"So I turned the polite young man down, and took my own measures. I closed my office down-town, and carried my business under my hat, as they say. I traded impartially through every broker in town. I have moved into my retreat in the old house, and venture out only by daylight, keeping to the crowded streets. The secret of my sleeping-place is still a secret I am sure. I have had no more threatening letters, and I hope they have crossed me off their lists as a hopeless prospect. But if they do get me, you will know all the circumstances."
The next entry had been made nine months later.
"My dear boy:
"The long evenings are hard to get through. My eyes tire with reading, and my thoughts are not cheering. I have tried playing solitaire, but it seems like the last resource of the feeble-minded. I have got me a little dog for company, picked him up half-starved, but he's a great sleepyhead.
"I think of you more and more. I wish I dared go to you and make myself known. But I have put it off too long. I know now that I shall never go. This is the only medium I can use to communicate with you. You will know me after I am gone. Who knows, perhaps I shall have left a friend here after all."
Several pages of good advice followed here; cynical, humorous, friendly, out of the old millionaire's store of experience. A very different Silas Gyde was revealed from him the world knew. But for the moment Jack skimmed over this part hastily in his anxiety to learn more of the facts bearing on his benefactor's end.
The last entry was only three days old.
"Three years have now elapsed since I told you of the first threats against my life. The threats have been renewed from time to time. That I am still above ground is due to no lack of effort on the part of my enemy, I am sure. More and more I feel that one man is behind it all. One attempt has been made on my life that I know of, and no doubt others. My supposed room in the Madagascar has been entered. But my real abiding-place is still my secret, I believe.
"Now I want to tell you of a new direction their activities have taken.
"About three weeks ago in the flock of begging letters that assail me every day there was one which caught my attention. It purported to be from a young girl struggling to make her way in New York as a visiting stenographer, and asked me if I could give her occasional work. An affecting note of simplicity seemed to distinguish it from the usual type of such letters. 'Why shouldn't even Silas Gyde do a good act?' I asked myself, and sent for her to come to the public writing room of the hotel.
"Previous to that I had been dictating to public stenographers wherever I happened to drop in. They didn't know me of course, and thus my business secrets were safeguarded. So you see it was at somewhat of a sacrifice that I engaged my pretty petitioner.
"She was extremely pretty, and seemingly well-bred. Her modest manner carried out the promise of her letter. Perhaps I am not sufficiently experienced with the sex. No man ever fooled me for long. For two weeks she came every day that I needed her. She was not a very expert stenographer but filled my simple demands. I noticed on her part a willingness to enter into more personal relations with her employer, but I didn't blame her for that, poor girl. A hundred millions I supposed was enough to sugar even such an old pill as Silas Gyde.
"But a week ago in amongst the bundle of completed letters she left with me, had been slipped by chance the page of a letter she had been writing on her own account. The beginning was missing, but the piece I had was sufficiently significant. I will paste it below."
The inserted typewritten page read as follows:
"—where the old man sleeps. You say you are sure he doesn't occupy his bed in the Madagascar, but I haven't been able to find out anything to the contrary. Apparently he comes down from his room to give me dictation. He never has me up there, though I have complained about the noise down-stairs, etc. I got in touch with the chambermaid that does up his room, as you suggested. She doesn't suspect that the bed is not slept in every night. I understood that she has to make it up in the mornings, like all the other beds. So I think you are mistaken in saying that suite is a blind. Give me a little more time and I will make sure through one of the clerks (with whom I am friendly) if S.G. has another suite somewhere in the hotel.
M.C.
Silas Gyde's ms. resumed:
"When my young lady came the following day I observed a certain anxiety in her glance. Evidently she was not sure where she had lost that tell-tale paper. She sounded me discreetly. I was careful to show her an unchanged front, and she finally made up her mind that I had not seen it. I continued to give her work just as before, and after several days quietly dropped her. That was yesterday.
"This incident has made me thoughtful of course, showing how close they had come to my secret. They may get me at any time. If they do, they will most assuredly transfer their attentions to you as soon as it is published that you are my heir. Therefore I wish you to be armed with all the information possible.
"The name this precious young lady gave me was Beatrice Blackstone. That means nothing of course. But her good looks were really notable, even to my dim old eyes, and I will try to give you a description that will put you on your guard, should she ever bring her fascinations to bear on you.
"She said she was twenty-three, but seemed in unguarded moments to be a good five or six years older. She was a brunette with lustrous, wavy chestnut hair and hazel eyes of extraordinary size and brilliancy. By hazel I mean gray eyes with a rim of brown around the iris. With me she played a demure part, but there were moments when I saw that she could do the haughty and imperious too. She was tall for a woman, about five feet seven I should say, and of a very elegant figure which seemed slimmer than it was. Weight about a hundred and thirty-five. She walked with a peculiar undulating motion, bobbing her head slightly with each step. When she was taking dictation I noticed on the index finger of her right hand a large pale mole, round in shape and of the bigness of a button on a woman's glove. So much for Beatrice Blackstone.
"I find that the pleasure of writing to you is growing on me and I mean to make a regular thing of it hereafter."
Those were the last words.
Jack sat staring at the letter he had just read, deeply stirred by feelings new to him. Youth generally is profoundly unaware of the hearts of the aged. The feeling is that the old have had their day, have cooled off and hardened, and practically ceased to exist. It came with a shock of surprise to Jack to learn that an old man might be misunderstood, bitter, hungry for affection—just the same as a young one.
"Poor old fellow!" he murmured. "He thought of me a lot! He was good to me. And I never knew. If I had known him I might have made his last days easier. I might have prevented what happened."
Hard on these softer feelings rose a slow tide of anger. "Oh, the devils! To think up such a fiend's game! And then to get away with it! It's too much for an honest man to stand! I wish I could pay them off! ... Iwillpay them off. I have power now. That shall be my job. If I live I'll square this account!"
He registered his vow with an involuntary glance upward at his mother's portrait. It seemed to him that the wistful face softened on him in approval.
The impulse to action brought Jack to his feet. Peeping through the curtains he saw that darkness had fallen outside.
"Good Lord!" he thought astonished. "How long have I been here!"
His watch informed him that it was eight o'clock. He picked up the lamp, and with a last look around the strange room turned to leave. He had a feeling that that place marked a turning point in his life. He would never again be quite the light-hearted boy that had entered it.
He had forgotten the dog. The little beast seeing his purpose, and terrified of being left alone again, threw himself against Jack's legs in a desperate appeal to be taken along.
Jack stooped to caress him. "Poor old fellow!" he said. "I wonder how long it is since you saw the light of the sun. I can't take you now, honest I can't. But you be patient. I'll be back to-morrow."
