“Thank God!” Monty cried fervently. “I wondered if that telegraphing to people was just a ruse or not. Hooray, I feel I can eat and drink and be merrier than I’ve been for a month. I never want to hear about them again.”
“I’m sorry, old man,” Denby said smiling, “but I shall have to ask you for them.”
“Me?” Monty stammered. “Don’t joke, Steve.”
“But you very kindly brought them over for me,” Denby returned mildly. “They’re in the right-hand shoe of a pair of buckskin tennis shoes. I put them there when I helped you to repack your trunk.Do you mind bringing them before I’ve finished dressing?”
Monty looked at him reproachfully. “Sometimes I think I ought to have gone into the ministry. I’m getting a perfect horror of crime.”
“You’re not a criminal,” Denby said. “You helped me out on the voyage, but here you are free to do as you like.”
Monty set his jaw firmly. “I’m in it with you, Steve, till you’ve got the damned things where you want ’em, and you can’t prevent me, either.”
When he brought the precious necklace back Denby calmly placed the pouch in his pocket. “Thanks, old man,” he said casually. “Now the fun begins.”
“Fun!” Monty snorted. “Do you remember the classic remark of the frog who was pelted by small mischievous boys? ‘This may be the hell of a joke to you,’ said the frog, ‘but it’s death to me.’”
“I’ve always been sorry for that frog,” Denby commented.
“But, man alive, you are the frog,” Monty cried.
“Oh, no,” Denby returned, making a tie that had no likeness to a vast butterfly.
“Your frog hadn’t a ghost of a chance, and he knew it, while with me it’s an even chance. One oughtn’t to ask any more than that in these hard times.”
He sauntered down the stairs cool and debonair to find Ethel Cartwright still looking listlessly across the green lawns.
“Those gentle chimes,” he said, as the dinner-gong pealed out, “call the faithful to dinner. I wish it were in Paris, don’t you?”
She pulled herself together and tried to smile as she had done before Taylor had dashed all her joy to the ground.
“Aren’t you hungering for string-beans?” he asked, “and the hole in the table-cloth, and the gay old moon? But after all, what do they matter now? You’re here, and I’m hungry.” He offered her his arm. “Aren’t you hungry, too?”
VERY much to Denby’s disappointment he found that he was not to take Ethel Cartwright in to dinner. Nora Rutledge fell to his lot, and although she was witty and sparkling, she shared none of those happy Parisian memories as did the girl his host had taken in.
Plainly Nora was piqued. “I thought from what Monty told me you were really interesting,” she said.
“One must never believe anything Monty says,” he observed. “It’s only his air of innocence that makes people think him honest. His flirtations on board ship were nothing short of scandalous and yet look at him now.”
And poor Monty, although to him had fallen the honor of taking in his hostess, was paying no sort of attention to her sallies.
Nora glanced at him and then looked up at Denby. “I’m really awfully fond of Monty, and I’m worried—if you’ll believe it—because he seems upset. Monty,” she called, “what’s the matter with you, and what are you thinking about?”
“Frogs,” he said promptly.
“We’ll have some to-morrow,” Michael observed amiably. “They induce in me a most remarkable thirst, so I keep off them on that account.”
“He’s thinking,” Denby reminded her, “of the old song, ‘A frog he would a-wooing go!’ I’ve heard of you often enough, Miss Rutledge, from Monty.”
“Well, I wish you’d started being confidential with thehors d’œuvres,” she said, “instead of waiting until dessert. If you had, by this time you’d probably have been really amusing.”
She rose at Mrs. Harrington’s signal and followed her from the room.
“What I can’t see,” observed she, “is why we didn’t stay and have our cigarettes with the men.”
“I always leave them together,” Alice Harrington said with a laugh, “because that’s the way to get the newest naughty stories. Michael always tells ’em to me later.”
“Alice!” cried Nora with mock reproof.
“Oh, I like ’em,” Alice declared, “when they’re really funny, and so does everybody else. Besides, nowadays it’s improper to be proper. Cigarette, Ethel?”
Miss Cartwright shook her head. “You know I don’t smoke,” she returned.
Nora lighted a cigarette unskilfully. “That’s soold-fashioned,” she said, in her most sophisticated manner, “and I’d rather die than be that.” She coughed as she drew in a fragrant breath of Egyptian tobacco. “I do wish, though, that I really enjoyed smoking.”
“What do you think of our new friend, Mr. Denby?” Alice asked of her.
“I like him in spite of the fact that he hardly noticed me. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ethel.”
“I saw that myself,” Mrs. Harrington returned. “You know, Ethel, I meant him to take you in to dinner, but Nora insisted that she sit next to him. She’s such a man-hunter!”
“You bet I am,” the wise Nora admitted—“that’s the only way you can get ’em.”
Mrs. Harrington turned to Ethel Cartwright. “Didn’t you and Mr. Denby have a tiny row? You hardly spoke to him through dinner.”
“Didn’t I?” the girl answered. “I’ve a bit of a headache.”
“I’ll bet they had a lovers’ quarrel before dinner,” Nora hazarded.
Alice Harrington arched her eyebrows in surprise. “A lovers’ quarrel!”
“Certainly,” Nora insisted. “I’m sure Ethel is in love with him.”
“How perfectly ridiculous,” Ethel said, with a trace of embarrassment in her manner. “Don’t be so silly, Nora. I met him for a week in Paris, that’s all, and I found him interesting. He had big talk as well as small, but as for love—please don’t be idiotic!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” laughed her hostess.
“I don’t blame you, Ethel,” Nora admitted frankly. “If he’d give me a chance I’d fall for him in a minute, but attractive young men never bother about me. The best I can draw is—Monty! I’m beginning to dislike the whole sex.”
“Theoretically you are quite right, my dear,” said the maturer Alice; “men are awful things—God bless ’em—but practically, well, some day you’ll explode like a bottle of champagne and bubble all over some man.”
“Speaking of champagne,” Nora said after a disbelieving gesture at the prophecy, “I wish I had another of Michael’s purple drinks. He’s a genius.”
“Do tell him that,” the fond wife urged. “The very surest way to Michael’s heart is through his buffet. I knew he’d taken to mixing cocktails in a graduated chemist’s glass, but this excursion into the chemistry of drinks is rather alarming. He would have been a most conscientious bartender.”
“Does he really drink much?” Nora demanded.
