would you describe me if you had to?"
"Honest, I don't know."
"Come now, you're a great reader of character. You're always studying people, and trying to figure them out to yourself."
"Am I?" said Jack. He had a sudden idea. "They say there's more character in people's hands than in anything else," he said carelessly.
"Read mine," she said, extending a white and tapering member. It was the left hand she offered.
"It must always be the right hand."
She gave it him.
"I'll read character until the cows come home if you'll let me hold it."
"Go on. And no nonsense."
"Have you ever operated a typewriter?" he asked slyly.
"No. Why do you ask?" she asked sharply.
"Oh, nothing. This hand looks to be capable of anything."
"But my character?"
"Ambitious, luxury-loving and cruel," he began mockingly.
She snatched the hand away. "Horrible! You're no character-reader!"
But he had had time to see what he was looking for: on the inside of the index finger was a large pale mole, as big as the button on a woman's glove.
Though it was near morning when they turned in, Jack was astir early, eager to begin the real work on his case. His surprising identification of Miriam as the former spy on Silas Gyde whetted his zeal. Her present game of course was to secure the supposed millionaire in the bonds of matrimony. Was the Red Gang behind that, or was it a private venture? Jack was inclined to think it was all part of the same scheme. In either case Mrs. Cleaver, notwithstanding her social position, must be Miriam's confederate. It was Mrs. Cleaver who had picked them up. This put the game on a pretty high level. Almost every hour of the past two days had made Jack's problem more complicated—but also more fascinating.
When he was dressed, Jack mercilessly awoke the luxurious Bobo.
"Oh, Lord!" groaned the plump youth. "Do I have to get up?"
"You can sleep all day if you like. But we have to have a little talk before I go out. Sit up and rub the sleep out of your eyes and pay attention."
Bobo obeyed, groaning lugubriously.
"It's about Miss Miriam Culbreth."
"Eh?" said Bobo, suddenly wide awake.
"Do you remember all you told me about her last night?"
"Of course I do."
"Doesn't it seem a little foolish to you this morning?"
"No, it doesn't! She's the most beautiful girl in the world. I love her more than ever!"
"Well, I'm sorry. I didn't take you very seriously last night. I thought it was too sudden. You've got to cut her out."
"Why?" asked Bobo blankly.
Jack deliberated before answering. He decided against telling Bobo the whole truth. It was within the bounds of possibility that the infatuated youth might tell the girl.
"I can't tell you all my reasons now," he said. "But believe me they are good reasons. It has to do with the game we are playing."
"You're not fair to her!" Bobo burst out. "You don't like her. She told me so herself."
"You're right, I don't like her. I have mighty good reasons for it."
"She's the noblest woman on God's footstool!"
"I'm not going to argue that with you," said Jack dryly. "I am speaking for your own good. When you first told me about her, I was afraid the poor girl might be taken in, thinking you were a millionaire. But I'm not worrying about her now. She's able to look after number one. But I tell you if you do not put her out of your head now, before the matter goes any further, you'll regret it till you die. I can't put it any stronger than that, can I?"
"I can't give her up! Ican't! I love her!" cried Bobo, flinging himself down among the pillows.
"Take my word for it," said Jack earnestly, "she's no good!"
"You're wrong! You're wrong!"
Jack began to lose patience. "Well, if you won't listen to reason you'll have to take an order. Remember our agreement. You've got to give her up. This is an order, now."
"I can't! I can't!" moaned Bobo.
As usual in the display of Bobo's emotions, there was something both ludicrous and pathetic in the sight of the fat tousled head threshing the pillows. Jack grinned and said:
"Oh, go to sleep again. When you get up, have a bang-up breakfast and you'll feel better. I'll look in on you at lunch time."
Jack's first visit upon setting out from the hotel was to the offices of the Eureka Protective Association, at the address on Forty-Second street given on their representative's card.
He found the Association installed in an ordinary suite, neither grandly nor shabbily furnished, but entirely businesslike. The customary staff of a small office was visible at work: bookkeeper, stenographer and office-boy. In fact to the eye it was a wholly conventional establishment; open, aboveboard and prosperous.
Upon asking for the manager Jack was shown to an inner room, where a man of about thirty-five with a mop of lank, blonde hair hanging on his forehead, and what is known as an open countenance, was seated at a desk trimming his nails in unashamed idleness. It appeared that this was Mr. Anderson.