But the tiny animal thrust himself into Jack's embrace and would not be denied. Jack finally picked him up and thrust him in his coat pocket. He settled down quite contentedly, only his nozzle and his bright eyes showing.
"Well I guess you must be accustomed to this mode of travel," said Jack. "I'm going to call you Jumbo because that's not your name."
Carefully locking all the doors behind him, he left the lamp in the hotel sitting-room, and made his way out by the private entrance. His impulse was to seek his own hall bedroom, the nearest thing to home that he knew, and there alone, amidst familiar surroundings, to try to bring some order out of his whirling thoughts.
Jack's boarding house was in the West Forties near Eighth avenue, in the center of that vast colony of boarders. His way from the Madagascar lay up Broadway for three short blocks, then westward for a long one. He passed through the throng hurrying theaterward without seeing anybody; he forgot that he had had no dinner; he forgot that his pocket was full of money and was tempted by none of the alluring show-windows.
The burden of his thoughts was: "It's a big job! A big job! I can't afford to make any mistake at the start!"
In front of a corner newsstand he was brought up all standing by a glimpse of the staring headlines of the night editions.
HEIR TO THE GYDE MILLIONSFOUND IN A HALL BEDROOM
A POOR BOY IS ENRICHED BEYOND THE DREAMS OFAVARICE
Old Romance in the Dead Millionaire's Life Revealed
Jack bought several papers, and standing in a doorway out of the press of the crowd, experienced the first wonderful thrill of finding himself famous. There is nothing else quite like it. How you became famous is a secondary matter. To find yourself on the first page is enough: to see the shape of your name in print. Many a good head has been turned for life by it.
All the papers offered sensational versions of Jack's story, more or less accurate. It had apparently been given out at Delamare's office in the first place, and so far they had it pretty straight. But they went on to embroider it. The more reckless sheets even printed interviews which caused Jack to grind his teeth, they made him out such a fool. One paper printed an alleged photograph, but it was a safely fuzzy photograph that might have been taken for almost anybody. They had discovered the address of his boarding-house, but in his absence his landlady, Mrs. Regan, had refused to be drawn out.
"Good old girl!" thought Jack.
The soberer sheets promised an interview in later editions.
"They're looking for me now!" thought Jack.
Being human, Jack could not but feel a pleasurable thrill, but his head was not quite turned. He glanced at the hurrying passers-by whimsically.
"They wouldn't rush by so fast if they knew this was he," he thought. But he had no intention of calling their attention to the fact. Silas Gyde's reference to the danger of too much publicity was present in his mind.
He turned into his own street keeping a wary eye ahead. Mrs. Regan's boarding house was three-quarters of the way down the block, one of a long row of dwellings with little grass plots in front and iron railings. Sure enough by the light of a street lamp Jack made out the figures of a group of men at her gate. As he came closer he saw that several of them carried cameras with flash light attachments.
His first impulse was to flee, but recollecting that they could not possibly know yet what he looked like, he walked boldly up to the group, and asked the New Yorker's stock question of a street crowd:
"Somepin the matter here?"
One replied: "This where Jack Norman lives. We're waitin' for him to come home."
He was already so famous no further explanation was deemed necessary.
"Gee!" said Jack with a glance at the shabby façade. "I guess he'll soon be moving."
A laugh greeted this witty sally.
"Oh boy!" groaned one youth. "Think of having a hundred millions handed you, just like that. It's too much!"
A photographer said: "Well, I'm gonna ast him for one million. He'd never miss it."
"What like fellow is he?" asked Jack.
"Same aged guy as us."
"Worked for twelve per until this morning. Say his old boss was sore as a pup when he heard what he come in for."
"They say he's a bad actor all right."
"Sure, a whale! They say he's already burned up Broadway from Herald Square to the Circle."
"You're wrong, fellow! I heard his roll's as adhesive as rubber tape. Same as the old man's before him. Wouldn't even pry off a nickel to give the poor boy who told him the news."
"Say, when a guy once gets in the papers, scandal begins!" said Jack disgustedly. Seeing Mrs. Regan at her parlor window, and fearful that she might give him away, he walked on.
From a drug-store on Eighth avenue he telephoned back to Mrs. Regan, asking her to come to him there. "Don't let anything on to those guys at the gate," he warned her. "I want to keep out of sight for a few days."
She came into the store in a breathless state of fluster. She was a good-hearted Irishwoman of considerable energy of character and a racy style of speech. But at present she was considerably overcome.
"Oh, Mr. Norman! Oh, Mr. Norman!" she gasped.
"Easy with my name!" warned Jack. "I'm going to be Mr. Robinson for awhile now."
"Is it true what they say in the papers?"
"More or less."
"Oh law! To think of anything like this happening in my house! And the third floor rear hall at that! But that's always the way ain't it, like a story like? The telephone's been going like a Big Ben ever since twelve o'clock, asking for you. And you such a pleasant ordinary young fellow—not to say ordinary-like, but not stuck up at all, just like one of us!" She paused for breath.
"Easy, Mrs. Regan," whispered Jack. "That clerk's got ears like a water pitcher."
"I'll be careful. What did you want of me, Mr. Nor—Robinson?"
"First, I want you to know my friend Jumbo," said Jack, handing him over. "Let him have my eats while I'm away."
"Laws! Ain't he cute!"
"I'll telephone in every little while for news. Please pack up my things for me. I'll tell you later where to send them."
"You're going to leave!" cried Mrs. Regan. "But of course it's natural," she added quickly.
"Don't you make any mistake," said Jack. "I'm not going to forget any of the friends who knew me when I was poor."
"I done my best for you! But with prices the way they is——!"
"I know. Now I want you to promise not to give out a thing about me, no descriptions of me, no information of any kind. I know it will be hard to resist those taking young reporters, but I ask it as a favor."
"Oh, Mr. N—Robinson! Go on! At my age!— It's little they'll get out of me, I can tell you!"
"I knew I could bank on you. I'll tell you all about it some day. I've got to beat it now."
"Good-by. Oh—wait! I almost forgot. I'm that excited! A messenger boy left a note for you at the door this evening. I brought it along."
Jack took the note and left. Mrs. Regan, a little disappointed at not being taken further into his confidence, turned in the other direction. When she was out of sight, Jack stopped under a street lamp and examined what she had given him.