“Not when I’m at home,” Alice declared. “Nothing after one. If he goes to bed then he’s all right; if he doesn’t, he sits up till five going the pace that fills. I wouldn’t mind if it made him amusing, but it makes him merely sleepy. But he doesn’t drink nearly as much as most of the men he knows. What makes you think he does, is that he makes such a ceremony out of drinking. I don’t think he enjoys drinking alone. Nora,” she added, “do sit down; you make me dizzy.”
“I can’t,” Nora told her. “I always stand up for twenty minutes after each meal. It keeps you thin.”
“Does it?” Mrs. Harrington asked eagerly, rising from her comfortable chair. “Does it really? Still, I lost nine pounds abroad!”
“Goodness!” Nora cried enviously. “How?”
“Buttermilk!” Alice cried triumphantly.
“And I walked four miles this morning in a rubber suit and three sweaters,andgained half a pound,” Nora declared disconsolately.
“I do wish hips would come in again,” Alice Harrington sighed. “Ah, here come the men,” she said more brightly, as the three entered.
Michael was still bearing, with what modesty he could, the encomiums on a purple punch he had brewed after exhaustive laboratory experiments.
“It’s delicious,” Denby declared.
Michael sighed. “I used to think so until my wife stopped my drinking.”
Even Monty seemed cheered by it. “Fine stuff,” he asserted. “I can feel it warming up all the little nooks and crannies.”
“Purple but pleasing,” Denby said, with the air of an epigrammatist.
“Did they tell you any purple stories?” Michael’s wife demanded.
“We don’t know any new stories,” Denby told her; “we’ve been in England.”
“Do sit down, all of you,” Alice commanded. “We’ve all been standing up to get thin.”
“If they’re going to discuss getting thin and dietetics,” Michael said, “let’s get out.”
“Woman’s favorite topic,” Monty remarked profoundly.
“But you mustn’t sit down, Alice,” Nora warned, as her hostess seemed about to sink into her chair. “It isn’t twenty minutes!”
“Well, I think it is twenty minutes,” she returned smiling, “and if it isn’t I don’t care a continental.”
“Women are so self-denying,” Michael Harrington observed with gentle satire.
“And sometimes it pays,” his wife said. “Do youknow, Nora, there was a girl on the boat who lost twelve pounds.”
“Twelve pounds,” Michael exclaimed, and then by a rapid-fire bit of mental arithmetic added: “Why, that’s sixty dollars. How women do gamble nowadays!”
“Pounds of flesh, Michael, pounds of flesh. She was on a diet. She didn’t eat for three days.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Nora said approvingly. “Sometime when I’m not hungry I’ll try it.”
Ethel Cartwright had refrained from joining in the conversation for the reason she had no part just now in their lighter moods. Their talk of weight losing had been well enough, but Michael’s misinterpretation of the twelve pounds brought back to her the cause of Amy’s misfortune and plunged her deeper into misery.
She walked toward the window and looked over the grass to the deep gloom of the cedar trees opposite. And it seemed to her that there were moving shadows that might be Taylor and his men ready to pounce upon a man to whom a year ago she had been deeply drawn. There was a charm about Denby when he set himself to please a woman to which she, although no blushing ingénue, was keenly sensible.
“Seeing ghosts?” said a voice at her elbow, and sheturned, startled, to see his smiling face looking down at her.
She assumed a lighter air. “No,” she told him brightly. “Ghosts belong to the past. I was seeing spirits of the future.”
“Can’t we see them together?” he suggested. “I shall never tire of Parisian ghosts if you are there to keep me from being too scared. Let’s go out and see if the moon looks good-tempered. The others are talking about smuggling and light and airy nothings like that. Shall we?”
“No, no!” she said, with a tremor in her voice that did not escape him. “Not yet; later, perhaps.”
She could, in fact, hardly compose her face. Here he was suggesting that she take him into a trap to be prepared later by her treachery. But she had what seemed to her a duty to perform, and no sentiment must stand in the way of her sister’s salvation. And there was always the hope that he was innocent. At any other time than this she would have wagered he was without blame; but this was a day on which misfortunes were visiting her, and she was filled with dread as to its outcome.
She moved over to Mrs. Harrington’s side, gracefully and slowly, free so far as the ordinary observer could see from any care.
“So you are talking of smuggling,” she said. “Alice, did you really bring in anything without paying duty on it?”
“Not a thing,” Alice returned promptly. “I declared every solitary stitch.”
“I’d like to believe you,” her husband remarked, “but knowing you as I do—”
“I paid seven hundred dollars’ duty,” his spouse declared.
“Disgusting!” Nora exclaimed. “Think of what you could have bought for that!”
“Please tell me,” Michael inquired anxiously, “what mental revolution converted you from the idea that smuggling was a legitimate and noble sport?”
“I still don’t think it’s wrong,” Alice declared honestly. “Some of you men seem to, but I’d swindle the government any day.”
“Then, for Heaven’s sake,” Nora wanted to know, “why waste all that good money?”
Alice waved a jewelled white hand toward Steven Denby.
“Behold my reformer!”
Ethel Cartwright looked at him quickly. Her distrust of motives was the result of her conversation with Daniel Taylor, who believed in no man’s good faith.
“Mr. Denby?” she asked, almost suspiciously.
“What has Mr. Denby to do with it?” Nora cried, equally surprised that it was his influence which had stayed the wilful Alice.
“He frightened me,” Alice averred.
“I want to have a good look at the man who can do that,” Michael cried.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Harrington is exaggerating,” Denby explained patiently; “I merely pointed out that things had come to a pass when it might be very awkward to fool with the Customs.”
“They didn’t give us the least bit of trouble at the dock,” she answered. “I wish I’d brought in a trunk full of dutiable things. They hardly looked at my belongings.”
“That sometimes means,” Denby explained, “that there will be the greatest possible trouble afterwards.”
“I don’t see that,” Nora asserted. “How can it be?”
“Well,” he returned, “according to some articles in McClure’s a few months ago by Burns, very often a dishonest official will let a prominent woman like Mrs. Harrington slip through the lines without the least difficulty—even if she is smuggling—so that afterwards he can come to her home and threaten exposure and a heavy fine. Usually the woman or her husband will pay any amount to hush things up. I was thinkingof that when I advised Mrs. Harrington to declare everything she had.”
“But you said a whole lot more than that,” Mrs. Harrington reminded him. “When our baggage was being examined at Dover, you spoke about that man of mystery who is known as R. J. It was cumulative, Mr. Denby, and on the whole you did it rather well. My bank-book is a living witness to your eloquence.”
