CHAPTER XVII

ON TO MAPLEDALE

IT was shortly before midnight that Valentine Loft received that telephone message. The rest of the household had retired, and Loft was himself preparing for bed.

“Mary Malden,” he said to himself, as he hung up the receiver. “I might have guessed it! Just the place for her, too. Now, let’s see--” He looked at his watch. “Just about twelve. I suppose I ought to tell Stone I’m going,--but I hate to waken him. Poor chap, he’s been working hard today. Fibsy,--that’s the ticket! He won’t mind.”

Going noiselessly through the halls, Loft tapped lightly at Fibsy’s door. There was no response, but he could hear the boy’s breathing.

“Sleeps like a log,--or a boy,” he smiled to himself. Then he opened the door and went in.

“McGuire,” he whispered, touching the lad on the shoulder.

“What’s up?” and Fibsy was awake and alert in an instant. “Oh, Mr. Loft, have you got her? Have you?”

“Why, yes,” and Loft was mystified at the question. “What do you know about it?”

“Why, I did it! I worked the radio people,--not the managers,--they didn’t know about it,--”

“Why, you blessed little chap! Have you really put over something like that! Well, tell me about it some other time,--just now I want to leave a message with you for Mr. Stone. I’m going up to New England--”

“Oh, how are you going? When you coming back?” Fibsy sat upright in bed, his eyes shining, his tousled red hair shining, and his very face shining at the exciting news.

“I’m going in my car,--and I hope to be back tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

“Lemme go with you? Oh, please, Mr. Loft, lemme go! I can be a help to you somehow, and I wanta go! Please lemme! I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

“Why, yes, if you brought this about, you have earned it. Come on then, can you dress quickly?”

“Exceedin’ the limit!” and Fibsy was already out of bed and pulling on his stockings. “You goin’ to drive yourself?”

“Yes; meet me at the garage in about five minutes. And say, McGuire, you write a note and stick it under Mr. Stone’s door, will you? Tell him whatever you like.”

“’Tis the same as done, sir,” and Fibsy began to flourish a hairbrush.

And in less than fifteen minutes the two were tearing through the night in the general direction of the Berkshire hills.

“We needn’t break any speed laws,” Loft said, smiling at his own haste. “I want to get there by daybreak, but not sooner. We can’t call on ladies before sunup, can we?”

“Where is she?” Fibsy asked, breathlessly.

“At Mapledale, a tiny village in a Berkshire valley. How did you work it, boy? That is, if you did work it?”

“I dunno whether it was my doin’s or not.” In his intense excitement Fibsy was lapsing into his careless diction, of which Stone daily endeavored to cure him.

“You see, Mr. Loft, I got around the lecturers and singers in three big broadcasting stations, chancin’ that we’d hit Miss Fuller somehow. Course the management wouldn’t allow it, for the simple reason that if they let us do it, they couldn’t refuse anybody who wanted to send a personal message. Could they?”

“I suppose not,--go on.”

“So I got hold of the performers,--private like,--and--well, I used up all your five hundred dollars. But I guess it paid.”

“I guess it did,--if that’s what brought this trip about.”

“Don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t; Miss Fuller merely spoke to me,--and told me where she is staying.”

“H’m,--maybe I wasn’t so smart as I thought I was. Well, that’s what I came along to see. That, and some few other matters. I told Mr. Stone in the note not to tell anybody where we’d gone.”

“How can he, when he doesn’t know himself?”

“I mean, I told him we were on track of Miss Fuller, but to keep it dark.”

“I see. What sort of wireless messages did you send, McGuire?”

“Well, I worked one into a Kids’ Bedtime Story, one into a Domestic Lecture,--on housekeeping and the use of Pearline,--”

“You rascal, how did you know that I have sometimes jokingly called Miss Fuller, Pearline?”

“Oh, me little chum, Her Royal Highness the Countess, told me that. Well, then I got a chap I know to write a song about the ‘Valentine a waitin’ for Pauline,’ and oh, I did up some several more such stunts. It was one chance in five million that any of ’em would reach her ears,--oh, Mr. Loft, I hope they did! I hope this whole trip is on account o’ me! I put ’em on the Springfield Broadcasting Station, and on Schenectady and on Newark. Howsomever, if she’d a called anyway,--why I’m just as glad for you.”