It was a cheap, flimsy envelope much soiled. The address was scrawled in an illiterate hand. He opened it, and this was what he read:
"Jack Norman:
"We don't call you dear sir, because this ain't no friendly letter. We know all about you. We're the gang what croaked old Silas Gyde, and we're going to get you next, see? You needn't think you're going to be let to blow in his tainted money. You millionaires are a dirty disgrace, and we're going to rid the country of you. You can't hide away from us. We are everywhere. Gun, knife, bomb or dope: it's all the same to us. And if you show this to the police you'll only get yours quicker.
"The Red Gang."
Jack's young face turned grim. "So it's begun!" he thought. "Well, I'm just as glad they didn't keep me in suspense. I'm ready to start. We'll see who's got the best set of wits!"
Jack, forbidden the refuge of his own little room, continued to walk the streets, while he debated how best to meet the complicated situation that faced him. Stumbling at last on Bryant Park in his wanderings, he dropped on a bench. His eyes moved sightlessly over the scene before him.
"Once the newspaper guys get hold of me, and print my picture on the front page, I'm a marked man," he was thinking, "I couldn't walk down the street then, without a crowd following. It would be a cinch for this gang to keep tab on me, and a fat chance I'd have of getting anything on them. So I've got to keep out of the papers if I can. That's decided.
"But it's not going to be so easy. For the more of a mystery I make of myself the hotter they'll get on my trail. A paper like theSphere, I suppose, would spend a hundred thousand to run me down. What I ought to do is to get some harmless young fellow to take the part of Jack Norman, while I lie low and do my work."
"Who could I get in our gang? There's Bill Endicott; good fellow, but too much of a talker, specially with a girl. He'd never do. There's Joe Welland, he's close enough—but too thick. He couldn't take a part any more than a bronze statue. They say Stan Larkin and I look alike. He might do. No! He's too hard-headed. He wouldn't do what I wanted. It's too risky anyhow to let one of the gang in on this. The others would have to know. I'd better keep away from them for the present."
Jack's reflections were interrupted by an appeal from alongside: "Say, fella, can you help a fella to a meal?"
He became aware for the first that he shared the bench with another. It was a fat youth of about his own age with an expression at once piteous and absurd. There is bound to be something ludicrous in the spectacle of a fat beggar. Chubby cheeks were designed to wear a good-natured smile. The shame-faced look that accompanied the appeal did not suggest the professional beggar in this case.
Jack had reached the point where he was glad of a diversion. His thoughts had begun to chase themselves in circles. "What's the trouble, 'Bo?" he asked in friendly fashion.
"Down on my luck, that's all. I'm an actor. Got a job to walk on in a big show called 'Ulysses.' Rehearsed three weeks and then they flivved. I had borrowed every cent I could on the job, and now I dassent be seen where my friends are. I'm done! Ain't eaten since yesterday. Say, it's Hell for a fat man to be hungry!"
Jack laughed. Moreover the word "hunger" started something insistent in his own internals. He dropped a further consideration of his problems until that should be satisfied.
"By Gad! That reminds me I haven't had any dinner myself! Come on, let's see what we can find."
"You mean it!"
"Where'll we go."
"There's Little's over here on Sixth."
"To Hell with Little's! I'm fed up on beaneries. It would take a hundred of Little's little portions to fill me. No, I got money 'Bo! Us for the big eats. Let's try that swell French café on the south side of the square. The French know how to eat."
"Ahh! They wouldn't serve a guy like me in there!"
"Well, the clothing stores over on Broadway are open yet. Let's go and get you an outfit. An actor's got to show his Tuppenheimers they say, before he can pull down a salary."
"Ahh! You're stringin' me!"
"Come along! I got a wad that's burning a hole in my jeans! I might as well blow it on you!"
The fat youth made up his mind that Jack had been drinking. He had an open countenance, and upon it was clearly visible his thankfulness to Heaven for sending such a one his way. As Jack started off he took his arm, either with the idea of guiding his footsteps, or in fear that he might escape. His anxious glance, prepared for any sudden, unfavorable change in the weather, never left Jack's face. He even pretended for the sake of camaraderie to be a little spiffed himself.
Jack was vastly tickled by the whole incident. It gave him a new luxurious sensation of opulence. Besides, he had reached the point where he felt he had to blow off a little steam.
"What a fool I was to worry myself to a standstill! Too much thinking is worse than none at all. If you mull over a thing too long, your thoughts begin to go round like a squirrel in a revolving cage. Here's the whole town open to us! We'll have us a time and forget our troubles!"
The fat youth who had no idea of the nature of these troubles made haste to agree. "You're dead right, fellow! Eat, drink and be merry, as the poet says, for to-morrow the rent falls due!"
"What's your name?" asked Jack.
"Private or professional?"
"Oh, anything you like."
"Well, I'm generally known as Guy Harmsworth."
"Some name, 'Bo!"
However, the really significant names seem to come out of the air. Jack started calling his friend 'Bo. From that it was but a little step to Bobo. In the sound of Bobo there was something subtly descriptive. It stuck. He is Bobo still.
As they entered the big clothing store Jack said: "Get the best. I'll stand for it."
Bobo thus encouraged, proved to have a very nice taste in wearing apparel. They bought hurriedly, for the pangs of hunger were pressing. But when the main articles, suit, hat, shoes, were out of the way both young men plunged in the smaller and more luxurious articles; shirts of heavy silk that crinkled richly between thumb and finger; wonderful cravats that would almost stand alone. Few youngsters attain their desires in this direction, and Bobo and Jack, long denied, fairly wallowed. They each bought a valise to carry away their surplus purchases.
In half an hour Bobo was transformed. To call Bobo fat was merely to indicate his type. He was not all over the place, but a well set-up youngster of a rather melting style of beauty, which promised obesity later perhaps, but in youth was not unpleasing. At least not in his new clothes.
When finally Jack produced the roll of yellow backs to pay for what they had bought, Bobo's look of anxiety disappeared and was not seen again. A little sigh escaped him. It was as if he had said:
"It is not a dream."
Bobo leaving the outfitters was metamorphosed in more than his apparel. He stuck his chest out now, and looked passers-by in the eye. A stage-English accent crept into his unadorned Manhattanese. Jack seeing him cast sheep's-eyes at a stand of walking-sticks, purchased him a yellow malacca, such as his own soul had hankered after earlier in the day. It was the finishing touch. Bobo swung it with a delightful arrogance. He even adopted a certain condescension of tone towards Jack who had no stick.
"I say, old chap, these togs are really not half bad for ready-made, what! Not what a London tailor would turn out of course. But they fit, because I happen to have a normal figure."
"Perfect forty-six," murmured Jack.
