VIII

At breakfast, Henry wore a puzzled and anxious look, for which Pat

and I did not find it hard to account. Apparently urged by a twinge

of remorse, he had paid a secret visit to the cellar earlier in the

morning, and to his great consternation and alarm, had found the

reporter missing. Up to breakfast time, he was, of course, unaware of

Pat's doings, and had only his own knowledge to go on. Niki had kept

his silence, for a very good reason, which was--Pat.

Olinski was a few minutes late in joining us. Luckily only the four of

us were seated at the table. Prince Matani had caught an early train

for the city. Jane had remained in bed with a nervous headache. Olinski

lost no time in making inquiry about the imprisoned reporter. Leaning

over to Henry, he asked, in a low voice: "Is everything all right?"

"Disappeared!" Henry replied, in a low aside, using his morning paper,

the Times, as a screen for the sub rosa conversation, which then

ensued. "Clean gone!" he added.

Olinski looked positively sick for a moment. "Odd, isn't it?" he

remarked.

"The whole affair's odd," Henry returned, placing a finger to his lips,

to indicate the need for secrecy and caution.

Pat and I were both listening attentively, but camouflaging our

attention with some silly chatter and laughter, as if deprecating any

idea that we wished to listen in.

"Supposing someone got rid of him--Niki, for instance," Olinski

suggested, sotto voce. "Niki's an Oriental. He may have misunderstood

your motives. Faithful servant, you know. Heard of cases of that sort

myself, in the Orient, not in this country, though."

Henry's eyes seemed to pop, and his face blanched at the suggestion of

murder. "Oh, but I think that's impossible," he asserted, unconsciously

raising his voice.

"What's impossible, Uncle Henry?" asked Pat.

"Oh!" said Henry, taken wholly by surprise. "Mr. Olinski and I

were--er--we were just discussing a rather peculiar happening of last

night, after you'd gone to bed. Something of a mystery, which seems

difficult of solution."

"Perhaps I can solve it for you," Pat suggested demurely, giving me a

knowing wink.

Olinski, who was watching Pat attentively, signed to Henry to remain

quiet, and said: "I'm afraid your distinguished uncle has got himself

into a peck of trouble."

"The thing's done, and can't be undone," Henry protested vehemently.

"What's done, Henry?" I inquired in a perfectly innoxious tone.

As Henry hesitated, Pat spoke. "Oh, I may as well blurt it straight

out," she said. "Uncle Livingston and I were going to announce it, in

due form, but I'd just as soon tell you now. Mr. McGinity, the Daily

Recorder reporter, whom you cruelly attacked and locked up in the

cellar, last night, received proper attention, and was put to bed in

the Blue Room, after you and Mr. Olinski had retired. He's now having

his breakfast, very comfortably, I hope, in bed."

Henry stared at Pat incredulously. "Um!" he exclaimed at last.

Thereupon, she gave a plain, straightforward account of things. Told

all she knew, while I corroborated and amplified her statements

whenever necessary. And two more surprised-looking men, I never saw in

my life before. As she proceeded, Henry's face cleared. "Um!" he said

again, when the full story had been told.

"I don't think I'm much of a hand at advising in such matters," Pat

went on, "but in view of the nice mess of things you've made, Uncle

Henry--"

As she paused uncertainly, Henry caught my eye. "What do you say,

Livingston?" he asked.

"Well, if you ask me, Henry, I agree entirely with Pat," I replied,

with decision. "Assault of this reporter, and his detention in the

cellar, rank as an act in contravention of the criminal code, the

penalties for which, as you are no doubt aware, are very severe."

"We don't want any more scenes like last night, do we, Uncle Henry?"

Pat put in, ingenuously.

"Um! Um!" said Henry, reflectively.

Mentally he must have seen a picture of what might be if he did not

patch things up with the reporter, who was in a position to bring a

civil action and mulct him in very substantial damages. "I--I suppose I

did treat him rather roughly," he admitted finally, now that the ground

had been cut from under his feet. "What would you suggest, Livingston?"

he asked, meekly, again turning to me.

Struck by a sudden, happy thought, I replied: "I would suggest offering

the reporter the exclusive rights for the story of your amazing

discovery, on condition that he is not to publish it until you've given

him permission, or set a release date. Try that, and see how it works."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Olinski.

"Very good," said Henry.

At that moment, Orkins came into the room, and informed Henry that

McGinity was in the hall, and would be obliged if Henry would see him

for a few minutes. Henry accordingly hastened into the hall, and, as

we learned afterwards, greeted the reporter with an open hand and a

cordial smile.