Ethel asked rather eagerly, “But this R. J., Mr. Denby, what is he?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Michael answered. “Some man at the club told me about him, but I very soon sized that matter up. If you want to know my opinion, Ethel, R. J. is the bogey man of the Customs. If they suspect an inspector he receives a postal signed R. J., and telling him to watch out. It’s a great scheme, which I recommend to the heads of big business corporations. I don’t believe in R. J.”
Ethel looked up at Denby brightly. “But you really believe in him, don’t you?”
“I only know,” he told her, “that R. J. has many enemies because he has made many discoveries. Unquestionably he does exist for all Mr. Harrington’s unbelief. He’s supposed to be one of these impossible secret service agents, travelling incognito all over the globe. He is known only by his initials. Some peoplecall him the storm-petrol, always in the wake of trouble. Where there is intrigue among nations, diplomatic tangles, if the Japs steal a fortification plan, or a German cross-country aeroplane is sent to drop a bomb on the Singer Building, R.J. is supposed to be there to catch it.”
“What an awfully unpleasant position,” Nora shuddered.
“Think of a man deliberately choosing a job like that!” Monty commented.
“So,” Denby continued, “when a friend of mine in Paris told me that R.J. had been requested by the government to investigate Customs frauds, I knew there would be more danger in the smuggling game than ever. I warned Mrs. Harrington because I did not want to see her humiliated by exposure.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Denby,” Michael said appreciatively; “but all the same I don’t see how—supposing she had slipped in without any fuss some stuff she had bought in Paris or London and ought to have declared—I don’t see how if they didn’t know it, they could blackmail her.”
“That’s the simplest part of it,” Denby assured him. “The clerk in the kind of store your wife would patronize is most often a government spy, unofficially, and directly after he has assured the purchaser that itis so simple to smuggle, and one can hide things so easily, he has cabled the United States Customs what you bought and how much it cost.”
“They do that?” said Michael indignantly. “I never did trust Frenchmen, the sneaks. I’ve no doubt that theheure de l’aperitifwas introduced by an American.”
Miss Cartwright had been watching Denby closely. There was forced upon her the unhappy conviction that this explanation of the difficulties of smuggling was in a sense his way of boasting of a difficulty he had overcome. And she alone of all who were listening had the key to this. It was imperative—for the dread of Taylor and his threats had eaten into her soul—to gain more explicit information. Her manner was almost coquettish as she asked him:
“Tell me truly, Mr. Denby, didn’t you smuggle something, just one tiny little scarf-pin, for example?”
“Nothing,” he returned. “What makes you think I did?”
“It seemed to me,” she said boldly, “that your fear that Mrs. Harrington might be caught was due to the fear suspicion might fall on you.”
Denby looked at her curiously. He had never seen Ethel Cartwright in this mood. He wondered at what she was driving.
“It does sound plausible,” he admitted.
“Then ’fess up,” Michael urged. “Come on, Denby, what did you bring in?”
“Myself and Monty,” Denby returned, “and he isn’t dutiable. All the smuggling that our party did was performed by Monty out of regard for you.”
“I still remain unconvinced,” Ethel Cartwright declared obstinately. “I think it was two thoughts for yourself and one for Alice.”
“Now, Denby,” Michael cried jocularly, “you’re among friends. Where have you hidden the swag?”
“Do tell us,” Nora entreated. “It’d be so nice if you were a criminal and had your picture in the rogues’ gallery. The only criminals I know are those who just run over people in their motors, and that gets so commonplace. Do tell us how you started on a life of crime.”
“Nora!” Monty cried reprovingly. Things were increasing his nervousness to a horrible extent. Why wouldn’t they leave smuggling alone?
“I’m not interested in your endeavors,” Nora said superciliously. “You’re only a sort of petty larceny smuggler with your silver hair-brushes. Mr. Denby does things on a bigger scale. You’re safe with us, Mr. Denby,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he answered, “so safe that if I had any dark secrets to reveal I’d proclaim them with a loud voice.”
“That’s always the way,” Nora complained. “Every time I meet a man who seems exciting he turns out to be just a nice man—I hate nice men.” She crossed over to the agitated Monty.
“Mr. Denby is a great disappointment to me, too,” Ethel Cartwright confessed. “Couldn’t you invent a new way to smuggle?”
“It wasn’t for lack of inventive powers,” he assured her, “it was just respect for the law.”
“I didn’t know we had any left in America,” Michael observed, and then added, “but then you’ve lived a lot abroad, Denby.”
“Mr. Denby must be rewarded with a cigarette,” Ethel declared, bringing the silver box from the mantel and offering him one. “A cigarette, Mr. Denby?”
“Thanks, no,” he answered, “I prefer to roll my own if you don’t mind.”
It seemed that the operation of rolling a cigarette was amazingly interesting to the girl. Her eager eyes fastened themselves intently on a worn pigskin pouch he carried.
“Can’t you do it with one hand?” she asked disappointedly; “just like cowboys do in plays?”
“It seems I’m doomed to disappoint you,” he smiled. “I find two hands barely sufficient.”
“Sometime you must roll me one,” she said. “Will you?”
“With pleasure,” he returned, lighting his own.
“But you don’t smoke,” Alice objected.
“Ah, but I’ve been tempted,” she confessed archly.
“The only thing that makes my life worth living is yielding to temptation,” Nora observed.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Michael said rising. “I’m tempted to take a small drink. Who’ll yield with me and split a pint of Brut Imperial?”
“That’s your last drink to-night,” his wife warned him.
“I’m not likely to forget it,” he said ruefully. “My wife,” he told the company, “thinks I’m a restaurant, and closes me up at one sharp.”
“Let’s have some bridge,” Mrs. Harrington suggested. “Ethel, what do you say?”
“I’ve given it up,” she answered.
“Why, you used to love it,” Nora asserted, surprised.
“I’ve come to think all playing for money is horrible,” Ethel returned, thinking to what trouble Amy’s gambling had brought her.
“Me too,” Michael chimed in. “Unless stocks goup, or the Democratic party goes down, I’ll be broke soon. How about a game of pool?”
“I’d love to,” Nora said. “I’ve been dying to learn.”
“That’ll make it a nice interesting game,” Monty commented. He knew he could never make a decent shot until the confounded necklace was miles away.