They returned for their dinner to the famous café on Bryant Square. It was the first eating-place in New York that dared to veil its interior from the vulgar gaze. Those alluring, closely-drawn pink curtains cause the envious poor to suspect the delightful worst. It is not so well known in the provinces as flashier resorts, but it is certainly the place where most New Yorkers go first when they get money.
When they finally penetrated the mystery the plainness of the interior was rather disappointing, and the place was almost empty for it was half way between the dinner and the supper hours. But the food when it came justified the café's great reputation.
Jack had ordered blindly from the Frenchcarte-de-jour, choosing the most expensive dish from each subdivision;Petite Marmite; Cotelotte des Ecrivisses au diable; Filet Mignon au Moelle: pommes de terre Florizel; Choux-fleur hollandaise; plombière, etc. The result was eminently satisfactory. Bobo groaned with delight. It appeared that Bobo had a special and particular talent for eating.
"Don't wake me! Don't wake me!" he prayed. "Many's the time I've dreamed of this, but it was always snatched away just as I sat down. Say, are we going to have coffee and cigars?"
"Sure thing. Fifty centers."
"O Lord, let me sleep till then and afterwards. You can do what you like to me!"
"You seem to have a nice taste in fancy eats," said Jack.
"A nice taste! I was born with the tongue of an epicure, a delicate tongue, a high-toned tongue! For me to be obliged to eat in lunch wagons and beaneries was a crime against nature!"
"Well, how would you like to keep this up for a while?" said Jack with an offhand air.
"Hey?" said Bobo opening his eyes.
Jack studied him. "He's something of a fool," he thought. "But maybe that's what I need. I couldn't control a hard-headed guy. And he's an actor. He ought to be able to play a part. And he'd be grateful for his meals, I could do what I wanted with him. Anyhow I have to take a chance, and I might do worse."
"What d'ye mean, keep it up?" demanded Bobo.
"This is only a sample," said Jack. "How would you like the real thing for a while; a suite of rooms at the Madagascar; a yacht, a motor car—— Oh, half a dozen motors; all the clothes you wanted from the best tailor in America; as for the eats—all you'd have to do would be press a button and give your order."
Bobo turned a little pale. "What are you getting at?"
"Supposing a man offered you this, would you be willing to put yourself in his hands?"
"Say, if it was on the level, he could do what he wanted with me!" said Bobo fervently.
"All right!" said Jack. "It's a go!"
Bobo stared. "Say, fellow, what kind of a pipe are you giving me? Do you mean you are offering me—— Are you crazy?"
"Did you read the afternoon papers?" asked Jack.
Bobo nodded. "Fellow left his on a bench beside me."
"You've never asked me my name."
"What is it?"
"Jack Norman."
Bobo stared speechless. "On the level?" he gasped.
Jack took a couple of letters from his pocket and showed him the superscriptions.
"Jack Norman!" said Bobo. "Then what were you loafing in the park by yourself for?"
"Trying to get accustomed to the idea."
Bobo had no more to say. He had lost the condescending air.
"Here's the situation," said Jack. "For certain reasons which I will explain to you, I want to keep under cover for a while. I want to keep my picture out of the papers. I don't want to be pointed out and followed wherever I go. Well, the easiest way to escape notice is for me to get some fellow to take my place, see?"
"But everybody who knows you will know I'm not the real guy."
"That's all right. We won't be moving in the same circles as I used to. Want to do it?"
"Do I want to do it——!"
"Wait a minute. It's only fair to warn you that old Silas Gyde was croaked by a gang of blackmailers, and they're after me now."
Bobo paled and hesitated.
"But I mean to meet all their demands until we nail them, so there's not much danger."
Bobo's face cleared. "Will I do it——" he began again.
"Hold on! There are two conditions. You must promise to do everything I tell you. And second, you are not to marry any woman under false pretences."
"I promise," said Bobo.
"Good! It's a bargain. From this moment you are John Farrow Norman, the newly-made millionaire, and I am plain Jack Robinson, your secretary."
They shook hands across the table.
As the two young men left the café Bobo said: "Where are we going now?"
"First we must find quarters," said Jack. "We don't want to carry these valises around all night."
To the chauffeur who opened the taxi door for them Jack said: "Hotel Madagascar."
"My God!" murmured the still dazed Bobo.
As they entered the gorgeous lobby of the famous hotel Bobo was overcome with self-consciousness. Bobo had always thought of the Madagascar as the abiding place of remote and exalted aristocrats. He slunk at Jack's heels with the yellow stick trailing limply.
"Buck up! Buck up!" whispered Jack. "Remember you are the cheese, and I'm only the mite that lives off it."
"Sure! Sure!" murmured Bobo, moistening his lips.
He made an effort, but quailed again before the sharp-eyed bell-boys. Jack reflected that since he was only supposed to be the millionaire of a day, this would appear natural enough.
"Sign the register," he whispered. "Remember you are John Farrow Norman, and I am John Robinson."
Bobo accomplished this all right. As the clerk nonchalantly spun the card around and read the name, he caught his breath slightly, and a wonderful silkiness crept into his voice.
"Very pleased to have you with us, sir. In a way I hope it's like coming home."
The other men behind the desk, arrested by the note of exceeding deference, made excuses to sidle past and glance at the register. Instantly a kind of electric current charged the office, and was presently communicated to the bell-boys' bench, whence it spread throughout the lobby. "It's Jack Norman," the busy whisper went around.
"I hope you're going to remain with us permanently, Mr. Norman," added the clerk. "What accommodations will you require?"
Bobo, child of nature, rebounded like a rubber ball, feeling the immense respect conveyed by the whole surrounding atmosphere. Once more the chest went out, and the yellow stick was elevated to the ceiling.
"—Er—my secretary will arrange the details with you," he drawled, turning away languidly. One could see his fingers absently feeling for the monocle which ought to have been dangling against his waistcoat button.
Jack stepped forward, modest and business-like. "Mr. Norman wishes to know if the suite occupied by the late Mr. Gyde is available."
"It's empty, I suppose," was the deprecating reply, "but that is outside my province. I assure you the rooms are very undesirable. Mr. Gyde, you know, was most eccentric."
"But Mr. Norman has been told there was a steel vault in connection, which he thought might be useful."
"Naturally. Naturally. Yes, Mr. Gyde had it installed when the hotel was built. But there are only two rooms in the suite, and it does not communicate directly with any other. Moreover the bedroom is quite dark. It wouldn't do at all."
"Hm!" said Jack. "I suppose not."
"But on the same floor, practically adjoining you might say, there is a magnificent corner-suite of six rooms—the finest in the house. People call it the State suite. Prince Boris occupied it on his recent visit, and the President of Managuay always reserves it."
The apparently indifferent Bobo's ears stretched at this.