On returning from his interview with the reporter, I was surprised to

see him kiss Pat affectionately on the cheek. "I want to thank you, my

dear," he said, "for saving me from a world of trouble."

Pat blushed and smiled, and kissed him back, then turned away to hide

her tears.

"Family pride is a powerful instinct," I remarked, "and we still bear

an honored name, thanks to Pat."

Henry had good reason to be thankful to Pat, who had saved him from

what might have been an extremely serious contretemps. We all had,

for that matter. Pat had a head on her lovely shoulders. True to her

romantic disposition, she waved adieu to McGinity from a mullioned

window, high up in the castle, where she must have appeared to him

in the likeness of a fairy princess, as he rode off, in company with

Olinski, to the railroad station.

Henry appeared in a placid and cheerful mood during the rest of the

morning. He had managed things pretty well so far. Knowing the value of

publicity, I considered McGinity and the tabloid he represented, with

its tremendous circulation, the best medium Henry would be able to find

for the exploitation of his discovery. I knew he hated making terms

with the reporter, his keen dislike and distrust of newspapermen seemed

inherent, but McGinity had somehow to be caught and tamed, and unless

it were done quickly, McGinity might be catching him. And that would

never do.

Towards noon, Henry sent for me, and I joined him in the library, where

I found him rummaging amongst the books and papers on his desk. He

looked worried. There was something heavy bearing on his mind. As it

turned out, there were several things that harassed him.

"What now?" I asked, a note of impatience in my voice.

"Livingston," he began, with a sudden compression of his lips, and

motioning me to sit down, "will you answer a question that has been

occurring to me all morning? During the time that this reporter,

McGinity, and Pat were together, last night, did he show--well, any

sentimental interest in her? I want to know--particularly."

"No, I'm sure he did not," I replied promptly. "I recall hearing

him use such expressions as 'your delightful companionship,' 'this

incredulous you,' and 'beautiful princess!'"

"What!" Henry exclaimed, with an awkward attempt to suppress an

unbelieving smile; "do I understand you to say you attach no

sentimental significance to such expressions?"

"Why, certainly," I answered. "I attributed his romantic talking to the

after-effects of the knockout blow. At times, he appeared to be dazed."

Henry regarded me gravely for a moment, then he said: "Livingston, you

are without a doubt the perfect ass!" He brought his fist down with a

thud on his desk to emphasize more completely his opinion of me.

"Whatever do you mean?" I demanded.

"Listen to me," said Henry, leaning over the desk towards me. "What

happened last night between Pat and this reporter is going to bring an

alarming new situation in our household. Pat has become romantically

interested in this young scallywag, and I feel sure he's fallen in

love with her."

"You wouldn't say that unless you'd some grounds for it," I observed.

"Have you?"

"Nothing that I can personally vouch for," was the reply; "it's only

something that I suspect after putting two and two together. Now, after

hearing you repeat those silly, sentimental expressions that fell

from the reporter's lips, while Pat was treating him to supper, and

speculating on what he may have said to her during the quarter of an

hour you were secreted in the elevator, I feel I have grounds for my

suspicions."

He leaned still further across the desk as he continued. "Now, this

McGinity fellow was in his right mind and senses, take my word for it,

when he called our Pat 'incredulous you,' 'beautiful princess,' and so

on, and also in a perfectly normal state of mind, this morning, when

he turned down my offer to square and hush up last night's unfortunate

affair. I guess Olinski was right. I must have been 'cock-eyed.'

Anyway, the amount I offered him was $50,000. It was a good bargain, a

damned good bargain. What's surprising you?"

"Do you mean to say McGinity turned down such a large offer of money,

which had nothing to do with holding out on the story, nothing in the

nature of a bribe, simply a stated sum in lieu of damages, say for

assault and detention?"

"I do," Henry replied. "The young nincompoop fixed his own price, and

declared he would be well satisfied if he got it."

"And what was that?"

"All he wanted, he said--now, listen carefully to what I'm telling

you--all he wanted was the exclusive rights to the Mars story, the

release terms of which he promised faithfully to obey. As for last

night's occurrences--assault and detention, as you term them--he simply

said: 'Let's forget that.'"

"Is that a fact?" I asked, amazed.

Henry nodded, and continued. "Do you get it? He's in love with our Pat,

or he wouldn't have turned my offer down. Think of it--$50,000. Enough

to start him in the newspaper publishing business on his own hook."