“Then there’s nothing else to do but dance,” Alice decreed. “Come, Nora.”
“No,” Michael cried, “I’ll play pool or auction or poker, I’ll sit or talk or sing, but I’m hanged if I hesitate and get lost, or maxixe!”
Alice shook her head mournfully. “Ah, Michael,” she said, “if you were only as light-footed as you are light-headed, what a partner you’d make. We are going to dance anyway.”
Ethel hesitated at the doorway. “Aren’t you dancing or playing pool, Mr. Denby?”
“In just a moment,” he said. “First I have a word to say to Monty.”
“I understand,” she returned. “Man’s god—business! Men use that excuse over the very littlest things sometimes.”
“But this is a big thing,” he asserted; “a two hundred thousand dollar proposition, so we’re naturally a bit anxious.”
Monty shook his head gravely. “Mighty anxious, believe me.”
Whatever hope she might have cherished that Taylor was wrong, and this man she liked so much was innocent, faded when she heard the figure two hundred thousand dollars. That was the amount of the necklace’s value, exactly. And she had wondered at Monty’s strained, nervous manner. Now it became very clear that he was Denby’s accomplice, dreading, and perhaps knowing as well as she, that the house was surrounded.
She told herself that the law was just, and those who disobeyed were guilty and should be punished; and that she was an instrument, impersonal, and as such, without blame. But uppermost in her mind was the thought of black treachery, of mean intriguing ways, and the certainty that this night would see the end of her friendship with the man she had sworn to deliver to the ruthless, cruel, insatiable Taylor. It was, as Taylor told her, a question of deciding between two people. She could help, indirectly, to convict a clever smuggler, or she could send her weak, dependent, innocent eighteen-year-old sister to jail. And she had said to Taylor: “I have no choice.”
Denby looked at her a little puzzled. In Paris, a year ago, she had seemed a sweet, natural girl, armedwith a certain dignity that would not permit men to become too friendly on short acquaintance. And here it seemed that she was almost trying to flirt with him in a wholly different way. He was not sure that her other manner was not more in keeping with the ideal he had held of her since that first meeting.
“I should be anxious, too,” she said, “if I had all that money at stake. But all the same, don’t be too long. I think I may ask you for that cigarette presently.”
DENBY stood looking after her. “Bully, bully girl,” he muttered.
“Anything wrong, Steve?” Monty inquired, not catching what he said.
Denby turned to the speaker slowly; his thoughts had been more pleasantly engaged.
“I don’t understand why they haven’t done anything,” he answered. “I’m certain we were followed at the dock. When I went to send those telegrams I saw a man who seemed very much disinterested, but kept near me. I saw him again when we had our second blow-out near Jamaica. It might have been a coincidence, but I’m inclined to think they’ve marked us down.”
“I don’t believe it,” Monty cried. “If they had the least idea about the necklace, they’d have pinched you at the pier, or got you on the road when it was only you and the chauffeur against their men.”
Still Denby seemed dubious. “They let me in too dashed easily,” he complained, “and I can’t help being suspicious.”
“They seemed to suspect me,” Monty reminded him.
“The fellow thought you were laughing at him, that’s all. They’ve no sense of humor,” Denby returned. “What I said to-night was no fiction, Monty. Cartier’s may have tipped the Customs after all.”
“But you paid Harlow a thousand dollars,” Monty declared.
“He wasn’t the only one to know I had bought the pearls, though,” Denby observed thoughtfully. “It looks fishy to me. They may have some new wrinkles in the Customs.”
“That damned R. J.,” Monty said viciously, “I’d like to strangle him.”
“It would make things easier,” Denby allowed.
“All the same,” Monty remarked, “I think we’ve both been too fidgety.”
“Dear old Monty,” his friend said, smiling, “if you knew the game as I do, and had hunted men and been hunted by them as I have, you’d not blame me for being a little uneasy now.”
With apprehension Monty watched him advance swiftly toward the switch on the centre wall by the window. “Get over by that window,” he commanded, and Monty hurriedly obeyed him. Then he turned offthe lights, leaving the room only faintly illuminated by the moonlight coming through the French windows.
“What the devil’s up?” Monty asked excitedly.
“Is there anyone there on the lawn?”
Monty peered anxiously through the glass. “No,” he whispered, and then added: “Yes, there’s a man over there by the big oak. By Jove, there is!”
“What’s he doing?” the other demanded.
“Just standing and looking over this way.”
“He’s detailed to watch the house. Anybody else with him?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Come away, Monty,” Denby called softly, and when his friend was away from observation, he switched on the light again. “Now,” he asked, “do you believe that we were followed?”
“The chills are running down my spine,” Monty confessed. “Gee, Steve, I hope it won’t come to a gun fight.”
“They won’t touch you,” Denby said comfortingly; “they want me.”
“I don’t know,” Monty said doubtfully. “They’ll shoot first, and then ask which is you.”
Denby was unperturbed. “I think we’ve both been too fidgety,” he quoted.
“But why don’t they come in?” Monty asked apprehensively.
“They’re staying out there to keep us prisoners,” he was told.
“Then I hope they’ll stop there,” Monty exclaimed fervently.
“I can’t help thinking,” Denby said, knitting his brows, “that they’ve got someone in here on the inside, working under cover to try to get the necklace. What do you know about the butler, Lambart? Is he a new man?”
“Lord, no,” Monty assured him. “He has been with Michael five years, and worships him. You’d distress Lambart immeasurably if you even hinted he’d ever handed a plate to a smuggler.”
“We’ve got to find out who it is,” Denby said decidedly, “and then, Monty, we’ll have some sport.”
“Then we’ll have some shooting,” Monty returned in disgust. “Where is that confounded necklace anyway? Is Michael carrying it around without knowing it?”
“Still in my pouch,” Denby returned.
As he said this, Miss Cartwright very gently opened a door toward which his back was turned. Terrified at the thought of Taylor’s possible intrusion, she had been spurred to some sort of action, and had saunteredback to the big hall with the hope of overhearing something that would aid her.
“I know they mean business,” she heard Denby say, “and this is going to be a fight, Monty, and a fight to a finish.”
The thought that there might presently be scenes of violence enacted in the hospitable Harrington home, scenes in which she had a definite rôle to play, which might lead even to the death of Denby as it certainly must lead to his disgrace, drove her nearly to hysteria. Taylor had inspired her with a great horror, and at the same time a great respect for his power and courage. She did not see how a man like Steven Denby could win in a contest between himself and the brutal deputy-surveyor. “Oh,” she sighed, “if they were differently placed! If Steven stood for the law and Taylor for crime!”