"The famous Louis Quinze salon with ceilings by Guglielmetti is included in this suite, and the Dutch dining-room decorated by Troward Handler Misty. Each of the bedrooms is done in a different period. I assure you there is nothing like it in New York. It extends all the way down the south side of the building, and it is only a matter of cutting diagonally across the corridor to reach the late Mr. Gyde's suite, which occupies the back corner of that floor. Those rooms belong to Mr. Norman anyway since they were exempted from our lease. Together with the state suite they would make—but let me have the pleasure of showing them to you."
"What do you think, Mr. Norman?" asked Jack respectfully.
"Oh, take them," said Bobo. "We can change later, if we're not suited." He gave the yellow stick a twirl.
"Certainly, sir."
Having been shown up to their magnificent quarters, Jack firmly dismissed the train of admiring clerks, bell boys and maids who overwhelmed them with attentions. Bobo was bearing himself with admirable nonchalance, but Jack thought he saw signs of a coming crack under the strain. There was something comically disproportionate in the relation of their two little selves and their two little valises to that endless suite.
"Our baggage will come to-morrow," Jack casually remarked.
When they were left alone in the Louis Quinze salon panelled in blue brocade, they looked around, and they looked at each other.
"Some li'l sittin'-room," said Jack.
"My God!" cried Bobo. "An hour ago I was sitting on a bench in Bryant Square with my stomach deflated like a punctured tube!"
"Some rapid rise."
Bobo gravely butted his head against the blue satin brocade. "Sure if I was asleep, that would wake me up."
"Oh, cheer up! We couldn't both be having the same dream together."
"That's true!" said Bobo, looking wonderfully relieved.
"Let's go into the next room," said Jack. "Louis Quinze isn't homelike."
Entering the Dutch room, he said: "This is rather classy. We can have some nice little parties in here."
"I wish it was time to eat again," said Bobo with sudden recollection. "What a lot of time we waste digesting!"
They were presently informed over the telephone that Mr. Pope of theSphereand Mr. Wallis of theConstellationrequested a word or two with Mr. Norman.
"The news of our arrival wasted no time in leaking out," remarked Jack.
Looking Bobo over thoughtfully, he decided that further coaching was necessary before the pseudo-millionaire could safely be thrown to the reporters. So he sent down word that Mr. Norman was out, and to avoid possible encounters in the lobby, he and Bobo made their way out by the rear door of the state suite and thence by Silas Gyde's private stair to the entrance on the side street.
At the Broadway corner they paused. The sight of the double procession of automobiles started a new train of desires.
"They ought to keep the automobile show-rooms open all night," said Jack. "A fellow wants to buy a car most after dinner. I shan't really believe I am a millionaire—I mean that you are, until we have a snaky red roadster with twelve cylinders and a searchlight."
"I'd rather have a limousine with blue upholstery and a chauffeur in blue livery to take the responsibility," said Bobo.
"Oh, go as far as you like! Where will we go now?"
"How about the Alpine Heights?"
"Lead me to it!"
This place of entertainment was on the roof of one of the theaters. A discreet privacy shrouded the street entrance. They were whirled aloft in an elevator, and a small army of silver-buttoned boys and lace-capped maids relieved them of their outer wear. The restaurant opened before them like a dream, warm with perfume and color and softened light. It was arranged like a shallow bowl. The bottom of it was a velvety dancing-floor, and all around were low terraces of tables. Overhead was a balcony, and one end of the place was closed by a great curtain. When this was lifted a sheet of glittering ice was revealed. The whole place exhaled luxury like the palace of a satrap.
"What a background for the lovely girls!" said Jack. "But the black coats and pants are out of place here."
"Oh, I don't know!" said Bobo, strutting a little.
Jack's sharp eyes perceived that the first and lowest row of tables was by a process of judicious selection on the part of the head-waiter, filled with the elite of the "Broadway crowd," the women exquisite with their bare shoulders and jewels, the men looking bored and superior as is expected of super-men. These people, as the cunning management of the restaurant well knew, formed the real attraction to the soberer folk from out of town, who sat further back drinking it all in with innocent big eyes. They thought these fine folk must be Astorbilts or Vandergelds, whereas they were more likely Follies of the Circus and Handsome Harries in funds.
The headwaiter with a shrewd glance at the two young men started to lead them to an obscure corner (young men unaccompanied do not spend much) but Jack with a cough attracted his attention and with discreet motion effected a transfer to his ready hand. Whereupon after heavy study, the majordomo affected to discover a vacant table in the second row. The rail of the balcony was over their heads.
Bobo seized on the bill-of-fare. "I'm hungry again!" he cried in the tone of one making an unexpected and delightful discovery. "Can I order anything I want?"
"Go to it, son!"
"How about champagne? I never tasted it," he added naïvely.
"What! Never tasted champagne!"
Bobo blushed painfully.
"Well, I never did either," said Jack, grinning. "One bottle because this is a party. But mind you, the limit is always one bottle. We've got head work to do."
"Sure, that's right," said Bobo, but without any great conviction, and Jack reflected that along with his other pre-occupations he would have to keep an eye on his partner's potations.
Bobo went into conference with the waiter, and in due course a little Lucullan feast was spread before them. It may be remarked in passing, that where his stomach was concerned Bobo proved to be an astonishingly apt scholar. Within a week he was a menu-card-sharp, and within a month the intimate friend of every head-waiter on Broadway.
Meanwhile the great curtain was lifted, and enchanting slender-legged damsels, in chiffons and furs, performed amazing and graceful evolutions on the ice. Between times, the diners danced on the waxed floor. The teasing music made Jack think of Kate. He looked across the table with distaste.
"What wouldn't I give to have her there instead of that greedy Bobo," he thought. "Lord! I suppose I'm saddled with him now, by day and by night!"
During a pause in the music a small object dropped on their table, bounced and lay still. It was a piece of paper folded into a pellet.
"A note!" said Bobo excitedly. "We've made a hit with somebody. Is it for you or me do you think?"
"You can have my share," said Jack indifferently.
Bobo eagerly opened the paper, while Jack's attention strayed over the crowd. He wasn't going to allow the writer of the note to see that the receipt of it excited him at all, like the foolish Bobo, whose hands actually were trembling.
Jack's glance was sharply recalled by an odd little sound from his partner. Bobo's ruddy cheeks had paled, and his mouth was hanging open stupidly.
"Read it," he gasped, handing the note over.
It was not what Jack expected. There was no salutation.