"Supposing it's true, that a romantic attachment has sprung up between

them, what shall you do?"

"I shall be ruthless," Henry replied, in a stern voice. "Ruthless," he

repeated, and then gazed round the room, rather guiltily, as though

Orkins might be there to hear him.

"By the way," I said. "What's happened to Orkins? I haven't seen him

round the premises since Olinski and McGinity left, shortly after

breakfast?"

"Ah!" said Henry. "That reminds me of another strange occurrence.

Orkins has gone--gone for good."

"Well, that's a queer thing, isn't it?"

"Decidedly queer," Henry concurred. "He came to me quite unexpectedly

this morning and resigned; said he was leaving at once. No explanation,

simply that he was going and wanted his back pay. I remonstrated about

his not giving the usual two weeks' notice, but he was adamant, so I

paid him off and let him go."

"Leaving you no address?"

"No address at all. What do you make of it?"

"It certainly looks queer," I replied. "But I've been rather suspicious

of Orkins from the very start."

"Why?" asked Henry.

"It's always been my opinion," I replied, "that he was mixed up in

some secret, something that we know nothing about. He was too crafty

and reticent to suit me."

"The mere fact that he was crafty and reticent doesn't prove anything,"

said Henry.

"Well, then," I said, rather testily, "if Orkins didn't sell you out on

the comet business, who the devil did?"

"I've no idea," said Henry.

"I think it is pretty certain that he also tipped off the Daily

Recorder about your latest discovery, and got well paid for it."

"Even so," said Henry, "these suppositions on your part can have no

possible connection with his leaving so abruptly."

"I've got a notion about that too," I said. "Supposing that he did

sell you out, in both instances, and was assured that his tips would

be treated confidentially, then he must have got scared when McGinity

turned up."

"Scared about what?" asked Henry.

"Well, after what happened to the Daily Recorder reporter last night,

and Orkins must have known about it--you'd be astonished how quickly

news travels among the servants--my idea is that he was afraid

McGinity, in reprisal, would betray his duplicity. So he got away as

quickly as possible to save his face. But it was a foolish thing to do."

"Foolish?"

"Yes; for newspapers never, under any consideration, betray their

source of news information. I doubt if McGinity himself knew where the

tips came from. He was simply assigned by his City Editor to get the

stories, and Orkins did not figure in them at all as far as he was

concerned."

"At any rate," said Henry, "I'm rather sorry to lose Orkins. While

he had odd ways, I always felt he could be depended upon. He was the

perfect English butler if ever there was one."

"Oh, but he's not English at all," I said. "I learned from one of

the other servants, not so long ago, that he's a Slav by birth, and

acquired his perfect English name, speech and manners during a long

period of buttling in London. By the way, on whose recommendation did

you employ him?"

"Can't say," Henry replied, as he lighted a cigar. "Ah!" he added,

after a thoughtful pause. "I have it! I employed him on Dr. LaRauche's

recommendation, from whom he brought the most exceptional references.

It's not likely, though, that Dr. LaRauche would have any ulterior

reason in wanting me to give his former servant a place."

"After all," I suggested, "there's no getting away from the fact that

Rene LaRauche hates you worse than poison."

"You're wrong, Livingston," said Henry, with emphasis. "Dr. LaRauche is

only suspicious of my scientific achievements. He regards me as a rank

amateur. A top-notch scientist himself, of international reputation, it

is only natural that he should be jealous of any intrusion upon that

which he feels is his own field. But hatred? Oh, no!"

"If we're going in for mere theorizing," I said, "here's one to

cogitate over. Supposing Orkins, the sly, crafty devil, was a plant in

this house; put here by LaRauche to spy on your scientific research

work? Then what?"

"Well, give me the truth," Henry answered. "Truth's not so easy to

come at in these matters, and I doubt if we shall get any substantial

contribution to your theory. Certainly not by remaining quietly here,

with our hands folded. Come to think of it, LaRauche borrowed a

valuable book of mine more than two years ago, Lowell's 'Mars as the

Abode of Life,' which I should like very much to have him return. Now,

supposing you drop in on him. Haven't the least idea what you'll get

besides the borrowed book, and I doubt if you get that. Anyhow," he

added significantly, "you may find out something--one way or another."

The curiosity instinct, which was my second nature, rose, strong and

eager, when I heard this announcement. "All right," I said, with a

suddenly roused alertness; "I'll call on LaRauche this afternoon."