CHAPTER XVII

AN INTERRUPTED DIALOGUE

Very soon I learned that Mr. Varney and she were stopping at the Waldorf. They had come up the previous day on "business," which included a visit to a famous specialist, and she had been on the way to call on friends when I abducted her.

"And what does the famous specialist say?"

For answer she made a hopeless gesture and her mouth drooped.

"I have a great attachment for that uncle of yours," I said. "Is there any chance of squaring things with him? I rely on you putting in a good word for me."

"Do you really? Your confidence is amazing. It always was. Have you seen Mr. Frean lately?" she added abruptly.

"Yes, last night."

"You and he aren't particularly good friends, are you?"

"Well, I suppose I should feel a bit resentful for his exposing me."

"Is that the only reason?"

"I wasn't aware we were actual enemies."

She made an impatient gesture. "Indeed! I suppose you call that being true to your idiotic man's sense of honor--what you call playing the game? It doesn't do to say to a woman a derogatory word about a man behind his back, no matter how he may deserve it. You know very well that Mr. Frean has the making of an excellent scoundrel."

"You astonish me."

"No, but I shall; I overheard everything you and Mr. Frean said that day on the veranda. Yes, I did."

I looked appropriately astonished; indeed I was, very much so. I had never imagined she thought Frean a potential scoundrel; certainly she had disguised her feelings very well.

"How did you happen to overhear us?" I asked.

"Well, I thought you might have the grace to apologize, and so I came down to the drawing-room----"

"I wanted to apologize; I came to the house for that purpose. I wanted to see you, and then, when I met Frean and he told me about that Red Bank business, that you and your uncle believed me guilty, of course, and that I'd been hiding--well, I hadn't the nerve."

"It is your turn to astonish me," she said. "I thought you had nerve enough for anything--and I'm not at all sure you haven't. I haven't found you lacking in that commodity."

"There is nerve and nerve. But I don't see how you could have overheard all our conversation unless you listened deliberately."

"Of course I listened deliberately," she said, unabashed. "The windows were open and I listened for all I was worth. It wasn't one of those stage conventions, where one is caught and is forced to eavesdrop--or pretend that one is forced. I'm making no bones about it, and I'd do it again if I had the chance."

"I am pained and shocked beyond words."

"So was I. To think you knew all the time, and never told me! We had no idea Mr. Frean was guilty of such things, but my uncle has proved their truth."

Perhaps this, then, accounted for Frean's sudden return to town, and not the fact of my engaging the services of the Blunt Agency. No doubt he believed I had gone to Varney with the facts of his evil career, done as I had threatened.

"So it was Mr. Frean," pursued my companion, "who induced you to take your first drink, well knowing your inheritance?"

"I wasn't a child. He couldn't have induced me if I hadn't let him."

"Oh, I quite realize you don't blame him in the least. You're a very strong person, and quite able to stand alone, aren't you? But I'm curious to know what particular incident made him your enemy in the first place."

"Oh, we fell out over some trivial thing, I forget what."

"No, you don't, but you've made up your mind not to tell me. Very well, I shan't press you. Only, I think it's perfectly stupid of you to champion him. Tell me, supposing he hadn't recognized you, and Joyce hadn't turned up, how long would you have kept up the fraud on us? Had you any reason for remaining so long?"

"I should say I had; the best reason in the world."

"Indeed. What was it?"

"I was in love."

"O-o-h. With whom, may I ask? The cook?"

"No. I'll give you three guesses."

"Then it must have been the upper housemaid."

"No, it mustn't; nor the lower, either. Marvelous to relate, it was yourself."

"Mr. Lawton!"

"Miss Gelette."

"You--you--I----"

"You needn't try to seem astonished. You know perfectly well how things are with me, that I crashed head over heels in love with you from the first day I saw you. You know that; you've known it----"

"I know nothing of the kind!" she exclaimed, growing crimson. "This--this is ridiculous, Mr. Lawton! I cannot listen----"

"I have merely answered your question, and I see no harm in the simple statement of an obvious truth. The fact that I can never marry you makes it all the simpler."

"H-have I asked you to marry me?" she demanded, almost choking with anger, astonishment, and exasperation. "This is too much!" She pushed back her chair and arose.

"If you will only let me explain----" I began.

"I am going home," she said icily, "and I'm going _alone_."

But she wasn't. When she got into the car she found me on the seat opposite.

"To resume," I said, "I cannot see why the simple fact----"

"There is a great deal you cannot see. It appears to be a constitutional defect. Would you mind saying nothing further? It would make your forced presence less intolerable."