Loft smiled at the workings of the young mind that wanted the glory and honor if they were due him,--but if not, he was still ready to rejoice with those that did rejoice.

“You’re sure she’s where you’re goin’, ain’t you, Mr. Loft?”

“I am sure, McGuire. I knew her voice, and I heard what she said. Yes, we’ll find her, all right.”

They sped on in silence, now and then broken by a few words, but each busy with his own thoughts.

Loft put determinedly from his mind all question of Pauline’s conduct, past, present or future; he thought only of the fact that he was to see her, and soon.

At last the electric lights began to pale as the first gleams of dawn shone in the East. They were skimming through beautiful country, the Berkshire hills rose about them, the valleys became visible more and more plainly, and when the sun was fairly above the horizon, the travellers were nearing the village of Mapledale.

“It’s on the outskirts, I think, or even farther out in the country--”

But farmers were up betimes, and directions were easily procured, so that Loft’s swift roadster came to a halt at Miss Malden’s side veranda, just as that lady herself opened her sitting-room door.

“My land!” she exclaimed, “what in the world do you want?” “Pauline,” answered Loft, briefly but very truthfully.

“Why, she ain’t up yet. You’re Valentine Loft, I suppose?”

“Yes, and very much at your service. This is my young friend, Terence McGuire. Can you take us in and give us breakfast,--it is Miss Malden, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mary Malden, melting before the magnetism of Loft’s voice and manner. “Come right along in. Joe, he’ll put your car away for you. A fine car, I should say.”

“A fast car,” Loft said, smiling. “Brought us up from Westchester County since midnight.”

“You don’t say! Well, that beats mine. Come on in. My, but Pauline will be surprised!”

“Will you call her,--waken her, if necessary. I don’t feel as if I could wait--”

He broke off, smiling, and Mary Malden, after giving him a long look, said, “You’re all right,--yes, I’ll call her. You two can come along into this downstairs bedroom and wash up.”

She showed them into the small, clean chamber, and went up to Pauline.

Good Mary Malden felt a slight misgiving as to how her guest would stand the shock of such sudden happiness, and she went softly into the room where Pauline lay. It was on the other side of the house and the car’s arrival had not wakened her.

But at Mary’s gentle touch she sat up quickly. “What is it, Mary? Something especial, I know, or you wouldn’t wake me? Is it the telephone?”

“No, Pauline, dear,--it’s--”

“I know! It’s Val, himself! Oh, Mary!” and Pauline tossed aside the coverlets and sprang to the floor. “How did he get here? Oh, Mary!”

Mary Malden tried to help Pauline dress, but her fingers were slow and awkward compared to Pauline’s flying gestures.

In less time than ever before, Pauline made a toilette that lacked no grace or charm because of its hasty completion.

Then she ran downstairs, and in a moment she was in the arms of Valentine Loft.

“Pauly! Pauly!” was all he could find to say, and Pauline said even less.

Miss Malden discreetly retired to the kitchen, to order extra breakfast, but Fibsy, unabashed in the presence of this unembarrassed demonstration, stood looking at the pair.

Nor did they mind at all.

“Well, Terence,” Loft said, after a moment, “this is Miss Fuller. Pauline, Mr. McGuire.”

“Aw, I’m just Fibsy,” the boy said, abashed now that attention was drawn to himself. “But, I say, Mr. Loft, I’m glad you’ve got her!”

“So am I,” and Loft kissed Pauline again. “Now tell us, Pauly,” he said, “did you get any radio message?--young McGuire, here, will burst if he doesn’t find that out soon.”

“Yes, I did,--and, Val,--that’s why I telephoned.”

“Oh, bless the Lord!” cried Fibsy, piously. “It worked, it worked! Shades of Vidocq and Lecoq, am I the little wizard,--or ain’t I?”

“You certainly are, Fibs,” and Loft was as astonished and as grateful as even the boy could wish.

Mary Malden came in to hear about it, and as they sat down to her excellent breakfast they went over Fibsy’s clever and successful plan in all its details.

“But,” and Loft looked at Pauline reproachfully, “you ought to have called me without that.”

After breakfast the pair were left alone, and then, for the first time a sudden constraint fell on them.

Pauline, all at once became aware of the wrong and injustice that she had done this man, and almost began to doubt his forgiveness.