"Dave Anderson at your service," said he good-naturedly. "What can I do for you?
"My name is Robinson," said Jack, "secretary to Mr. Norman."
The atmosphere became balmier, as always with the mention of that magic name. "Sit down, Mr. Robinson."
Jack obeyed. "Mr. Norman felt that he wanted to know a little more about your association, and sent me around to ask a few questions."
"Perfectly natural!" cried Mr. Anderson. "Fire away! We court the fullest investigation. Certain parts of our business, of course, have to be conducted in secrecy, but as to our responsibility and trustworthiness, go as far as you like."
Jack asked all the natural questions, and Mr. Anderson answered them with every appearance of frankness. The information he gave merely amplified the talk of his representative the day before; the great public service Eureka performed, etc., etc. Jack learned nothing really significant from his talk, nor had he expected to. He asked no searching questions, because he did not want Anderson to guess that his customer was suspicious.
Jack's real purpose was to learn what kind of man was at the head of this branch of the Red Gang's activities, and while Anderson talked he studied him. In the end he had to confess himself baffled. Anderson was anything but what he had expected to find. He seemed like one of those rather slack individuals who represent the average of mankind; neither good nor bad; neither wise nor foolish; an untidy, well-meaning, loose-tongued fellow. How such a one could be trusted to direct an important part of so dangerous an enterprise, Jack was unable to understand—unless it were that Anderson himself did not know what was behind the scheme. But that did not seem credible either.
Jack left him, professing to be entirely satisfied on his employer's account.
Mr. Delamare's promised letter of introduction to the third Deputy Commissioner had come in the morning's mail. Jack's next visit was to police headquarters to present it. He wished to establish a connection there on which he could fall back on in case of need.
He found the deputy an accommodating and capable official. Since he bears no part in Jack's story, it is unnecessary to characterize him further. Jack had no intention of taking him into his confidence just yet. He merely said that he was undertaking a little detective work for his employer, and the Deputy furnished him with a circular letter to all members of the force, instructing them to lend the bearer any assistance that he required. Here, as elsewhere, the wonder-working name of Norman smoothed Jack's way.
While he was there, Jack inquired as to the status of the investigation into Silas Gyde's murder. He found that it was at a standstill. The assassin, Jansen, was confined in an asylum a raving maniac, and nothing of importance had been unearthed concerning his antecedents. If he had been a member of any anarchistic circle the fact had not been established. He appeared to have led a solitary life, moving from one hall bedroom to another. His mind had been gradually undermined by too close an application to his anarchistic studies, and to a book on the subject that he was writing.
The fact of the book was new to Jack. "Have you the manuscript?" he asked.
"It was found in his room," the Deputy said.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly. But you'll find neither head nor tail to it."
It was brought, and Jack was obliged to confess the justice of the Deputy's description. It was the product of an insane brain. One could not read more than a line or two before the head began to whirl. But Jack discovered a clew in the manuscript which had apparently escaped the police. He did not call the attention of the Deputy to it, but made a mental note for his own use. On the first page under the many and fantastic titles of the proposed work was a dedication in two words:
"To Barbarossa"
Jack walked uptown turning over the word "Barbarossa" in his mind. Where had he heard it before? Was it the name of a famous historical character or an ocean liner? The sign of a branch of the Public Library gave him an idea. He went in and consulted an encyclopedia.
This told him two things; firstly, that Barbarossa meant Redbeard, and secondly, that the original Barbarossa was a Turkish sea rover. As he was unable to figure out any connection between the old freebooter and a modern anarchist, he deduced that the old nickname had been re-applied to some new wearer of a red beard.
At the library desk he inquired: "Is there any writer on anarchistic subjects who signs himself Barbarossa?"
"We have very little of that sort of matter," the lady librarian assured him frigidly. "There is no such name in our catalogue of authors."
"Is there a bookstore where they make a specialty of such writings?" asked Jack.
The librarian admitted with strong distaste that there was, and gave him the address.
It was a little basement shop far on the East side. It was presided over by a lanky-haired, spectacled youth, who sneered at Jack's good clothes, and was prepared to hate him on the spot.
"Have you anything by Barbarossa?" Jack asked at a venture.
