VI

Henry moved to the wall under the staircase and pressed a button, which

set the mechanism of a secret panel in the wall into action. The panel

slid back. Henry stepped through the opening, and switched on the

lights at the head of the secret passage stairs.

Poking his head out, he beckoned to Niki. The valet picked up the

senseless form of the reporter, flung it over his shoulder as easily as

he might handle a bag of flour, then passed through the secret doorway

and followed Henry down the steps into the cellar.

Never, in my wildest fancy, could I have believed my extremely

law-abiding and kindly dispositioned brother capable of such an act; it

smacked of the sinister days of mediaeval times. Realizing the state he

was in, his mind frenzied by anger and alcohol, I decided to let him

carry out his own nefarious plan, and get out of the mess he had made

the best way he could.

As I pictured the reporter coming out of the knockout blow, in his

prison-cell below, a cold shiver ran down my spine. To me, it would

have been frightening beyond endurance. While not exactly a prison,

this underground section, like the secret panel in the wall, had been

copied from the ancient Normandy castle, of which ours was an exact

model. Opening off a narrow corridor were five cell-like rooms of stone

and cement, with heavy steel doors. Four of them were in use, for wine

and general storage purposes. The fifth, at the end of the corridor,

was empty. The place was kept scrupulously clean, of course; it had

outside ventilation and was electrically lighted.

About five minutes later Henry re-appeared, accompanied by Niki, to

whom he gave instructions to remain on watch in the hall for the

remainder of the night. Closing the secret panel, and apparently

satisfying Olinski that he had made his prisoner comfortable for the

night, they finally stepped into the elevator and went upstairs to bed.

As soon as they had gone, Niki switched off the ceiling and wall

lights in the hall, leaving only the dim illumination of a lamp on the

side table. He then curled himself up on a divan, and must have gone

immediately to sleep.

I looked up suddenly from the sleeping watchman-valet to see a slim,

whitish figure dart from the far side of the gallery, and disappear

up the rear stairs, where a soft gleam of light penetrated from the

corridor above. Convinced that Pat was still wandering restlessly about

the castle, and wondering if she, too, had viewed the regrettable scene

in the hall below, I sank back in my chair and passed into unhappy

meditation.

Feeling a certain curiosity as to what she might be up to, I remained

in concealment to await events. I had not long to wait. Presently she

re-appeared, creeping softly down the rear stairs. In her right hand

she carried a flashlight; in the left, an object which glistened and

jingled as she walked, which I took to be Orkins' collection of house

keys.

She wore a satiny dressing gown of ivory-white, which trailed behind

her like a bridal garment as she crossed the gallery and descended the

staircase. Carelessly thrown over her lovely head was a filmy, white

scarf, which billowed about her shoulders like a summer's cloud. There

was every indication in her movements that she was on her way to

locate the reporter, alleviate his distress, or, perhaps, release him.

In spite of her hazardous undertaking, I could not avoid staring after

her in deep admiration.

When she espied Niki on the divan, she switched off the flashlight.

After satisfying herself, apparently by his heavy breathing, that he

was asleep, she proceeded to open the secret panel. Its mechanism was

familiar to her; she knew her way into the vaults below.

Immediately she had disappeared through the doorway in the wall, I went

into action. Quietly but swiftly, I crept down the staircase. I stepped

through the panel opening and stood at the head of the stone steps,

where I watched her slow and careful descent of the winding stairs, in

the shaky circle of light of her torch. I felt no trepidation over her

safety; she was well acquainted with the geography of the place. My

only fear was that the reporter might turn her adventurous visit to his

own advantage. This seemed unlikely, for he had given me the impression

that he was enough of a soldier of fortune to find amusement in his

present predicament, despite his brutal treatment. This thought was

uppermost in my mind when I heard his voice, raised in an exclamation

of surprise.

I could well understand his note of surprise as he tried to connect

the circumstances that had so recently and violently placed him in his

present situation, with this after-midnight visit of a beautiful young

lady in trailing white, lighting her way with an electric torch and

jangling a bunch of keys.

"My dear young person, are you playing ghost--or what?" he addressed

her, speaking through a small opening in his cell-door, through which,

in its ancient pattern, food was passed to prisoners. "I am honored by

your visit, of course, but isn't it a little--unconventional?"

"Lots of things are unconventional," was Pat's ready reply.

I could hear distinctly every word they said, owing to the peculiar

acoustic properties of the cellar.

"Please don't tell me that you're bringing me a cup of tea!"

"I should adore some," said Pat.

"Adore some--what?"

"Some iced tea," she replied. "It's very hot and stuffy down here. You

must be very uncomfortable."

