I secreted myself in the elevator. A quarter of an hour passed. There
was no sound of Pat and the reporter. My uneasiness grew by bounds.
Finally, I decided to manifest my presence, if only for the sake of
propriety. If Henry should appear unexpectedly and find these two
together, alone, it would be hell let loose.
Emerging from my hideout, I found the hall in complete darkness. Not
daring to risk rousing Niki, whom I still believed to be asleep on the
divan, I stole quietly in the direction of a streak of light, on which
my eyes had become focused in the dark. The light came from the dining
room. I heard a low murmur of voices. The words were indistinguishable,
but one of the voices was indubitably that of Pat's. Then, suddenly, I
overheard her giving orders in a slightly raised voice:
"Cold chicken, and a salad.... See that you serve it promptly.... Wine,
too--some sherry.... Now, look sharp about it.... And be as quiet as a
mouse."
Peering cautiously between the curtains in the doorway, I had the
surprise of my life. Pat was serving supper to McGinity in formal
state. I could hardly believe my eyes. The reporter sat at the head
of the long table, looking rather battered; his handsome, boyish face
rather drawn and pale, his coal black hair dishevelled. His clothes
looked like they badly needed pressing. The only illumination came from
two burning candles in tall silver candlesticks on the table. Pat sat
at the far end; a most discreet distance, which relieved my anxiety
considerably.
My greatest surprise, though, came in discovering Niki. I gathered that
Pat had roused him and pressed him into service. With the marvelous
calm of the Oriental, he was placing the doilies and small silver
before the reporter, to whom he had so recently delivered a knockout
blow. He seemed most willing to assist Pat, to whom he always conceded
absolute loyalty.
"Slippery little devil, isn't he?" McGinity remarked, after Niki had
glided from the room. "But he's got an awful punch packed in that
right arm," he added, as he rubbed his jaw, now slightly swollen and
discolored.
"A glass of sherry will do your jaw good," said Pat.
"Supper for two," McGinity remarked, musingly. "It's too bad we haven't
some music. You must dance divinely."
"You look utterly worn out," said Pat, steering with tact into another
channel. "A shipwreck, and being cast ashore, a knockout blow, and a
prison cell, is a whole lot for one evening."
"Another half hour of this--your delightful companionship--I'm sure,
would quite finish me," said McGinity. "You've been a godsend."
"If you keep on like this, you'll make me angry, furiously angry," said
Pat. "I'd much rather hear--well, how you chose to be a reporter."
"Temporary insanity, I guess," McGinity replied.
"Uncle Henry regards you as utterly insane, so far as news getting is
concerned," said Pat.
"Well, then--a nebulous bank balance."
Pat seemed a little vexed. "If you can explain it in any other way, I
shall be much obliged," she said, succinctly.
The reporter reflected for a moment, then spoke in a serious tone.
"For one thing," he began, "you don't have to possess an intellect
above the average to be a reporter. All you need is a nose for news,
and lots of nerve. Most fellows use it as a stepping-stone into
politics, the law, and the public relationship angle of the stage,
screen and radio. Others stick to it all their lives; they can't break
away. My dad was an editorial writer on the Herald up to his death. I
thought I was cut out to be a lawyer, but I just couldn't click. I was
born with the news instinct, I guess. Unlike my studious, conservative
parent, I liked my news--hot. Perhaps I've got a yellow streak in me.
That's why I'm on the Daily Recorder. I like sensation, big headlines.
"When I was at school, I thought life was learned from books," he went
on, warming up a bit. "Life--I love it. And life at its utmost, that's
reporting. Life that ticks off love, laughter, tears on every second. A
foundling left on a door-step. Strange disappearance of a college girl.
She's never seen or heard of again. Mystery. Death by misadventure.
Murder. Fire-traps. Tenement fire--father, mother and grown-up kids
burned to a crisp. Pet poodle, whining, discloses the baby under a bed,
unharmed. Baby is adopted by a rich family. Poodle gets a decoration.
