CHAPTER XVIII

FOR THE BENEFIT OF ALL CONCERNED

In the library of the Whitehall home, Mrs. Whitehall sat surrounded by a circle of gentlemen from the press. Her face was harassed and marked with strain, and it was evident that she was making every effort to put up a semblance of composure. But under the eager scrutiny of the newspaper reporters, she rapidly was giving way to something close to panic.

"Tell me," one of them asked her, "who introduced this impostor to your friends as Ted Grant?"

"I did," answered the unfortunate woman.

"I see," the man continued, "and when did you first notice your niece's interest in him."

Mrs. Whitehall bowed her head. "When she ran away with him."

Another reporter introduced himself: "Clarke of the _Herald_, Mrs. Whitehall. Where can we get a photograph of your niece?"

Mrs. Whitehall's lips straightened.

"I don't intend to answer another question," she said coldly. "Too much has been said already."

"But you've got to!" Clarke insisted. "Why, this is front-page stuff."

"Sure," said the first speaker, "we're going to give you a million dollars worth of free publicity. We've learned that this fellow Bronson played at the Hotel Laconia, and they called themselves the Vagabonds." He turned to his companions. "Can't you just see that, boys? 'Heiress Elopes with Vagabond. Aunt Rages. Secret Love Nest.'"

"'Her Vagabond Lover!'" Clarke cried. "There's a head for you."

Another member of the group stepped forward.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Whitehall. I met you at Lathrop's at Palm Beach last winter."

"How nice of you to remember," Mrs. Whitehall assured him icily.

"Yes, I'm nice that way. Now, in the interest of the _Gazette_, might I ask if your niece was ever photographed in a bathing suit?"

Mrs. Whitehall got to her feet, her face blazing with fury.

"Go away; go away, all of you! I don't intend to answer another question!"

Officer Tuttle stepped forward to her aid.

"Now lookee here, boys--we don't know for sure that she did run away with these crooks."

"Maybe they ran away with her, eh?" Clarke asked sarcastically.

"Well," Tuttle admitted, "that's my theory."

"A kidnapping? Hot dog!"

"Do you think that hypnotism was used?" asked the _Gazette_ representative.

"Well, I wouldn't say positively," Tuttle said. "But you might print the fact that Chief George C. Tuttle expects startling discoveries within twenty-four hours. Two t's in Tuttle."

"You mean an arrest?" Clarke asked hopefully.

Tuttle nodded emphatically, his chin bobbing in forceful illustration of his meaning.

"We're going to arrest these crooks and put them where they belong, as sure as my name is George C. Tuttle, attached to the 11th precinct."

"With two t's?" a voice queried.

But Tuttle went on without pause, adding:

"We'll show these city gangsters that they can't perpetrate their outrages in this town. I've had my eye on them all the time they been here. I thought they were trying to kid me--kid the country cop."

"Well," Clarke observed, "you can't blame a man for trying."

"Now, madam," the _Gazette_ reporter returned to Mrs. Whitehall, "about that bathing-suit picture."

"Go away," he was answered. "I shan't speak to you. I shan't say another word. Officer Tuttle, I must ask you to clear the house of these men."

As Tuttle half-heartedly was about to carry out her instructions, the radio gave up the muffled dance music which it had been broadcasting in favor of a crisp masculine voice.

"This is the National Broadcasting Company," it announced, "operating from the charity benefit at the Todhunter estate at Longport, Long Island. Please stand by."

"Wait a minute," Clarke asked of Tuttle. "What was that?"

"Why," said Mrs. Whitehall, "they're announcing the charity benefit over the radio!"

"But I thought you said this benefit would have to be called off," one of the reporters reminded her.

"Sh," said Clarke as the voice began to speak again, "let's get this."

"This is Phillips Graham speaking," the radio voice commenced. "In behalf of Mrs. Whittington Todhunter, I wish to announce that the first performance of this monster benefit for the Orphan's Home will be broadcast over this station immediately. Mrs. Todhunter wishes me to explain that due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with Mrs. Ethelberta Whitehall, of the committee, the operatic stars expected will be unable to appear. Mrs. Whitehall promised to replace these singers with the Ted Grant band, but, again due to another unfortunate misunderstanding on the part of Mrs. Whitehall, this also will be impossible. However----"

Mrs. Whitehall gave a low moan. "Oh, dear, oh dear--this is terrible. I'm ruined!"