"Oh, I'm okay," the reporter returned, sarcastically. "I've got a nice,

soft cement floor to sleep on, and--oh, say! what I would really like

is a good stiff highball. My jaw, you know--"

"Yes, I know all about it," Pat interrupted. "Niki must have given you

an awful crack. I saw everything from the gallery in the hall!"

"Sympathetic, eh?"

"I very much regret to say I am," Pat answered. "I think my Uncle Henry

is treating you outrageously. But he's rather eccentric, as you know,

and tonight, I'm afraid he's a little tight, or he wouldn't have done a

terrible thing like this."

"Ah, so you're Miss Patricia Preston, the society girl with so much

money and leisure she doesn't know what to do with them," McGinity

said quickly. "Your photo, sitting next to Prince Matani, at the polo

tournament at Meadow Brook last week, in the box with your Aunt Jane,

appeared in our Sunday rotogravure section. Don't tell me you've fallen

for a foreign gink like that?"

Pat must have stared at him, thunderstruck, for she said, with a gasp:

"How do you know so much?"

"I happen to know, and I have my own reasons for knowing," the reporter

replied. "We won't discuss that for the moment. Suppose you answer my

question?"

There was a pause, then Pat said: "No; it isn't like that. It isn't

what you think at all."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that," said the reporter. "Now, I'll tell

you something you don't know. Your father, Allston Preston, and my dad

were classmates at college--great pals."

"Really?"

"And on the same football team, at Columbia. Inseparable, until they

each met the right girl and got married. Your father married into

riches and society. My old man wed a poor but beautiful typist."

"I can hardly believe that they were friends," said Pat. "It seems

so--fantastic." She paused, then went on, musingly: "Oh, but I would

like to think they were--friends. I'm sure your father was capable and

qualified, or he wouldn't have been such a close friend of my father."

"And, now, think what capabilities and qualifications his son, Bob

McGinity, holds, also a graduate of Columbia."

"McGinity?" said Pat. "Bob McGinity! Oh, now, I remember. Surely--"

"Yes; I was the Columbia fullback, and I'll bet you a dollar to a

doughnut, I was photographed more often than you are, now. But being

a college graduate and a fullback didn't get me anywhere, so I went

into newspaper work. I'm only a cub, but I've got ambitions. After what

happened tonight, I suppose you think I'm a pretty rotten reporter."

"I wouldn't express it in that way, exactly," said Pat. "You had your

nerve and persistency all right, yet you failed in your immediate

object, didn't you? that of obtaining honestly"--she emphasized the

word honestly--"the confirmation of Uncle Henry's discovery."

"Then you think I deserved the awful crack the Filipino gave me, and

this temporary imprisonment, I take it, until after my paper goes to

press?"

"I would like to think that you didn't," said Pat complacently.

"However, I'm not in sympathy with Uncle's plan of locking you up here

for the night. I couldn't sleep with a clear conscience without making

certain you were not seriously hurt. I know you must be nearly starved.

So, if you'll agree not to try and escape, or get in touch with your

office on the phone, I'll take you upstairs, and get you something to

eat, also liniment for your jaw. I consider that you should be very

grateful to me."

"Am I grateful?" the reporter replied; "I'm tickled pink. But, after

all, what's the use?" he added, rather despairingly. "I've failed.

Failed miserably."

"On the contrary, I believe you to be on the way to possible success,

in getting all the information you want from Uncle Henry. But

you've got to go after him in a different way. Perhaps you need an

assistant--an ally."

"Do I need an ally? Oh, boy! And hungry? I could eat my shirt, really.

But I'm not hurt as much as you think. What's a little sock in the jaw?"

"Then you'll agree to my proposition?"

A moment's pause, then: "How can my troubles interest you so much? Tell

me."

With an attempt at bravado, Pat replied: "I have no personal interest.

My whole idea is to get Uncle Henry out of the fix he's got himself

into--with you."

The reporter sighed. "I'm incredibly foolish to imagine that you would

be interested in me--personally. All the same, I'm eternally grateful,

and give you my word I'll not give you the slip, or phone my office."

There was a heavy lock and bolt to negotiate, and when I heard the

jingle of the keys and the snapping back of the lock, discretion

counselled that I vanish from the scene. I had overheard enough

to convince me that Pat was well able to look after herself. The

comforting discovery that the reporter's father had been a close friend

of Pat's parent had eased the situation immensely.

And yet the uneasy fear assailed me that Pat might get the worst of

the bargain. How was one to know that the reporter was as honest and

harmless as he sounded? At all costs, I felt, that remote contingency

must be guarded against.