Everything favored Taylor, it seemed to her. Denby was alone except for Monty’s faltering aid, while the other had his men at hand and, above all, the protection of the law. It was impossible to regard Taylor as anything other than a victor making war on men or women and moved by nothing to pity. What other man than he would have tortured her poor little sister, she wondered.
To a woman used through the exigencies of circumstancesto making her living in a business world where competition brought with it rivalries, trickeries and jealousies, the ordeal to be faced would have been almost overwhelming.
But the Cartwrights had lived a sheltered life, the typical happy family life where there is wealth, and none until to-day had ever dared to speak to Ethel as Taylor had done. She was almost frantic with the knowledge that she must play the spy, the eavesdropper, perhaps the Delilah among people who trusted her.
As she was debating what next to do, she heard Monty’s voice as it seemed to her fraught with excitement and eager and quick.
“Will you have a cigarette, Dick?” she heard him call. Instantly Steven Denby wheeled about and faced the door through which she appeared to saunter languidly. Something told her that Monty had discovered her.
“Still talking business?” she said, attempting to appear wholly at ease. “I’ve left my fan somewhere.”
“Girls are always doing that, aren’t they?” Denby said pleasantly. There was no indication from his tone that he suspected she had been listening. “We’ll have to find it, Monty.”
“Sure, Steve, sure,” Monty returned. He was not able to cloak his uneasiness.
“Steve?” the girl queried brightly. “As I came in, I thought I heard you call him ‘Dick.’”
“That was our private signal,” Denby returned promptly, relieving poor Monty of an answer.
“That sounds rather mysterious,” she commented.
“But it’s only commonplace,” Denby assured her. “My favorite parlor trick is making breaks—it always has been since Monty first knew me—and invented a signal to warn me when I’m on thin ice or dangerous ground. ‘Will you have a cigarette, Dick’ is the one he most often uses.”
“But why ‘Dick?’” she asked.
“That’s the signal,” Denby explained. “If he said ‘Steve,’ I shouldn’t notice it, so he always says ‘Dick,’ don’t you, Monty?”
“Always, Steve,” Monty answered quickly.
“Then you were about to make a break when I came in?” she hinted.
“I’m afraid I was,” Denby admitted.
“What was it? Won’t you tell me?”
“If I did,” he said, “it would indeed be a break.”
“Discreet man,” she laughed; “I believe you were talking about me.”
He did not answer for a moment but looked at herkeenly. It hurt him to think that this girl, of all others, might be fencing with him to gain some knowledge of his secret. But he had lived a life in which danger was a constant element, and women ere this had sought to baffle him and betray.
He was cautious in his answer.
“You are imaginative,” he said, “even about your fan. There doesn’t seem to be a trace of it, and I don’t think I remember your having one.”
“Perhaps I didn’t bring it down,” she admitted, “and it may be in my room after all. May I have that promised cigarette to cheer me on my way?”
“Surely,” he replied. Very eagerly she watched him take the pouch from his pocket and roll a cigarette.
Her action seemed to set Monty on edge. Suppose Denby by any chance dropped the pouch and the jewels fell out. It seemed to him that she was drawing nearer. Suppose she was the one who had been chosen to “work inside” and snatched it from him?
“Miss Cartwright,” he said, and noted that she seemed startled at his voice, “can’t I get your fan for you?”
“No, thanks,” she returned, “you’d have to rummage, and that’s a privilege I reserve only for myself.”
“Here you are,” Denby broke in, handing her the slim white cigarette.
She took it from him with a smile and moistened the edge of the paper as she had seen men do often enough. “You are an expert,” she said admiringly.
He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note that she failed.
“What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.”
But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’”
“What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket.
“You don’t believe in that old phrase?”
“Not a bit,” he told her. “Do you?”
She turned to ascend the stairs to her room.
“No. Do make another break sometime, won’t you—Dick?”
“DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU—DICK?” Page 186.“DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU—DICK?” Page186.
“I most probably shall,” he retorted, “unless Monty warns me—or you.”
She turned back—she was now on the first turn of the staircase. “I’ll never do that. I’d rather like to see you put your foot in it—you seem so very sure of yourself—Steve.” She laughed lightly as she disappeared.
Monty gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Who is that girl?”
“Why, Ethel Cartwright,” he rejoined, “a close friend of our hostess. Why ask me?”
“Yes, yes,” Monty said impatiently, “but what do you know about her?”
“Nothing except that she’s a corker.”
“You met her in Paris, didn’t you?” Monty was persistent.
“Yes,” his friend admitted.
“What was she doing there?”
Denby frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?”
“She was behind that door listening to us or trying to.”
“So you thought that, too?” Denby cried quickly.
“Then you do suspect her of being the one they’ve got to work on the inside?” Monty retorted triumphantly.
“It can’t be possible,” Denby exclaimed, fighting to retain his faith in her. “You’re dead wrong, old man. I won’t believe it for a moment.”
“Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on her.”
“It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no notice of his suggestion.
“But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted.
“I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was in it?”
“That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?”
“They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in this?”
“Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.”
Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go.
“I know I am,” he groaned.
“Oughtn’t we to find out whether she’s the onewho’s after you or not?” Monty suggested with sound good sense.
“No, we oughtn’t,” Denby returned. “I won’t insult her by trying to trap her.”
“Flub-dub,” Monty scoffed. “I suspect her, and it’s only fair to her to clear her of that suspicion. If she’s all right, I shall be darn glad of it. If she isn’t, wouldn’t you rather know?”
For the first time since he had met his old school friend in Paris, Monty saw him depressed and anxious. “I don’t want to have to fight her,” he explained.
“I understand that,” Monty went on relentlessly, “but you can’t quit now—you’ve got to go through with it, not only for your own sake, but in fairness to the Harringtons. It would be a pretty raw deal to give them to have an exposé like that here just because of your refusal to have her tested.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Denby sighed.
“Of course I am,” Monty exclaimed.
“Very well,” his friend said, “understand I’m only doing this to prove how absolutely wrong you are.”
He would not admit even yet that she was plotting to betray him. Those memories of Paris were dearer to him than he had allowed himself to believe. Monty looked at him commiseratingly. He had never beforeseen Steven in trouble, and he judged his wound to be deeper than it seemed.