"We have picked up your trail now, and don't you think we'll ever let it go. When one of us drops it, there will be another handy to pick it up. When the time comes we'll strike, and there will be another rotten millionaire the less to sweat the poor. You will offer a good-size mark. You needn't think your skinny secretary will be any protection. A hundred like him wouldn't save you.
"The Red Gang."
While the tone of the note was the same as the other, this had been written by an educated hand. Jack looked sharply around the nearby tables. No face betrayed any self-consciousness. Behind them sat an honest couple from the suburbs; in front was a party of eight in evening dress, the men silly from too much champagne, the women bored and listless; at their right was a young couple, wholly and completely absorbed in each other; at their left, across an aisle, a gay old gentleman and a languid lady of the chorus—it seemed hard to credit that the note could have come from any of these.
"What shall we do?" murmured Bobo tremulously.
"Laugh at it, and let the sender see us laughing," said Jack, suiting the action to the word.
"It seemed to drop straight down," thought Bobo.
"The balcony!" thought Jack. He rose without any appearance of haste and made his way up-stairs. He had no difficulty in picking out the table that was just over their heads. It was now empty. The napkins lay where they had been dropped. He summoned the waiter.
"Who sat at that table?"
The man cringed to the authoritative air. "An elderly couple, sir. Never saw them before."
"Describe them."
"Plain people, sir. Quietly dressed. But very genteel and liberal."
This seemed to be about the best the waiter could do, even with the stimulus of a generous tip. He did add that the old gentleman wore a heavy gray mustache and small imperial.
"They have just gone?" said Jack.
"Just took the elevator, sir."
Jack returned to Bobo.
"What shall we do?" said the fat youth again.
"Oh, cheer up! Everything's going fine! Don't you see they've swallowed my bait whole. They thinkyou'rethe millionaire!"
"That's fine for you," said Bobo, looking around nervously, "but where do I get off at?"
Next morning the delights of purchasing automobiles had to be put off a while longer to allow of some necessary business to be transacted. Jack wanted to secure Mr. Delamare's approval for his new plans. For obvious reasons he did not care to take Bobo to the bank, so he called up the financier, and asked him respectfully if he would mind coming to the hotel.
A laugh answered him over the wire. "Would I mind! My dear boy! A banker would go to Tallapoosa to oblige a customer with an account like yours!"
While they waited for him they breakfasted in the Dutch room. Bobo's appetite showed no evil effects resulting from his scare of the night before. During the meal the card of a visitor was brought them.
H. J. WHIGHAMThe Eureka Protective Association
"Ha!" cried Jack. "Exactly according to schedule!"
"What's that?" asked Bobo.
"Last night we got the rough stuff, to-day the smooth."
"I don't understand."
"Keep your ears open, and you'll see. Just let your little secretary deal with this gent for you."
Jack asked that Mr. Whigham be sent up. A old-young man was shown into them, a starched and ironed little fellow with an air of self-importance like a cock-sparrow's.
"If this is a dangerous crook," thought Jack, "he's got a dam clever line of comedy. Looks like a neck-tie clerk."
"Mr. Norman?" inquired the newcomer with a bird-like quirk of the head from one to another.
Jack waved his hand in Bobo's direction.
"Mr. Norman, I have a proposition to make to you."
"My secretary will talk to you," said Bobo with the drawl he now affected.
He went on with his breakfast and the reading of the newspaper—but missed nothing of what was said. Jack had been well-advised in keeping from him that there was any connection between Mr. Whigham and the Red Gang. Bobo could scarcely have maintained that air of nonchalance, had he known it.
"What can we do for you?" asked Jack politely "Excuse me if I go on with my breakfast. We were up late last night."
"Don't mention it," said Mr. Whigham. "I am early. I came early on purpose, because I thought later you would be besieged by cranks and triflers of all kinds. I have a genuine proposition to make Mr. Norman. It is one I felt ought to get to him without a moment's delay."
"Open it."
Mr. Whigham talked smoothly, and at considerable length. It had the effect of something well-rehearsed. Jack, as we know, had it all beforehand. Only the essential parts of his spiel need be given.
"Both of you gentlemen are no doubt aware of the great increase of anarchistic activity in this country of recent years."
At the word "anarchistic" Bobo started, and let the newspaper sink to the table.
"The police of this and other cities have worked hard to check this evil. They watch the Reds as well as they are able; close up their meeting-places—when they find them; arrest them on the least shadow of evidence. This is all right as far as it goes—understand, gentlemen, I am not knocking the police; but the fact remains that the horrible outrages continue. I need not speak of the latest one which concerns Mr. Norman so closely."
"The police method is like treating an ulcer with external applications only. You may heal it up, but it will only break out in another place. Now the Eureka Association was formed three years ago to deal with the matter from another angle. Not in opposition to the police, nor in alliance with them, but quite independently. We never inform on the Reds nor prosecute them."
"You make friends with them?" suggested Jack.
"In a way, yes. Our agents become Reds; join their circles, watch them, and report to the main office as to the plots they hatch. Our organization has now been brought to such a point of perfection that we are in a position to guarantee our subscribers absolute immunity from the attacks of anarchists."
"Was the late Mr. Gyde a member?" Jack asked slyly.
"He was not," said Mr. Whigham significantly. "He had rejected our respectful solicitations from time to time. Nevertheless out of pure humanity we warned him of what was about to occur. With characteristic obstinacy he ignored the warning—well, you know what happened."
"But they say that Emil Jansen, his assailant, was not a member of any regular circle."
"'They say!'" said Mr. Whigham sarcastically. "What do 'they' know!"
"What's the damage?" asked Jack.
"Hey?" said Mr. Whigham.
"What does the service cost?"
"Five hundred dollars a month."
Jack whistled. "There's nothing small about you."
Mr. Whigham earnestly pointed out the tremendous expenses attached to the association, including enormous salaries paid to the special agents to recompense them for the risks they ran.
"Why did you say you wanted to get to us without loss of time?"
"We are informed that a plot is already hatching against Mr. Norman. The Reds aim to make a spectacular double play by getting Mr. Gyde's successor."
Bobo gasped and looked imploringly at Jack.
"And if Mr. Norman pays up the five hundred you'll give the plot away?" Jack suggested dryly.
"No, sir," was the instant reply. "My instructions are to give you what information we have in any case. The Eureka is something more than a sordid money-making concern. It supplies a real service to the community. For a reference I am instructed to give you the name of Mr. Walter Delamare, who is well-known to you."
"Hm!" thought Jack. "This scheme is even cleverer than I expected." Aloud he asked: "What is the information you have?"
"That a man will be waiting this morning to attack Mr. Norman on the steps of the New York National Bank. Mr. Norman is advised not to visit Mr. Delamare's office for the time being."