"Barbarossa's never written any books that I know of," was the surly reply.
Jack thought with satisfaction: "Then there is a Barbarossa!" Aloud he said: "I mean anything he's written."
The youth looked at him suspiciously.
"I heard him speak," said Jack glibly. "I'm crazy to learn more about his ideas."
"Barbarossa writes for theFuture Agemagazine," said the snaky-haired one. "He's one of the editors. How is it you don't know that if you know him?"
"I don't know him," said Jack. "I only heard him speak. Have you got a copy of theFuture Age?"
The young book-seller produced it. "There's his article this month," he said, pointing to a title in the contents. The author's name given opposite was Arno Sturani.
"Is that Barbarossa's real name?" asked Jack.
"Everybody knows that!" was the scornful reply.
Jack bought the magazine, as well as other anarchistic publications that caught his eye. He told himself it would be a good idea to study up their lingo a little, against a future need.
At a corner drug-store in the neighborhood he purchased a sheet of cheap note-paper and an envelope, and on the counter laboriously composed the following note:
Mr. Arno Sturani:
Dear Sir:
I read some of your articles In the "Future Age." I think they are great, but don't understand them very good. I am only a poor boy without much education. But I like to think about things. I want to force the capitalists to give us a square deal. I want to learn more about your ideas. Will you let me come to see you? Or tell me where you are going to speak next time.
Yours respectfully,Henry Cassels.
The druggist gave his permission for Jack to receive an answer at his store, so he gave that as his address. He sent the letter in the care of theFuture Agemagazine.
"There's one line started," he said to himself, as he let it fall in the box.
Another thing that Jack had in mind was the necessity of disguising himself. Being an entire stranger to the art of make-up, he required instruction. Ralph, their private bell-boy at the Madagascar, had seemed the likeliest person to apply to in such a case. Leaving the hotel that morning, Jack had said to him carelessly:
"I'm invited to a masquerade. Where's the best place to go for an outfit? I want something better than the ordinary costumer."
"Why don't you try Harmon Evers?" was the reply. "All the theatrical people go to him. He's the greatest make-up artist in New York."
"Where's his place?"
"Twenty-ninth street, just east of the Avenue."
Jack now bent his steps in that direction. He discovered a neat little shop on the street level with a sign reading:
HARMON EVERS, WIGS AND THEATRICAL MAKEUP.
In each of the two paneled show-windows one marvelous wig was displayed on its stand, nothing else. The interior was discreetly curtained from view. Opening the door, the pungent odor of grease paints greeted Jack's nostrils. Inside was as neat as out. There was a showcase setting forth cosmetics, and a counter beyond with another wig or two on stands. Back of the counter were tiers of drawers neatly labeled. The wall outside the counter was filled by a collection of small engravings of historical personages with especial regard to their hirsute appendages. Away back in the shop were several curtained alcoves for trying on.
Behind the counter sat a little, dumpy old lady befrilled and befrizzed, who suggested an erstwhile favorite of the boards now retired. Her large, faded eyes fell on Jack with a startled look, which however instantly disappeared in the polite saleswoman, as she inquired what he wished.
It appeared that Mr. Evers was engaged with a customer.
This customer presently issued from one of the alcoves, a dandy of the old school who was obviously much beholden to the wig-maker's art. Evers followed at his heels, rubbing his hands, and proudly surveying his work. Jack had the impression of a stout, rubicund little man of middle-age, clean-shaven and bald as an egg. True to the custom of tradesmen generally, he neglected his trade in his own person.
He was talking volubly as he came: "A very interesting question, sir, the relation of brains to hair. It is popularly supposed that a bald head is the result of great mental activity, but I have not found it so in my practice. Among ordinary men it is about six of one and half a dozen of the other. But I believe that a man cannot rise to real heights of greatness without a good head of hair. Yes, I know, there was Julius Caesar, and I admit it would be difficult to prove my case by historical examples, because wigs have always been procurable, and fashionable portrait painters naturally do not call attention to them. But it is an interesting speculation. Good morning, sir."
Jack asked to speak to Mr. Evers in private, and was shown into one of the alcoves. It was like a theatrical dressing-room, with a mirror surrounded by electric lights, and a shelf beneath.
Jack did not offer to tell who he was, and the little wig-maker, who seemed the soul of discretion, betrayed no curiosity on the subject. Jack came to the point at once.