"However," the announcer continued, "rather than let the program suffer, Rudy Bronson and his Vagabonds, that famous musical organization which has just returned from a triumphal tour of the fashionable New England resorts, have volunteered to replace the Ted Grant band, with whom they were unfortunately confused by Mrs. Whitehall."

The announcement caused an excited stir in the room.

"That means those Vagabonds are right there at the benefit!"

"And so's the niece!"

"The nerve of them!" Tuttle cried. "I'll pinch the whole bunch!"

"Do you mean to tell me," Mrs. Whitehall asked, "that those young blackguards have had the impudence to appear at that benefit after what has happened?"

Tuttle nodded. "That's what the radio is saying."

Mrs. Whitehall wheeled upon the butler, crying:

"Adams, my car!"

"Wait!" Clarke said. "Here's comes something else."

Again the radio voice spoke: "Now folks, the benefit is about to begin. The band is going to play the first number, and then there will be specialty acts by various volunteers from the colony. I wish I could make you see this brilliant spectacle as it really is. Taking place on one of the most beautiful estates, the immense crowd, seated about the natural amphitheater, is probably the smartest gathering of the season. Flowers, new Paris gowns, Chinese lanterns, have turned the whole scene into a blaze of color. Here comes the band onto the outdoor stage. You can hear the crowd applauding----"

"Your car is here, Mrs. Whitehall," said the butler.

Mrs. Whitehall turned to Tuttle, her eyes like flames in the anger of her face.

"Officer, you may come with me, in my car, and make the arrests."

"I'll say I will," Tuttle agreed with alacrity. "That young smart aleck will do the rest of his singing in Sing Sing!"

Due to the proximity of the Whitehall and Todhunter estates, not much time was required for the hurrying car to bring its occupants to the scene of the charity benefit.

In his description of the Todhunter estate, the radio announcer had done scant justice to an impressive expenditure of both time and money. One of the more beautiful of the Long Island places, under the guidance of especially imported decorators, the house and gardens comprised an elaborate panorama of artificial splendor.

Myriad lights had been slung in long vari-colored loops all through the amphitheater, their focal point being the richly decorated stage. How upon row of cushioned seats faced this raised platform; and these were occupied by the type of audience only to be gathered by a leader of Mrs. Todhunter's eminence.

Mrs. Todhunter herself moved among her guests, apologizing for the "unfortunate misunderstanding" now generally credited to Mrs. Whitehall. There was small question in anyone's mind but that she would use this incident to its last implication to settle finally the race for social leadership which had been so bitterly contested by Mrs. Whitehall.

Leaving her car, Mrs. Whitehall at a glance understood the situation, and she turned to Tuttle with a renewed malice.

"Make your arrests just as soon as you possibly can. That young ruffian up there has caused me to lose the dearest thing I own. And I am going to make him regret it, you may count on that!"

"You're right," Tuttle agreed. "He's made a fool of me, too. Don't worry, Mrs. Whitehall, you'll find me just a little more than ready to take the whole bunch of them where they belong!"

On the stage, the Vagabonds were playing their best. And as they played, Rudy knew that they were doing anything but poorly. Yet he could find small comfort in the thought. After all, what could it matter if they played well or badly, now that Jean knew him for what he was?

An impostor! As he knew that he merited the term as fully as anyone ever had, chagrin engulfed him in a crashing, unhappy wave. Nor could he find relief in the thought that his deception had been without intent toward any gain. For it hadn't. He had entered into the masquerade in a simple need of safety, true enough; but there also had been that wish to bring himself to the attention of Jean Whitehall.

Well, he had done that well enough! After being careful that she did not see him at the University as an obscure student, or at the Hotel Laconia as a member of the jazz orchestra--he had caused her to uncover him in her own home as the pretender to another man's name!

The girls who had volunteered to dance to the music of the orchestra made their entrance and went gracefully through a rhythmic pattern of steps. Watching them, Rudy reflected that any one of them might be Jean. They were of her set, her social order. And he, Rudy Bronson, was simply a--a Vagabond.