“Don’t, dear heart,” he said, reading her thoughts, “don’t feel that way about it. I understand,--see, I understand perfectly why you had to--yes, you just _had_ to, keep your poor little secret from me. I was a brute to denounce divorce so emphatically as I did, but since I did, of course you couldn’t tell me your own history. Now, forget it, darling, once and for all. It’s past history; your life with Curran--Dwyer, is a sealed book,--more, a destroyed book. We need never mention it again,--though should the subject come up, it is not taboo,--we are not afraid of it! It is just a negligible matter, that’s all. Now, Pauline,--did you kill Curran?”

“No, Valentine,” and Pauline’s gaze met his own, truthfully and fearlessly.

“I knew it, dear, of course, but I had to have your word. Then will you go back home with me and face the music?”

“Of course I will.”

“But it isn’t pleasant music. Many people think you did kill him,--and the reason I want you to go there, is to prove your innocence.”

“Can we?”

“I’m hoping Stone can do it. He’s exceedingly clever,--and I think he has a few cards up his sleeve he hasn’t played yet.”

“Who do you think did it, Val?”

“I haven’t the least idea. I can’t see any way it could have been done, nor any way anybody could have done it.”

“Then we must just tell the truth, and do the best we can. I suppose everybody knows about--about me?”

“Yes, dear, everybody does. But there will be no unpleasantness that I can shield you from. Pauline,--dear, will you do this? Will you marry me before we go back?”

Pauline hesitated only an instant, then, looking deep into Loft’s eyes, she put her hands in his and whispered, “Yes, I will.”

“Hooray!” Loft cried, in such a gay, boyish tone that Miss Malden came running in.

“What are you two grinning at?” she asked.

“We’re going to be married in a few minutes,” Loft replied, kissing her in the exuberance of his happiness.

“My good land!” exclaimed the spinster, equally flustered by the news and the salute. “Where? Here?”

“Of course,” Pauline said, radiant with smiles. “Help us out, won’t you, Mary? Can you get a minister?”

“I can,” and Fibsy’s red head poked itself in at the door. “I saw a dominie’s sign on a church as we came through the village. Dr. Messiter, is he the one you want, Miss Malden?”

“My gracious, I don’t know! Yes, I suppose so. He’s my own pastor. Yes, of course; can you drive a car, boy?”

“Yep, of course. Shall I take yours, Mr. Loft?”

“No! you young rascal, you’d break every bone in its body. Take Miss Malden’s Ford-Royce!”

“And do I stop at the caterer’s?” Fibsy suggested, his eyes dancing.

“Yes,--here, take Matilda along with you, she’ll know what to get.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Malden,” Loft put in, “this isn’t a wedding, you know,--just a marriage. We want to get back home by noon.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“The matter is serious, Miss Malden. I want to marry Pauline, of course, but I want to marry her thus quickly, so I can protect her from all sorts of troubles she is up against. Get your minister, get some ice cream,--if that’s what Terence wants,--he deserves it,--but don’t delay us for any fol-de-rols. Am I right, Pauline?”

“Yes, Val. It is a serious matter to us all. Shall I go and dress?”

“Yes, dear, run along.”

Loft’s voice was infinitely gentle, and Pauline’s eyes filled with tears as she went to dress for her second wedding ceremony.

Mary came to help her and it was in silence that they chose one of the few simple frocks Pauline had obtained during her stay with her friend. There was a white Canton crêpe which they agreed upon, and in less than half an hour, the bride was ready, and almost at the same moment Fibsy arrived with the clergyman, and a consignment from the confectioner’s.

And then in the presence only of Mary Malden and Terence McGuire the pair were united and the benediction pronounced on their bowed heads.

The feast was done justice to by Fibsy and the minister, but the other members of the wedding party could not partake.

Pauline was nervous, but Loft was strong and firm enough for both of them.

“I can conquer anything now,” he said exultantly, “since I have you for my very own,” and cutting short the loving farewells between his wife and her dear friend, he tucked her into the car beside him, leaving the small rear seat for Fibsy.

Off they went, the cook Matilda appearing from the kitchen to throw some rice after them, and Miss Malden and the clergyman sat down to talk it over.