“Sure,” he said. “Sure, I know, and I’ll be as glad as you to find after all it’s Lambart or one of the other servants. What shall we do?”
Denby pointed to the door from which Miss Cartwright had come. “Go in there,” he commanded, “and keep the rest of the people from coming back here.”
Monty’s face fell. “How can I do that?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, recite, make faces, imitate Irving in ‘The Bells,’ do anything but threaten to sing, but keep ’em there as you love me.”
Obediently Monty made for the door but stopped for a moment before passing through it.
“And say, old man,” he said a little hurriedly, nervous as most men are when they deal with sentiment, “don’t take it too hard. Just remember what happened to Samson and Antony and Adam.”
WHEN Monty had gone, Denby took out the pouch and placed it conspicuously on the floor so that anyone descending the stairs must inevitably catch sight of it. Then, as though thinking better of it, he picked it up and placed it on one of the small tables on which was an electric shaded lamp. After looking about him for a hiding-place from which he could command a view of it and yet remain undiscovered, he decided upon a door at the left of the hall.
He had waited there only a few seconds when Ethel Cartwright’s steps were heard descending.
“Oh, Mr. Denby,” she called, “you were right, the fan was in my room after all.” Then, as she became conscious that the room was empty, she paused and looked about her closely. Presently her eyes fell on the precious pouch so carelessly left. For a moment the excitement bereft her of ability to move. Here, only a few yards from her, was what would earn her sister’s safety and her release from Taylor’s power.
But she was no fool and collecting her thoughtswondered how it was possible so precious a thing could be left open to view. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps in the big hall behind one of its many doors or portières she was even now being watched. Denby had looked at her in a stern, odd manner, wholly different from his former way and Mr. Vaughan, of whom she had heard often enough as a pleasant, amiable fellow, had stared at her searchingly and harshly. An instinct of danger came to her aid and she glanced over to the door behind her which was slightly ajar. She remembered certainly that it was closed when she had gone upstairs for her supposititious fan.
As calmly as she could she walked to the wall and touched the bell that would summon a servant. In a few seconds Lambart entered.
“Please find Mr. Denby,” she said, “and say that I am here.”
Before he could turn to go, she affected to discover the leathern pouch.
“Oh, Lambart,” she exclaimed, “here’s Mr. Denby’s tobacco; he must have forgotten it.”
The man took up the pouch, assuming from her manner that she desired him to carry it to the owner. “No, I’ll take it,” she said, and reached for it. Lambart only saw what was to him an inexcusably clumsy gesture which dislodged it from his hand and sent itto the floor, in such a manner that it opened and the tobacco tumbled out. But the girl’s gesture was cleverer than he knew for in that brief moment she had satisfied herself it was empty.
“Oh, Lambart,” she said reprovingly, “how careless of you! Have you spilt it all?”
Lambart examined its interior with a butler’s gravity.
“I’m afraid I have, miss,” he admitted.
“I think Mr. Denby went into the library,” she said, knowing that the door behind which someone—probably he—was hiding, led to that room.
Hearing her, Denby knew he must not be discovered and retreated through the empty library into a small smoking-room into which Lambart did not penetrate. The man returned to Miss Cartwright, his errand unaccomplished. “Mr. Denby is not there,” he said.
“Then I will give him the pouch when I see him,” she said, “and, Lambart, you need not tell him I am here.”
As soon as he was gone, she ran to the window, her face no longer strained but almost joyous, and when she was assured that none watched her, lowered the curtain as a signal.
Taylor must have been close at hand, so promptly did he respond to her summons.
“Well, have you got him?” he cried sharply as he entered. “Where is he—where’s the necklace?”
“You were wrong,” she said triumphantly, “there is no necklace. I knew I was right.”
“You’re crazy,” he retorted brutally.
“You said it was in the tobacco-pouch,” she reminded him, “and I’ve searched and it isn’t there at all.”
“You’re trying to protect him,” Taylor snarled. “You’re stuck on him, but you can’t lie to me and get away with it.”
“No, no, no,” she protested. “Look, here’s the very pouch, and there’s no necklace in it.”
“How did you get hold of it?” he snapped.
It was a moment of bitter failure for the deputy-surveyor. The sign for which he had waited patiently, and eagerly, too, despite his impassive face, was, after all, nothing but a token of disappointment. He had hoped, now that events had given him a hold over Miss Cartwright, to find her well-fitted for a sort of work that would have been peculiarly useful to his service. But her ready credulity in another man’s honesty proved one of two things. Either that she lacked the intuitive knowledge to be a useful tool or else that she was deliberately trying to deceive him. But none hadseen Daniel Taylor show that he realized himself in danger of being beaten.
“He left it lying on the table,” she assured him eagerly.
Taylor’s sneer was not pleasant to see.
“Oh, he left it on the table, did he?” he scoffed. “Well, of course there’s no necklace in it then. Don’t you see you’ve let him suspect you, and he’s just trying to bluff you.”
“It isn’t that,” she asserted. “He hasn’t got it, I tell you.”
“I know he has,” the implacable Taylor retorted, “and you’ve got to find out this very night where it is. You’ll probably have to search his room.”
She shrank back at the very thought of it. “I couldn’t,” she cried. “Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Yes you could, and you will,” he said, in his truculent tone. “And if you land him, use the same signal, pull down the shade in his room. We’ll be watching, and I’ve found a way to get there from the balcony.”
“I can’t,” the girl cried in desperation. “I’ve done what you asked. I won’t try to trap an innocent man.”
He looked at her threateningly. “Oh, you won’t, eh? Well, you will. I’ve been pretty nice to you, but I’m sick of it. You’ll go through for me, and you’ll go through right. I’ve had your sister followed—seehere, look at this—” He showed her the fake warrant Duncan had prepared at his bidding. “This is a warrant for her arrest, and unless you land that necklace to-night, she’ll be in the Tombs in the morning.”
“Not that, not that?” she begged, covering her face with her hands.
“It’s up to you,” he retorted, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face. He could see that he would be able to hold Amy’s warrant over her head whenever he chose. She was beaten.
“But what can I do?” she said piteously. “What can I do?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said less harshly, “you’re a good-looking girl; well, make use of your good looks—get around him, jolly him, get him stuck on you. Make him take you into his confidence. He’ll fall for it. The wisest guys are easy when you know the way.”