"Good God!" said Bobo.
"What is your pleasure in the matter?" Jack asked Bobo with a respectful air.
"Oh, pay him! Pay him!" was the agitated reply.
A pleased faraway look appeared in Mr. Whigham's eye. He was evidently figuring on how he would spend his commission.
"Will you sign a check?" asked Jack.
Jack and Bobo went into the next room, and presently returned with a check, which was handed to Mr. Whigham. That little gentleman received it with thanks, and bowing, left with a promise to send "the contracts" around as soon as they could be made out.
Jack fell into a study.
"What do you make of it all?" Bobo asked helplessly.
"I may be wrong," said Jack slowly, "but my guess is that Whigham has a nice little wife and baby, and lives in a semi-detached with a neat back yard in Bayonne. I believe he is a member of the men's bible class and the Y.M.C.A., and is in every way a decent little citizen without a suspicion of the real nature of the devilish business he is engaged in. We'll have to look a long way past him for the principal."
"Devilish business!" repeated Bobo. "Don't—don't you believe what he said about the Reds being after you—I mean me, and all?"
"Not a word! Though I think the worthy little man believed it himself."
"But all that—about the man waiting on the bank steps?"
"Stage-stuff. Everybody read in the papers that Mr. Delamare was Silas Gyde's executor. A safe guess that you'd be likely to go to his office to-day. It was just a stall. As a matter of fact, we weren't going anyway. Mr. Delamare is coming here."
"Just the same, I wouldn't go—not for all you've offered me!" said Bobo fervently.
"Sure, that's where the pull of the scheme comes in. Look at it reasonably. If the anarchists really meant to croak a millionaire for the good of humanity, as their letter suggested, would they warn him with a letter? Not on your life! Those letters were simply to pave the way for Whigham. But the beauty of the scheme, the novelty of it, lies in the fact that Whigham is not in the secret. They use an innocent little Sunday-school teacher to collect their tribute!"
"Then you think there's no danger?"
"Oh, danger enough if we had refused to fork out. There was danger in it for Silas Gyde."
"Well, I'm mighty glad we paid!"
"Sure! Now let me think. This matter will stand a lot of doping out."
They soon began to experience the full effects of newspaper publicity. A crowd of newspaper reporters, solicitors, cranks, high-toned beggars, besieged the hotel, and in every delivery arrived a stack of letters a foot high.
The hotel management designated its most experienced bellboy to wait upon them exclusively. This youth, Ralph by name, was smart and good-looking, but he had too knowing an eye. His knowledge of life, particularly of the seamy side of life, was disconcerting. Jack felt impelled to warn Bobo to be guarded in Ralph's presence. Jack decided they would have to forego the luxury of personal servants. The danger of the betrayal of their secret was too great.
After schooling Bobo for the ordeal, Jack had the reporters up-stairs, but excluded photographers. Bobo acquitted himself well enough in the interviews that followed. True he turned to Jack for aid at every other question, but there was nothing in itself suspicious that the newly-made millionaire seemed to be of a soft and dependent character. Jack could see the eyes of the reporters turn on himself enviously. They seemed to be saying:
"Gee! This guy has fallen into a good thing! He runs the show!"
Mr. Delamare arrived in company with Hugh Brome, Jack's lawyer, and the reporters were politely ushered out. Bobo was introduced to the newcomers, and Jack explained the part he was to play. They stared—then they laughed.
"Is it all right?" asked Jack anxiously. "Do you approve?"
"You're keeping the check signing privilege in your own hands I assume," said Mr. Delamare.
"Certainly."
"Well, as your banker that's all I'm concerned with. As your friend I may say I think it's a good scheme. You will have a close, outside view of a millionaire's life that will be of inestimable service to you when you have to take up that life."
Jack told him of the call of the Eureka Protective Association's representative, and mentioned that his, Mr. Delamare's name, had been offered as a reference.
The banker smote his palm with his fist. "By Gad! it's a fact!" he said. "I had forgotten all about it. I subscribed three years ago, after poor Ames Benton's death when we were all scared, and I suppose the payments have been going on ever since by my orders. At the time I thought the scheme was on the square, and I have never thought about it since. But they didn't tax me anything like as much as you. I suppose their ideas were more modest at the beginning. I must put a stop to my contributions."
"Wouldn't it be better to wait until I have looked into the thing?" said Jack.
Delamare shook his head decisively. "I can't stand for anything like that."
Having obtained the approval of his banker and his lawyer for his plans, Jack felt encouraged to go ahead. As Delamare and Brome were leaving Jack said:
"Can either of you put me in touch with a high police official, a man I can apply to in case of need?"
"I know the third deputy commissioner," said Delamare. "I'll give you a note to him."
When Jack and Bobo started out on the automobile buying expedition they left the Madagascar by the front door.
"The back door must be saved for emergencies," said Jack. "We'll have to get used to running the gauntlet."
However since no photographs had yet been published they were not generally recognized in the lobby. They only had one encounter. That was in that well-known cross corridor behind the lobby, where under the softly shaded lights amidst tropical verdure lovely ladies await their companions for luncheon and tea. As Bobo and Jack passed through one of these, a really dazzling creature in an ermine cape jumped up from her fauteuil.
"Mr. Norman!" she cried, addressing Bobo. "I'm sure I can't be mistaken!"
Bobo fell back in dismay. Jack looked on with a twinkle. It was not up to him to rescue his partner. The lady was of that highly-finished type that defies time—for a long time. She might have been twenty-eight or thirty-eight. For furs, millinery and hairdressing one couldn't see much of the woman God made, except a pair of big blue eyes, the whites slightly discolored from make-up. Her clothes outstyled style—but all was in good taste. It looked like the real thing.
"I am Clara Birmingham that was," she went on. "Don't you remember me?"
"I—I can't say I do," stammered Bobo ungallantly.
She laughed charmingly. "Well, it's not surprising, since we were both children when I used to visit Cartonsville. I recognized you from your likeness to your mother. You must come to see me. I am Mrs. Anson Cleaver now. You'll find me in the 'phone book. By the way, I'm having some people in to-night for music. Can't you come?"
"I'm afraid I—I—Mr. Robinson and I have an engagement."
Mrs. Cleaver turned inquiringly towards Jack.
"Mr. Robinson, my secretary," explained Bobo.
"Bring him with you. I should be charmed!"
With that she sailed away.
As soon as she was out of sight Bobo became very bold and looked at Jack with a doggish air, as much as to say: "That's the way to handle them!" But Jack laughed, and he wilted rather.
"Can we go to-night?" he asked meekly.
"Oh, you want to go now."