Having agreed to silence, I said: "But we were getting along so splendidly, and then this happened suddenly and all over nothing. I'm sure I can't help loving you; that is something beyond my control. And is there any harm in saying what I feel? I remember acutely what your uncle said about my father. I agree with him. A man with my inheritance has no business marrying--not, as your uncle said, if he loves the girl better than himself. That is my position."

"Your heroism and self-sacrifice are to be profoundly admired, Mr. Lawton, and you take it all, this great tragedy, with such delightful cheerfulness. But then, you are a philosopher."

"You know perfectly well that the greatest tragedies must be spoken of lightly. If I didn't speak with cheerfulness, I couldn't speak at all."

"What a pity, then, there is such a thing as cheerfulness! May I call your attention to the fact that this is the second time you have said: 'You know perfectly well----' I object to having knowledge of certain facts imputed to me. I know what I know and what I don't know, and no one knows better. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly. You mean you know I don't know what you know you know."

"Exactly. So at no time was I aware of your feelings toward me, nor do I know how one must speak about tragedies--though I should say you were the very worst of tragedians. Also, your explanation and apology--if you meant it as such--is hardly satisfying. The fact that you cannot marry isn't such a tremendous fact of world-wide importance, nor the cause of public lamentation, as you appear to think it. Moreover, it hardly gives you the right to go round telling people that you love them, does it? Forgive me, then, if I feel a trifle bored."

It was here that, as if to relieve her boredom, there came a loud report, the car stopped with a jerk, and Joyce informed us respectfully that we had a blow-out.

We found ourselves on a dark and lonely road, which, I learned later, was up near Washington Heights, between the river and Broadway; a street recently cut through, and in which building operations were in progress.

"Is this the way home from the Claremont to the Waldorf?" I demanded of Joyce. "Do you really think so, even if you do come from Philadelphia?"

"You said first off you was in no hurry, sir, and I thought I'd be doing you a service if I went a bit out of my way going home," he remarked, in a confidential aside. "I can be a longish time over this job, sir, if you and Miss Gelette was to take a little walk. I've done a bit of sweetheartin' myself, sir."

"Have you? You're very obliging, Joyce, but we won't be taking any little walk. You get that blow-out fixed at once; I've been a chauffeur, remember, and I know just how long it should take. If there's any slacking, I guarantee to speed you up."

Murmuring something about the ingratitude of certain people he took off his coat and went to the tool chest; and then out of the darkness on my right there came three reports that were blow-outs of another order, the bullets droning past like angry hornets, and one nicking me on the ear.

I scuttled out of the circle of light in which I had been standing, and, drawing my trusty weapon, charged valiantly for the spot whence came the flashes. But somehow I find it awfully hard to be a hero, though it looks so dead easy when, say, Douglas Fairbanks gets into action. I admire Douglas; he is the original little cleaner-up of trouble and nothing ever goes wrong with his game. He never foozles or duffs a shot and, had he been in my place, he would have smoked out those varlets in ambush--aye, even had they been a hundred in number--and killed them slowly and painfully and most satisfactorily. Darkness is nothing to him, nor are ten-foot fences.

Unfortunately I didn't see the fence until I couldn't help it, until, in fact, I'd crashed into it headfirst, bounced off buoyantly and landed in a heap of muck. Then I knew it was there. This, and a few stars, was all I did see or find, though I hunted round promiscuously. But presently I heard something else--the chug of a motor from the side street across the vacant lot. The birds had flown, so I returned my automatic to its swinging hammock under my left arm, and retired in good order to the car, covered not with glory but with refuse. Somehow it always happens thus with me.

When I got back to the car Joyce was hiding manfully behind it while Brenda Gelette, womanishly, was out scouting round to see what was up. While I was trying to explain, a policeman broke into the family circle and demanded anxiously if we thought it was the Fourth of July.

"It wasn't you, sir, they was after," said Joyce, as I explained the fireworks. "It was me. You remember we was standing in the light looking at the forward wheels; and then I dodged round to the tool chest. That move saved my life, for it was me they was aiming at."

"Of course, I know that," I replied, smiling sweetly at him. "I haven't an enemy in the world."

"And I have," he sighed. "This ain't the first time I've been potted at, not by a long shot."