“Very well,” she said, brightening. It seemed to her that no better way could be devised than to convince Taylor he was wrong. “I will get around him; I will get his confidence. I’ll prove it to you, and I’ll save him.”
“But you don’t have to give him your confidence, remember,” Taylor warned her. “Don’t give him the least tip-off, understand. If you can get him out in the garden, I’ll take a chance he has the necklace onhim. We’ll nail him there. And don’t forget,” he added significantly, “that I’ve got a little document here with your sister’s name on it. There’s somebody coming,” he whispered, and silently let himself out into the garden.
It was Denby who came in. “Hello,” he said, “not dancing, then?”
“Hello,” she said, in answer to his greeting. “I don’t like dancing in August.”
“I’m fortunate to find you alone,” he said. “You can’t imagine how delightful it is to see you again.”
Her manner was particularly charming, he thought, and it gave him a pang when a suspicion of its cause passed over his mind. There had been other women who had sought to wheedle from him secrets that other men desired to know, but they were other women—and this was Ethel Cartwright.
“You don’t look as though it is,” she said provocatively.
He made an effort to appear as light-hearted as she.
“But I am,” he assured her. “It is delightful to see you again.”
“It’s no more delightful than for me to see you,” she returned.
“Really?” he returned. “Isn’t it curious that when you like people you may not see them for ayear, but when you do, you begin just where you left off.”
“Where did we leave off?” she demanded with a smile.
“Why—in Paris,” he said with a trace of embarrassment. “You don’t want to forget our Paris, I hope?”
“Never,” she cried, enthusiastically. “It was there we found that we really were congenial. We are, aren’t we?”
“Congenial?” he repeated. “We’re more than that—we’re—”
She interrupted him. “And yet, somehow, you’ve changed a lot since Paris.”
“For better or for worse?” he asked.
She shook her head. “For worse.”
He looked at her reproachfully. “Oh, come now, Miss Cartwright, be fair!”
“In Paris you used to trust me,” she said.
“And you think I don’t now?” he returned.
“I’m quite sure you don’t,” she told him.
“Why do you say that?” Denby inquired.
“There are lots of things,” she answered. “One is that when I asked you why you were here in America, you put me off with some playful excuse about being just an idler.” She looked at him with a vivacious air.
“Now didn’t you really come over on an important mission?”
Poor Denby, who had been telling himself that Monty’s suspicions were without justification, and that this girl’s good faith could not be doubted even if several circumstances were beyond his power to explain, groaned inwardly. Here she was, trying, he felt certain, to gain his confidence to satisfy the men who were even now investing the house.
But he was far from giving in yet. How could she, one of Vernon Cartwright’s daughters, reared in an atmosphere wholly different from this sordid business, be engaged in trying to betray him?
“Well,” he said, “suppose I did come over on something more than pleasure, what do you want to know concerning it? And why do you want to know?”
“Shall we say feminine curiosity?” she returned.
He shook his head. “I think not. There must be something more vital than a mere whim.”
“Perhaps there is,” she conceded, leaning forward, “I want us to be friends, really good friends; I regard it as a test of friendship. Why won’t you tell me?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Shall we say man’s intuition? Oh, I know it’s not supposed to be as good as a woman’s, but sometimes it’s much more accurate.”
“So you can’t trust me?” she said, steadily trying to read his thoughts.
“Can I?” he asked, gazing back at her just as steadily.
“Don’t you think you can?” she fenced adroitly.
“If you do,” he said meaningly.
“But aren’t we friends,” she asked him, “pledged that night under the moon in the Bois? You see I, too, have memories of Paris.”
“Then you put it,” he said quietly, “to a test of friendship.”
“Yes,” she answered readily.
He thought for a moment. Well, here was the opportunity to find out whether Monty was right or whether the woman he cared for was merely a spy set upon him, a woman whose kindnesses and smiles were part of her training.
“Very well,” he said, “then so do I. You are right. I did not come to America idly—I came to smuggle a necklace of pearls through the Customs. I did it to-day.”
The girl rose from her seat by the little table where she had sat facing him and looked at him, all the brightness gone from her face.
“You didn’t, you didn’t!”
“I did,” he assured her.
She turned her face away from him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I’m sorry.”
Denby looked at her keenly. He was puzzled at the manner in which she took it.
“But I fooled ’em,” he boasted.
She looked about her nervously as though she feared Taylor might have listened to his frank admission and be ready to spring upon them.
“You can’t tell that,” she said in a lower-keyed voice. “How can you be sure they didn’t suspect?”
“Because I’m comfortably settled here, and there are no detectives after me. And if there were,” he confided in her triumphantly, “they’d never suspect I carry the necklace in my tobacco-pouch.”
“But your pouch was empty,” she cried.
“How do you know that?” he demanded quickly.
“I was here when Lambart spilt it,” she explained hastily. “There it is on the mantel, I meant to have given it to you.”
“I don’t need it,” he said, taking one similar in shape and color from his pocket.
“Two pouches!” she cried aghast. “Two?”
“An unnecessary precaution,” he said carelessly, “one would have done; as it is they haven’t suspected me a bit.”
“You can’t be certain of that,” she insisted. “If they found out they’d put you in prison.”
“And would you care?” he demanded.
“Why, of course I would,” she responded. “Aren’t we friends?”
He had that same steady look in his eyes as he asked: “Are we?”
It was a gaze she could not bring herself to meet. Assuredly, she groaned, she was not of the stuff from which the successful adventuress was made.
“Of course,” she murmured in reply. “But what are you going to do?”
“I’ve made my plans,” he told her. “I’ve been very careful. I’ve given my confidence to two people only, both of whom I trust absolutely—Monty Vaughan and”—he looked keenly at her,—“and you. I shan’t be caught. I won’t give in, and I’ll stop at nothing, no matter what it costs, or whom it hurts. I’ve got to win.”
It seemed to him she made an ejaculation of distress. “What is it?” he cried.
“Nothing much,” she said nervously, “it’s the heat, I suppose. That’s why I wouldn’t dance, you know. Won’t you take me into the garden and we’ll look at the moon—it’s the same moon,” she said, with a desperate air of trying to conceal from him heragitation, “that shines in Paris. It’s gorgeous,” she added, looking across the room where no moon was.
“Surely,” he said. “It is rather stuffy indoors on a night like this.” He moved leisurely over to the French windows. But she called him back. She was not yet keyed up to this supreme act of treachery.
“No, no,” she called again, “don’t let’s go, after all.”