"Circumstances make it necessary for me to do a little private detective work, and I'm obliged to learn how to disguise myself, well enough I mean, so I can go about the streets without danger of recognition. Can it be done?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Evers. "It is done oftener than you suppose."
"What sort of disguise do you recommend?"
"Let me think," said Mr. Evers, putting a thoughtful finger to his chin.
Jack was sitting facing the mirror, while Evers stood behind him studying his reflection through half closed eyes. Meanwhile Jack took stock of him. In repose the garrulous little man's face showed unexpected lines of resolution. He had a strong eye. That kind of eye may be found in wig-maker or bank president, but whatever the trade of the possessor may be, it is a pretty safe guess that he is master of it. All the visible part of Evers' skin, neck, face, skull, was of a curious angry pink shade—but not unhealthy. He had but a fringe of gray hair around the base of his skull, and his eyebrows were scanty. Certainly, in extolling the superiority of hairy men he had been disinterested.
"It is a good mask," he said—meaning Jack's face. "Good bones, well placed. A promising foundation for me to work on. You are young, too. No tell-tale lines for me to erase. Your hair is too luxuriant, but I don't suppose you want me to cut it."
"What would be the gain if it altered my usual appearance?"
"True, true! We'll get around that somehow. Difficulties only add zest to the artist's work."
After studying a little longer he said: "Since your purpose is to escape observation, I would suggest making you as insignificant as possible. Say a business man in a small way; industrious but not very bright; of very ordinary taste both in ideas and dress."
"My idea exactly!" said Jack.
"But I must impress upon you that my work here with false hair and pigments is only the beginning. To be successful our character must be constructed from the inside out. Before you leave here I will write out a description of the character as I see it, which I will ask you to study at your leisure. I particularly recommend that you repeat it to yourself just before falling asleep at night. It is the surest way of impressing it on your subconsciousness."
"Fine!" said Jack, more and more taken with the philosophic wig-maker.
Evers began to lay out the implements of his trade. While he worked he talked uninterruptedly.
"I assure you one's subconsciousness is all-important. Most people, unknown to themselves, play an assumed part throughout their lives, a part that has been suggested to the subconsciousness in early life by something they admire in other people or in books. When some great disturbance brings the real self to light people are amazed at what they discover in themselves.—Remove your coat, waistcoat and collar, please."
"Make it simple, please," said Jack. "Something that I can put off and on myself at need."
"The best art is always simple," said Mr. Evers. "First a wash for the entire face and neck. It is very thin and contains no grease to betray you in the sunlight. Its purpose is merely to dim the youthful glow of health that distinguishes you. See! You look fifteen years older already! A slightly darker tone under the eyes gives you a sedentary, slightly bilious look. Next heavy eyebrows, which with round spectacles will give you an owlish expression. Also a stiff, closely cropped mustache. You put on eyebrows and mustache with loose hair and glue which I will furnish you. Comb them out and clip them to the desired length after they are stuck on. The ready-made articles never look natural. You may depend upon the glue. It is my own invention. No amount of heat nor perspiration, nor soap and water can affect it, but it melts at a touch of alcohol. Lastly, pomade your hair liberally, and slick it down hard. See, it makes your hair look thin, and alters the whole shape of your head. There you are!"
"Wonderful!" said Jack, gazing at his strangely altered aspect.
"Oh, we've only just begun!" said Mr. Evers. "Next comes the question of clothes. Its importance cannot be exaggerated. Taste in clothes is of slow growth. The clothes of a youth tell you nothing, but a mature man's attire betrays him unerringly. Let me see! This requires study. We shall probably not hit it exactly at the first trial. I should say first a derby hat of very conservative shape, slightly old-fashioned, and a suit stiffly cut, of good material but ugly pattern of cloth. Shirt and necktie are very significant. They should be of common design and coloring, such as might be picked up at a sale. I have all such things here. The suit may not fit you perfectly, but it will take you as far as a clothing store where you can buy another."
In due course Jack was ready to brave the sunshine in his new guise. The charge was steep, but he could not deny that the work was worth it. He left his other clothes with Mr. Evers since he would have to return to the shop to change. The wig-maker stood off and examined him with satisfaction. Mrs. Evers was called on to admire her husband's work.