To the policeman he told a moving story of an Italian whom he had crossed in some love affair in the Quaker City. Joyce was clearly a man of parts, for he related the tale circumstantially and well, while he looked at me as much as to say: "I told you, sir, I'd done a bit of sweetheartin'." It gratified him, too, when the conscientious policeman laboriously wrote down the mythical Italian's name, his description, and former address.

The bluecoat was no Sherlock Holmes, but he seemed to think it rather remarkable that the would-be assassin should have known beforehand our homeward route, and that our tire should happen to explode conveniently near where he was hiding in ambush. Of course, I had remarked these little oddities myself, but I forebore comment. I hate to criticize a good story, such as Joyce's.

When at length we resumed our journey, Brenda Gelette manifested a flattering interest in my damaged ear, after which we hastened to return to our former footing.

"It was perfectly stupid of you to act as you did," she said quite angrily. "There's a difference between bravery and mere folly. The idea of rushing like that at a hidden enemy who has a loaded revolver! It's a wonder you weren't riddled like a sieve. I hate people who are always showing off."

"My action was based on sound strategy and tactics, which any properly qualified military authority will admit," I said injuredly. "Out of the light from the car I was on equal terms with the enemy; we were both in the dark. Added to which I was too frightened to really know which way I was running. And, finally, I was in no danger, for the enemy wasn't mine, but Joyce's."

"He wasn't Joyce's. I saw what happened. Joyce had stepped safely to the opposite side of the car, leaving you alone in the light, before those shots were fired. At that short distance there could be no mistaking you for him. Joyce may have a hundred jealous Italians after him, but those bullets were meant for you, and it was only by a miracle you escaped. And if you 'haven't an enemy in the world,' why do you carry a pistol? Yes, you needn't deny it; I saw you draw it as you ran, and it's there at this minute under your coat. I suppose you carry it merely for ornament?"

"Well, something like that," I admitted. "You see I come of a warlike family--my grandfather beat the big drum in the Greenwich Village fencibles--and I never feel contented unless carrying a deadly weapon of some kind. It's in the blood, so to speak; I cannot help the martial strain. A lethal weapon is, to me, what a--well, a walking stick is to the average man. You needn't be afraid of this weapon; in my hands----"

"I'm not afraid in the least--except that you'll blow your eye out if you keep handling it like that. I know more about such things than you do; I've fired one many a time. I don't believe you know a thing about it."

"On the contrary I am a qualified master-of-arms. I took a thorough correspondence course. To demonstrate, you see the peculiarity about this instrument is that you load it in the handle. I'll show you; you see--why, drat it----" For there wasn't a blessed cartridge in the magazine.

"I knew it," said Miss Gelette icily, for some reason more angry than ever. "You poor idiot!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I say you poor idiot! It wasn't even loaded. And you rushed after those men--oh, my goodness me!"

"One can't account for such things," I said. "The beauty of this instrument is that one can't see when it is loaded. It is all Watkins' fault and I must speak to him about it. What's the use of having a valet if he can't attend to such things? It's really not the fault of this weapon; I assure you it's a very deadly one if somebody only happens to remember to load it."

"You are absolutely hopeless--in every way," she said viciously. "I hate you!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I hate you! I never knew I could hate anybody as I do you. But, of course, your affairs are your own, and I'm quite sure it's less than nothing to me if you happen to be killed a dozen times a day by all the hidden enemies in the world."

"That," I said, "would be manifestly impossible. The only hidden enemy that has me thinking of nights is one whom you know; they call him John Barleycorn, and some day, when I'm absolutely certain I have him down for the count----" But I was fated this evening to have all my best speeches interrupted. We had reached the Waldorf, and I had to get out.

"I am indebted to you for this afternoon and evening," I opened again on the steps of the ladies' entrance. "They have been quite the happiest in a lonely and worthless beggar's life. I took them by force, and have still to pay for them; but no price could come too high. Please believe I have never meant to offend you in any way, and that your lightest wish is my command. I ask you to believe, also, that many a light word comes from a heavy heart."

"You got that out of a book," she said.

"I didn't," I protested.

"And you really mean," she added inexorably, "that many a heavy word comes from a light head." She said this with a laugh, but, to my astonishment, I saw that she had been crying. Whereupon all my good resolutions went overboard.

"Brenda!" I cried. "My dear little girl----" And, starting forward impulsively, I almost fell into the arms of a portly dowager who, leading a gay female parade, had swept into the vestibule. Brenda was hopelessly lost in the shuffle, and the dowager, properly objecting to being addressed by a total stranger as "my dear little girl," gave me a basilisk stare and suggested loudly to her retinue that "the man must be drunk."