“Why not?” he demanded, bewildered at her fitful mood.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “But let’s stay here. I’m nervous, I think.”
“Nonsense,” he said cheerily, trying to brace her up. “The moon is a great soother of nerves, and a friendly old chap, too. What is it?” he asked curiously. “You’re miles away from here, but I don’t think you’re in Paris, either. It’s your turn to tell me something. Where are you?”
He could not guess that her thoughts were in her home, where her poor, gentle, semi-invalid mother was probably now worrying over the sudden mood of depression which had fallen upon her younger girl. And it would be impossible for him to understand the threat of prison and disgrace which was even now hanging over Amy Cartwright’s head.
“I was thinking of my sister,” she told him slowly. “Come, let’s go.”
Before he could unfasten the French windows there was a sound of running feet outside, and Monty’s nervous face was seen looking in. Nora, breathless, was hanging on to his arm.
Quickly Denby opened the doors and let the two in, and then shut the doors again. “What is it?” he demanded quickly.
“Don’t go out there, Steve,” Monty cried, when he could get breath enough to speak.
“Why, what is it?” Ethel Cartwright asked nervously.
“Nora and I went for a walk in the garden, and suddenly two men jumped out on us from behind the pagoda. They had almost grabbed us when one man shouted to the other fellow, ‘We’re wrong,’ and Nora screamed and ran like the very devil, and I had to run after her of course.”
“It was dreadful,” said Nora gasping.
“What’s dreadful?” Alice Harrington demanded, coming on the scene followed by her husband. They had been disturbed by Nora’s screams.
“Won’t someone please explain?” Michael asked anxiously.
“It was frightful,” Nora cried.
“Let me tell it,” Monty protested.
“You’ll get it all wrong,” his companion asserted. “I wasn’t half as scared as you.”
“I was talking to Nora,” Monty explained, “and suddenly from the shrubbery—”
“Somebody stepped right out,” Nora added.
“One at a time,” Michael admonished them, “one at a time, please.”
“Why, you see, Monty and I went for a walk in the garden,” Nora began—
“And two men jumped out and started for us,” Monty broke in.
“Great Scott,” Michael cried, indignant that the privacy of his own estate should be invaded, “and here, too!”
“What did you do?” Alice asked eagerly.
“I just screamed and they ran away,” Nora told her a little proudly. “Wasn’t it exciting?” she added, drawing a deep breath. “Just like a book!”
“Michael,” his wife said, shocked, “they might have been killed.”
“What they need is a drink,” he said impressively; “I’ll ring for some brandy.”
“I’d be all right,” Monty stated emphatically, “if I could get one long breath.”
“You do look a bit shaken, old man,” Denby saidsympathetically. “What you need is a comforting smoke. You left a pipe on the table in my room. Take my tobacco and light up.”
Monty looked at the pigskin pouch as his friend handed it to him. “Gee!” he said, regarding it as one might a poisonous reptile, “I don’t want that.”
“That’s all right,” Denby said. “I can spare it. And when you’re through with it, drop it in the drawer of the writing-table, will you? I always like to make myself one for coffee in the morning. I’ve smoked enough to-night.”
By this time Monty understood what was required of him. He took the pouch respectfully and crossed toward the stairs. “I’ll leave it in the drawer,” he called out as he ascended the stairs.
Michael had been looking through the glass doors with a pair of binoculars. “I see nothing,” he declared.
“But suppose they come back later, and break in here at night?” Alice cried.
“I shall organize the household servants and place Lambart at their head,” he said gravely. “He is an excellent shot. Then there are three able-bodied men here, so that we are prepared.”
“I’m sure you needn’t take any such elaborate precautions,” Denby told him. “No men, after oncewarning us, would break in here with so many servants. I imagine they were a couple of tramps who were attracted by Miss Rutledge’s rings and thought they could make a quick getaway.”
“This is a lesson to me to provide myself with a couple of Airedales,” Michael asserted. “Things are coming to a pretty pass when one invites one’s friends to come down to a week-end party and get robbed. It’s worse than a hotel on the Riviera.”
“Well, they didn’t get anything,” Nora cried. “You should have seen me run. I believe I flew, and I do believe I’ve lost weight!”
“But oughtn’t I to go out and see?” Michael asked a little weakly.
“Certainly not,” Alice commanded him firmly. “I can imagine nothing more useless than a dead husband.”
He took her hand affectionately. “How right you are,” he murmured gratefully. “I think, though, I ought to ask the police to keep a sharp watch.”
“That’s sensible,” his wife agreed. “Go and telephone.”
“Goodness,” Nora cried suddenly, “I haven’t any rings on. I must have left them on my dressing-table.”
Alice looked alarmed. “And I left all sorts of thingson mine. Let’s go up together. And you, Ethel, have you left anything valuable about?”
“There’s nothing worth taking,” the girl answered.
“You look frightened to death, child,” Mrs. Harrington exclaimed, as she was passing her.
Ethel sat down on the fender seat with a smile of assurance. “Oh, not a bit,” she said. “There are three strong men to protect us, remember.”
“Yes—two men and Michael,” her hostess laughed, passing up the stairway out of view.
“The moon is still there, Miss Cartwright,” Denby observed quietly. “Surely you are not tired of moons yet?”
“But those men out there,” she protested.
“I’m sure they weren’t after me,” he returned. “They wouldn’t wait in the garden, and even if they are detectives, they wouldn’t get the necklace, it’s safe—now.”
Ethel Cartwright shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve got nerves like every other woman,” she confessed, “and the evening has been quite eventful enough as it is. I think I prefer to stay here.”
She glanced up to see Monty descending the stairs. All this talk of robbery and actual participation in a scene of violence had induced in Monty the desire for the company of his kind.
“I thought I’d rather be down here,” he stated naively.
“All right, old man,” Denby said smiling. “Glad to have you. Did you put the pouch where I said?”
“Yes,” Monty answered, handing him a key, “and I locked it up,” he explained.
“Good!” his friend exclaimed, putting the key in his pocket.
Miss Cartwright yawned daintily. “Excitement seems to make me sleepy,” she said. “I think I shall go.”
“You’re not going to leave us yet?” Denby said reproachfully.
“I was up very early,” she told him.
“I guess everything is safe now,” Monty assured her.
“Let’s hope so,” Denby said. “Still, the night isn’t half over yet. Pleasant dreams, Miss Cartwright.”