Stories! Stories!"
He drew a deep breath, and continued: "The great thrill is putting
your story over, hot off the press, satisfying the public's curiosity
for news. Exclusive stories! The first thing the City Editor looks
for. But there's no credit for them outside the office force. A pat
on the shoulder, 'Good work, Bill!' and sometimes a 'by-line.' You
write a good story, and you wallow in self-esteem. That's the only
real compensation. No wallowing in wealth. The tragedy of reporting
is that newspaper stories pay so little and die so quickly. You put
your life's blood into them, your very soul. But they're not even
yesterday's remembrance. In a couple of days they're dead--dead as a
pickled herring!"
"Wonderful!" Pat breathed, as soon as the reporter had finished. "It
all sounds so thrilling. I too love adventure--life, but until now--"
"Until you were nervy enough to take risks and rescue me from durance
vile," McGinity broke in.
"Until now," Pat went on, "my adventures have been only in the pages
of romantic and mystery books, although I've often tried to write
myself--I really believe I have the talent. Anyway, I've often longed
to step through those pages of romance and mystery, like Alice stepped
through the looking-glass."
McGinity grinned. "Reporting isn't wonderland, by any means," he said;
"it's the land of stark realities. I've had doors slammed in my face;
I've been snubbed, insulted, double-crossed and kicked downstairs;
but never--no, never in all my short experience as a reporter for
a sensational tabloid sheet like the Recorder, have I ever had an
experience like this one, tonight!"
"I'm sorry Uncle Henry was so ungracious and unkind," said Pat, in a
low, sympathetic voice; "and Niki so cruel. I'm sure the valet didn't
mean to knock you out."
McGinity grinned. "Oh, but I don't mean what you think I mean,"
he said. He leaned over the table towards her. "I mean this
experience--you--at this moment. You--this incredulous you! A beautiful
young princess, in these dark, ancient surroundings, and only
forty-nine minutes from Broadway. An angel of mercy, too. It's all too
fine and lovely to be true. I must be in a dream." He swept his hand
across his eyes. "Maybe I haven't come to my senses yet--maybe--"
He stopped short as the telephone bell in the library began to trill
sharply. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Only half an hour before
the last edition of his paper went to press. Time enough to get his
story in, if only a flash. The old instinct--news instinct--loyalty
to his paper, suddenly gripped him; it blotted out everything
else--even Pat. He must get his story in. No longer would there be any
interference with his plans. All danger--all obstacles--were past, and
he was free at last to act.
He jumped to his feet, and with a bound, passed through the open
doorway into the darkened library. The trilling of the bell guided him
to the desk in the center of the room.
Pat sat staring after him. Then, suddenly, she understood his object.
Instantly, she too sprang from the table, and darted into the library
after him. A touch of the switch, and the room was flooded with light.
McGinity was standing by the desk, in the act of lifting the receiver
from the hook.
"I'm afraid you're forgetting yourself," Pat said coldly. "You agreed
to follow out my instructions."
McGinity glanced at her strangely. "It's all okay. Everything's all
right," he said, in an excited and husky whisper.
"Don't be absurd," said Pat. "Everything is not--all right. You're
going to phone your story in, and you promised you wouldn't. Gentlemen
always keep promises."
"I'm a reporter, and this is my business," McGinity retorted. "I've got
to get this story in, and nobody's going to stop me."
"Very well, then," said Pat, and her voice was strangely flat and
lifeless. "You're perfectly at liberty to do so, but--" she added,
imperiously, "if this is your gratitude, the sooner we part company the
better."
Even at this, his reason did not begin to assert itself. "This is my
job," he exclaimed, heatedly. "I wasn't born rich like you. I've got to
work for my living. I've got to make good on this story or I'm liable
to be fired. You don't want me to lose my job, do you?"