"What a fool I was, ever to think of her," he thought. "I must have let that Ted Grant complex chase away the few brains that I had!"

But if he only were Ted Grant! Then he would be able to approach her without fear or shame, on the solid assurance of achievement. America asked nothing of anyone more than that he be excellent in his chosen profession. Oh, if only he had been able to speak to Jean as Rudy Bronson--but with the weight of Ted Grant's skill behind him!

As the girls finished their number, a wave of applause rolled up to the stage. The young ladies ran from the wings for a bow; then, with the sudden self-consciousness of amateur performers, hastily retreated to the safety of the canvas walls.

"How about a song on this next one, Rudy?" Sport asked. "We haven't seemed to wow them with either of our first two numbers."

"Why blame us?" Al Monroe demanded. "I could dance better'n any of that flock of skinny dames, with both my feet tied."

"Pipe down," Swiftie counseled, "or somebody around here is liable to tie your big mouth up with a nice big fist."

"Save that," Sam McMahon put in. "I saw Mrs. Whitehall coming in with that flatfoot cop in the middle of that number. And that," he added, "means that pretty soon you guys will be able to have all the fight that your little hearts desire!"

"Did she come?" Sport asked.

"Who?" demanded Bud Dwight, "the old lady?"

"Sure," Sam repeated, "I knew we should have taken that train."

"Aw, be your age," Al Monroe snarled. "We're in this, ain't we? And if we hadn't come here and played, the charity benefit would have been a bust, wouldn't it? I don't see that they've got any squawk coming when we've saved them all their dough."

"That's right," Sport agreed. "Do you think Mrs. Whitehall is apt to press charges against us, Rudy?"

"I don't know," Rudy answered. "Jean said that she sent her cook to jail for falsifying his household accounts."

"But we didn't steal anything from her," Sport protested. "Ted Grant is the man who could cause us trouble if he wanted to. And I don't imagine that he would object to having a pupil of his stay overnight in his house."

"That may be all right," Rudy admitted. "It's just that until we can get Grant to speak for us, she is apt to cause Tuttle to put us on a bread and water diet."

"Well," said Al Monroe, "I think that Swiftie's been eating too much lately anyway. He put on ten pounds at the Laconia."

"Yeah," said Swiftie, "and lost them when I left it!"

"Tell you what, gang," Sport said. "Let's give them everything we've got. We'll put over the best number we've got, and make them like it. If we're a hit, maybe even Mrs. Whitehall will feel a little more kindly toward us."

"That sounds good," said Bud Dwight.

"Anything would sound good that would do some good," said Sam McMahon. "But what's our best number, 'Lovable and Sweet'?"

"That's it," said Sport. "And you take up the chorus, eh, Rudy?"

As they adjusted their instruments, the brief pause between numbers having been dissipated, Rudy shook his head.

"No," he said, "not that one."

"Well, what one then?" Sport asked. "Let's make it snappy."

"No, not snappy, either. I want to sing 'I Love You, Believe Me, I Love You.'" Before there could be any remarks, he added: "That's the number that I do best, and if you want the best, why--

"Sure, that's all right," Sport said, "Let's go, gang."

He gave his signal, and the band, now a perfectly organized team, swept into the melody. Below them pale bulbs of faces swam in organized lines. The multi-colored hues of hundreds of dresses, offset by the more somber clothing of the gentlemen, lay like a gaudy blanket at their feet. It was a gay, smart crowd, craving amusement beyond all things, and Rudy instinctively knew that to please it would be to please the whole pleasure-loving world.

But he gave it the minutest part of his thought. It was not of the total assemblage of Mrs. Todhunter's guests that he was thinking--but of one. And it was to that one, Jean, that he stood to sing.

With closed eyes, shutting out all the world but the mental image of a slim, lovely girl, he poured forth his song:

"I love you, believe me, I love you, This theme is the dream of my heart. I need you, believe me, I need you, I'll be blue when we two are apart."

And as he sang, he put far more sincerity into those simple words than even their author could have hoped for. It was his love-song, yes; but he knew it to be his swan song, too.