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THE HAUNTED PAJAMAS
BY FRANCIS PERRY ELLIOTT
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
EDMUND FREDERICK
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1911
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
TO
MY WINIFRED
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
I A PRESENT FROM CHINA
II AN OMINOUS DISCOVERY
III I DON THE PAJAMAS
IV JENKINS DECLARES FOR THE WATER WAGON
V THE GIRL FROM RADCLIFFE
VI ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY
VII CONFIDENCES
VIII HER BROTHER JACK
IX AN AMAZING REVELATION
X A NOCTURNAL INTRUSION
XI IRON NERVE
XII I SEND A MAN TO JAIL
XIII FRANCES
XIV "YOU NEVER SAW ME IN BLACK"
XV BILLINGS' SYMPTOMS ALARM ME
XVI AN INSCRIPTION AND A MYSTERY
XVII THE PROFESSOR
XVIII I RECEIVE A SHOCK
XIX THE SPELL OF THE PAJAMAS
XX BILLINGS RAMBLES
XXI THE COLLAPSE OF BILLINGS
XXII MY DARLING IS SLANDERED
XXIII A MESSAGE AND A WARNING
XXIV I SPEAK TO HER FATHER
XXV THE FAMILY BLACK SHEEP
XXVI FLORA
XXVII I RECOVER THE PAJAMAS
XXVIII "IF I EVER FIND A MAN!"
XXIX "BECAUSE YOU--ARE YOU"
XXX THE JUDGE FIXES "FOXY GRANDPA"
XXXI THE DEMON RUM
XXXII I TOUCH BOTTOM
XXXIII UNDER THE PERGOLA
XXXIV THE CUB
XXXV IN THE GLOW OF THE RUBIES
THE HAUNTED PAJAMAS
CHAPTER I
A PRESENT FROM CHINA
It was the first thing I saw that night as I swung into my chambers.
Fact is, for the moment, it was the only thing I saw. Somehow, its
splash of yellow there under the shaded lamp seemed to catch my eye and
hold it.
I screwed my glass tight and examined the thing with interest. Nothing
remarkable; just a tiny, oblong package, bearing curious foreign
markings, its wrapper plainly addressed to me, but--
"By Jove! From China!" I ejaculated.
Somebody in far-off China sending me a present, with duties and charges
prepaid evidently.
What the deuce was it? I shook it without getting any revelation; then I
weighed it in my hand.
The thing was devilish light! In fact, so light that, allowing for
outside wrapper and box, dashed if I could see how there was anything at
all.
Then I had an awful thought: Suppose, by Jove, they had forgotten to
inclose the thing--whatever it was! Jolly tiresome, that, if they had. I
felt devilish annoyed.
Really, awfully provoking to do that sort of thing, you know; and I was
jolly sure now the dashed thing had been wrapped up empty. I wondered
what silly ass I knew in China who would be likely to do a thing like
that. I couldn't think of any one at all I knew in China, so I rang for
Jenkins.
"Anybody I know in China, Jenkins?" I asked. And to help him out, I
added: "Fact is, some chap's sent me a package, you know."
"Name on box, sir, perhaps." Said it offhand, just like that--no trouble
of thinking, dash it all--never even blinked. Just instinct, by Jove!
And there it was, nicely printed in the corner with a pen:
ROLAND MASTERMANN, GOVERNMENT HOUSE, HONG KONG, CHINA
I read it aloud--can't read anything, you know, unless I read it
aloud--and looked at Jenkins inquiringly. But he came right up to the
scratch; just seemed to get it from somewhere right out of the wall over
my head:
"Beg pardon, sir; but think it's that London gentleman--entertained you
at the Carlton when you were over the other side."
Mastermann! By Jove, so it was--I began to remember him now, because I
remembered his dinner, several of them, in fact, during the three years
I had lived over there, acquiring the English accent--manner, you
know--and all that sort of thing!
Mastermann--oh, yes, I had him, now! Jolly rum old boy, but entertaining
and clever--long hair, pink wart on jaw! And, by Jove, I had promised
him--promised him--what the deuce _was_ it I had promised him? Let me
see: he was something or other in the foreign office; yes, I had
that--and tremendously interested in mummies and psychical investigation
and rum sort of things like that, and--
"By Jove!" I ejaculated, as it came to me. "And for that reason he
wanted them to send him out to China."
"Beg pardon, sir," put in Jenkins, "but think you had a letter with a
Chinese postmark last week."
He looked around at my little writing-desk and coughed slightly behind
his hand.
"Was just a-wondering, sir, if it might not be among those you haven't
opened--there are several piles. If I might look, sir--"
I nodded. Fact is, I allow Jenkins much privilege, owing to long
service. Then, you know--oh, dash it, he's so original--so refreshing
and that sort of thing--so surprising. Just as in this case, he thinks
of so many devilishly ingenious, out-of-the-way sort of things!
It was Jenkins' idea that I find out what was in the box by just
_opening_ the dashed thing while he looked for the letter.