Meanwhile Loft’s car flew back over the road to Valhalla. They did not go so fast but that they could enjoy the delightful ride and the still greater delight of each other’s company. And Fibsy, like a veritable God of the Machine, sat up behind and blessed his lucky star that he had done something that would please F. Stone.

As they drove up to the house at last, Fibsy, jumping out of the car, was caught by Stone, who carried him off for a quick confab.

“Never mind, McGuire,” Stone said, as the boy began a tale of the radio, “it was fine,--but now you’re to fly to New York like a bandersnatch. There’s a car waiting to take you,--go first to Hugh Curran’s rooms at the hotel, here’s the address, on this paper, and get from his shelves the book noted here. Then hurry around to the auction rooms,--see, the address, and bid up on this item marked in this catalogue.”

“Yes, sir,” and Fibsy choked back his disappointment at not telling of his triumph, while he listened carefully to Stone’s directions.

“Don’t bid yourself, but get some attendant there to bid for you. If you can’t get the item for two hundred dollars, give it up, but go as high as that. Here’s the money. Keep yourself out of sight, but notice who is bidding against you, and if it’s some agent, find out, adroitly, who is his principal. Got it all?”

“Yes, sir,--Good-by. Back here?”

“Yes, as soon as possible. Keep the Loft car and come back in it. The chauffeur is at your orders. Don’t muff anything, McGuire, much depends on you.”

Fibsy touched his cap, and ran. He knew when Stone called him McGuire, it was because he was putting real responsibilities on him, and he was more than willing to do his best.

Once in the car, and the chauffeur speeding toward the city, Fibsy had opportunity to look over the memoranda Stone had given him, and which was clear though concise. The matter mastered, he gave himself up to the happy reflections on his good work with the radio; and on the loveliness of the lady for whom he had done it, even before he had seen her at all. He greatly admired Loft, and now, more than ever, since he had seen him rush a wedding through in less than an hour!

“Going some!” Fibsy decided, and then he curled up for a nap _en route_.

In New York he did all Stone had instructed him. He went to the hotel, got the desired book,--a queer looking old thing he thought it, too, though in a most new, shiny and elaborate case, and then he went to the auction rooms.

Fibsy had never seen a book auction before, but he was quick to apprehend conditions, and soon found an agent to bid for him. The item he was after would not be put up for half an hour or so, and Fibsy, remembering Stone’s caution to keep out of sight, found a seat behind some long window draperies.

However, he saw no one he knew, except Bob Baldwin, who he supposed went to all book auctions.

“Funny business, dealing in old ragged books,” he thought, but as he watched the proceedings he soon learned that wiser heads than his set great value on the antique volumes.

At last the item he was interested in went up at sale.

To his surprise it was only one page of a book! What in the world could any one want of one page! But the bidding was brisk, and soon the hundred-dollar mark was passed.

Fibsy’s agent kept on, and as the bids became higher, more bidders dropped out. At last the agent kept on against one other only, and finally as two hundred was overbid, Fibsy’s agent ceased, and the page went to the other bidder.

“Who’s it gone to?” Fibsy asked of his man, as he returned the money Fibsy had advanced.

“To Mr. Baldwin,--he’s a swell dealer,--doesn’t even call himself a dealer,--a commission buyer. He would have gone on forever, I guess. Probably had an unlimited bid for somebody.”

“Prob’ly,” agreed Fibsy, for Stone had told him not to chatter.

Into the car and home to the Loft place the boy went next, taking care not to be seen by Baldwin, who left the auction room just ahead of him.

On the way home, Fibsy mused over the strange vagaries of this game of book collecting, and determined to study up the matter. He didn’t like to be so utterly ignorant of anything that might mean so much.

He went at once to Stone with his report and received that gentleman’s unstinted praises for the work in New York, and also for the ingenious radio stunt he had pulled off.

Fibsy blushed with pleasure at receiving the highest compliments Fleming Stone had ever yet paid him.

“Aw, shucks,” he said, greatly embarrassed, “it wasn’t anything of a trick. I just happened to pull it off. Now, F. Stone, where do we stand?”

Stone looked grave.

“The case is about finished,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry at the results, but we must take what comes.”

“You know who killed Mr. Curran?”

“Yes, Fibs.”

“You know how and why?”

“Yes.”

“When do I get it?”

“After dinner tonight, in the library, I shall have to tell all.”

“I’ll be there,” said Terence McGuire.