Pat looked at him dumbly. "It means nothing to me--now," she said;
"nothing in the least." She turned away from him, and re-entered the
dining room.
"Please! Miss Preston!" he called after her. A thoughtful pause, and
his lips went to the mouthpiece as though he were going to bite it.
"You've got the wrong number," he angrily retorted to the insistent
person at the other end of the wire. "Dammit! Get off the line!" He
hung up the receiver, and swiftly followed after Pat. Coming up to her,
he said, in a low, contrite voice: "I'm sorry if I seemed discourteous
and ungrateful just now."
"It was most generous of you not to phone your story in," she said, and
shrugged indifferently.
"I sort of lost my head the moment I heard that phone bell ring," he
explained, "but a big story like this means a whole lot to me." He ran
his hand nervously through his tousled hair. "At least, you might let
me phone my office, and give the Night Desk some kind of a report about
myself. They haven't heard beans from me since I was assigned to the
story, early in the evening."
"Surely," Pat agreed. There was a little gentleness in her voice now.
"I'll trust you."
Realizing that matters had approached a crisis, I resolved to make my
presence known to Pat while the reporter was busy at the telephone, in
the library. I could see she was suffering from nerves. The adventure
was proving a little too much for her. When she saw my tall figure
moving towards her, in the dimly-lighted dining room, she stifled a cry
of alarm.
"It's all right, my dear," I said, taking her gently by the arm. "I've
seen and heard everything. You've done nothing discreditable. Let's
hope when morning comes, and Henry is sober, he'll act more sensible
than he did tonight."
When McGinity returned, and saw me, his face went a little paler. He
appeared relieved when I gave him a friendly smile.
"What's happened?" he asked, glancing at Pat, after she had introduced
me.
"I don't want you young people to be alarmed," I said, "but there's
no telling. Henry's a light sleeper, and he may drop in on you at any
moment."
Just then Niki came in, bearing the reporter's supper on a huge silver
tray. Niki was probably just as much surprised at seeing me there, as
I was in discovering him, in the first place, but his face was still
a stolid mask. While he busied himself at the table, I shepherded
McGinity and Pat to one side, and said, in a low voice:
"Now, Mr. McGinity, you hurry and eat your supper, and I'll relieve
Patricia, and act as your bodyguard until I've locked you up again
safely in our cellar."
"But he isn't to be locked up again," said Pat, after McGinity had
seated himself at the table. "I've already given orders to Niki to put
him in the Blue Room."
I gasped. It was almost incomprehensible. The Blue Room was the most
attractive and spacious guest-room in the castle.
"Mr. McGinity can remain comfortably there, without any disturbance
from Uncle Henry," she continued, "until Niki serves him his breakfast.
As a prevention against catching cold, after his exposure this evening,
I've instructed Niki to give him a good alcohol rub-down, and also to
massage his jaw. You've no objections, Uncle Livingston?"
"None," I replied. Not a hint that I was utterly flabbergasted.
McGinity heard nothing of this, or seemed to hear nothing. He was
obviously engrossed in eating his supper. But not so absorbed as I
thought when Pat said: "Well, good-night--all," and turned to leave the
room.
Then he leapt to his feet. "Don't go, please!" he pleaded.
"Oh, but I must," Pat said, lightly.
"Okay, then," he said, dejectedly. "See you in the morning, I hope.
Thanks for all you've done for me--thanks a whole lot."
A tired smile, a flutter of trailing white, and Pat was gone.
"She's the stuff all right," McGinity remarked, as soon as she had left
the room; "true stuff." Then I heard him mutter to himself: "I wonder
what she sees in that gink, Prince Matani?"
After that, he barely spoke a dozen words. He looked all in; even a
glass of sherry did not seem to revive him. He acted a little dazed.
When I told him he was to sleep in our best bedroom, he simply said:
"Good."
At three o'clock I left him there, in the hands of Niki, and trudged
off to bed myself, feeling like a wet rag, and wondering what the
morning would bring forth.