Clever that, eh? Well, rather!
So I unsheathed my little pocket manicure knife, cut the strings and
removed the wrapper. Inside was just a little, straw-covered box with a
telescope cover and inside the box, wrapped in tissue, was a tight roll
of bright red silk.
That was all--not another thing but this little silk roll. It was a wad
as thick as three fingers and perhaps twice as long, tied with a bit of
common string, ending in a loose bowknot.
I gripped my glass a bit tighter in my eye and took a long shot at the
thing. But dashed if I could make anything out of it at all. You see,
the string went around it at least three or four times. Such a devilish
secretive way to fix a thing, don't you think?
A queer, sweet, spicy sort of odor swept past me that reminded me of the
atmosphere at Santine's and places in the Metropolitan Art Museum. I sat
down, the better to think it over, turning the little roll in my hand
and trying to think of all the things it might be.
"Looks like it might be a red silk muffler, Jenkins," I exclaimed in
disgust. By Jove, I was never so devilish disappointed in my
life--never--I'm sure of it! If I had been a girl I should have
cried--dash it, I know I should.
I pinched the roll gloomily.
"If it's a red silk muffler, Jenkins, catch me wearing it, that's all!"
I burst out indignantly. "Rotten bad form, if you ask _me_. I'd look
like an out-and-out bounder!"
Then I had a horrible thought:
"Or--or the Salvation Army, dash it!"
Here Jenkins thrust a letter at me. "Perhaps this may explain it, sir,"
he suggested.
Sure enough, it was from Hong Kong, and from that chap, Mastermann. Out
there on special mission for his government, he said. I don't know what
it was--never did know, in fact, for I skipped down to this paragraph,
which I read aloud:
"Every puff of those rare cigars you sent me has but reminded
me that my debt to you is still unpaid."
I read thus far; then I read it again. But I could make nothing of it.
"Cigars--cigars?" I exclaimed, puzzled.
Then I forgot the letter as I stared at Jenkins.
"And what's the matter with _you_?" I demanded.
For I had caught him with his hand over his mouth, obviously trying to
suppress a chuckle. He sobered instantly, but seemed embarrassed for a
reply.
"Oh, I say, you know!" I urged him.
He started to speak, then pulled up. His breath went out in a sort of
sigh. And he just stood there looking at me, and looking kind of scared.
Fact! Perfectly irreproachable service for five years; and now here,
dash it, showing emotion and that sort of thing, just like--well, like
_people_, by Jove! Gad, I don't mind saying I was devilish put out! I
screwed my glass rather severely and he made another go:
"I hope, Mr. Lightnut, sir, you'll try to pardon me, sir, but I--Well,
indeed, sir, the mistake wasn't mine; it was the dealer's fault, you
know, sir."
"Oh!"
I stared, polished my glass and nodded. I even chirped up a smile, but I
didn't utter a word. Dash it, what _was_ there to say? But you mustn't
let _them_ know that, you know. So I just waited, and he squirmed a
little and went on:
"It was too late after he told me about the mistake; and I was--well, I
was afraid to mention it to you, sir."
"Mistake! What mistake?"
He gulped; dashed if I didn't think he was going to choke.
"I--I'm sure, sir, I wouldn't have had such a thing happen for--"
I could stand it no longer.
"Oh, I say! I haven't any idea what you're talking about!"
Jenkins cleared his throat with an effort, his eyes rolling at me
apologetically. When he spoke there was a tremble in his utterance, and
it was rather husky:
"Why, sir," he began in a low tone, "you told me to have your dealer
ship this gentleman, this Mr. Mastermann, a dozen boxes of Paloma
perfectos--your favorite brand, you know, sir--ninety dollars the
hundred."
He paused, his fingers resting tremblingly on the edge of the table.
"I dare say," I yawned presently. "Well, what of it?" I was getting
impatient. By Jove, he was making me downright nervous, don't you know!
Besides, I was so devilish anxious to get on with Mastermann's letter. I
wanted to find out, if possible, what it was the fellow had sent me.
Jenkins breathed hard and leaned toward me. Then he seemed to flunk
again and dropped back. Dashed if I didn't think I heard him groan! But
I stared at him through my glass, and he swallowed hard and went on:
"An error, sir, of the shipping clerk. He--"
With a murmured apology, Jenkins paused to wipe his forehead. I saw that
the perspiration had gathered in great drops. Then he seemed to gather
himself for a resolute effort, his eyes fixing themselves upon me with
the most extraordinary expression--kind of half-frightened,
half-desperate glare--that sort of thing, don't you know. I began to
feel devilish uncomfortable and edged away.
And he made another plunge: "They sent him--"
And, dash me if he didn't stick again! It just looked like he couldn't
get past. But I encouraged him--just like you have to do a horse, you
know--and this time he got over:
"They sent him a dozen boxes of 'Hickey's Pride,' sir, instead!"
He spoke in a low, choking voice and looked me full in the eye--the kind
of look you get when a chap's boxing with you, you know--that sort of
thing.