"It would be sport, wouldn't it?"
"Well, I'll see."
Later he went into a booth and called up Mr. Delamare.
"This is Robinson," he said.
"Robinson?" came the puzzled reply.
"Mr. Norman's secretary."
"Oh, of course!" with a laugh. "What can I do for you?"
"I come to you in every difficulty."
"That's as it should be. What now?"
"Did you ever hear of a lady called Mrs. Anson Cleaver?"
"Surely! Everybody has heard of Mrs. Cleaver. It's easy to see you don't read the society columns."
"She's the real thing, then."
"Well—not quite. Owing to the publicity she gets, she passes in the mind of the public as one of our leaders. But they say she has rather a strangely assorted crowd at her house, and conservative ladies—like Mrs. Delamare, are a little, what shall I say, leery of her. Nothing against her reputation you understand, but she's considered a little too spectacular in her methods."
"She made out to recognize Bobo from his likeness to my mother, and asked us to a musicale to-night. I thought she was a crook."
"Oh, hardly that! That was only a ladies' lie. Perfectly justifiable under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"My dear fellow! You forget the éclat of a hundred millions! Think what a drawing card you—I mean Bobo—will be at her entertainments. She intends to be the first to exhibit him."
"Then you think it will be all right for us to go?"
"Why not? It will be amusing—and it can't very well do you any harm."
Just the same when Jack hung up the receiver a doubt remained in his mind. "How did it happen she picked on Bobo with such certainty?" he wondered. "No photograph has been published."
There followed a delightful orgy of spending during which Jack threw off all cares. The whole of automobile row from Fiftieth street to Seventy-second seemed to have been forewarned of their coming, and their progress was like a triumphal procession. The sleek, exquisite, expensive cars were put through their paces like willing slaves awaiting a master. Failing to agree on a type they bought both Jack's dashing roadster and Bobo's Imperial limousine.
They spent several hours with a millionaire's tailor, Bobo with ecstatic eyes like a dreamer, choosing suit after suit. Finally they purchased the best ready-made outfit obtainable for the party that night.
Jack and Bobo dined in the main restaurant of the Madagascar. By this time they were pretty well known in the hotel, and curious envious glances followed them wherever they went. It was meat and drink to Bobo, though he affected to be much annoyed by it.
"What do you suppose they're staring at," he drawled.
"Your fatal beauty," said Jack.
Evening dress had gone to Bobo's head somewhat. The big white shirt front puffed out alarmingly. Among his new possessions was a fine watch that he drew out to consult every three minutes or so. He could not contain his impatience to get to the party.
"Hadn't we better be moving?"
"Good Lord! It isn't eight o'clock. What do you think this is, an M. E. social?"
"What time are you going, then?"
"About ten, I should say. The later we come, the more effect it will have."
"How will we put in the time until then?"
"I have another date. I'll take you along with me."
Bobo, when he forgot himself, dropped into his usual Tenderloin slang. "Gee! I always wanted to go into society. I felt I was fitted for it. I like everything of the choicest. These common mutts gimme a pain. I'll show the swell guys a thing or two to-night. They'll have to hand it to me."
"You'd better cut out the guys and the gimmes," suggested Jack.
"Oh, I've got a line of classy talk all right when I need it. Wasn't I dresser for Bill Calverly the matinee idol season before last. He used to show me all his mash notes. How's this?"
Bobo screwed an imaginary monocle into his eye, and was suddenly prostrated with languor. "—Er—How-de-do, Mrs. Cleaver. So sorry we were late. But a lawyer fellow turned up just as I was leaving my hotel, and I couldn't put him off. Business is such a bother, isn't it?"
"Great!" said Jack dryly, "but tip me a wink before you begin so I can beat it."
"Oh, you've got to back me up!" said Bobo, suddenly scared and natural. "For the love of Mike don't leave me stranded on the grand stairway."
Bobo's limousine, the perfection of luxury and elegance, was waiting for them in front of the hotel. Bobo in silk hat, evening overcoat, fluffy white scarf, and white kids, with the inevitable yellow stick crooked over his arm enjoyed a wonderful moment standing on the top step of the Madagascar waiting for his car to pull up. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, and the humble pedestrians looked up admiringly.
It is not vouchsafed to many of us so completely to realize our dreams. Bobo's dream was based on the cigarette advertisements in color on the back covers of popular magazines. Jack, similarly attired, watched him with a twinkle from a respectful stand to the rear. In his enjoyment of the situation he was perfectly content to play a secondary part. It was lots more fun, he thought, to pull the wires from behind the scenes.
When they got in the car Jack gave the chauffeur an address on East 69th Street.
"What are we going to Yorkville for?" asked Bobo.
"To see an old friend."
"I hate to leave the white lights."
Bobo insisted on keeping the dome light burning. Jack suspected that the real reason his heart had been set on a limousine was that the wide windows afforded the populace every facility to see him pass in his glory.
They drew up before a cheap apartment house, one of a long row in an untidy street.
"Gee! what a crummy joint!" said Bobo fastidiously.
"It would have seemed plenty good enough yesterday," said Jack coldly.
Jack had no desire to take Bobo up-stairs with him. "You stay here till I come down," he said. "I may be an hour, but you've got plenty of cigars. Take a snooze. We'll be up late."
In the vestibule Jack searched among the double row of labels for the name that made his heart beat faster—Storer. Pressing the bell button, presently an answering click in the door latch informed him that the way in was open. He made his way up four flights of narrow ill-lighted stairs with a dirty carpet. Through the thin doors issued the sounds of incontinent domestic broils, and every landing offered the nose a different smell—but all unpleasant. Jack shuddered—not because he couldn't endure the smells, but at the thought that his dear and dainty Kate was obliged to dwell among them.
Kate opened the door, a rare vision in that grimy frame. At the sight of Jack's regalia she quailed a little, but quickly recovered herself. Jack would have kissed her if she had given him the least opening, but she did not. She invited him in with an air better than Mrs. Cleaver's. Once the door closed the squalor was forgotten. It was a lady's room, however small and poorly furnished.
"How grand we are!" said Kate chaffingly.
Jack explained where he was going later.
"I'll call Mother," said Kate. "She has been anxious to meet you."
"Wait!" said Jack. "You must introduce me as Mr. Robinson."
Kate frowned. "Must? To Mother? I can't do that."
"I'll explain——" began Jack.
But at that moment the old lady walked in.
She was a dear little old lady, the old-fashioned kind of mother, quite rare in a New York flat. She wore a black silk dress many times turned and white at the seams, and a little cap which was never quite straight, giving her a lovable, rakish expression.