I
"I want you," said Barney Conville, tapping Mr. McAllister lightly upon
the shoulder.
The gentleman addressed turned sharply, letting fall his monocle. He
certainly had never seen the man before in his life--was sure of it,
even during that unfortunate experience the year before, which he had so
far successfully concealed from his friends. No, it was simply a case of
mistaken identity; and yet the fellow--confound him!--didn't look like a
chap that often _was_ mistaken.
"Come, come, Fatty; no use balkin'. Come along quiet," continued Barney,
with his most persuasive smile. He was a smartly built fellow with a
black mustache and an unswerving eye, about two-thirds the size of
McAllister, whom he had addressed so familiarly.
"Fatty!" McAllister, _bon vivant_, clubman, prince of good fellows,
started at the word and stared tensely. What infernal luck! That same
regrettable resemblance that had landed him in the Tombs over Christmas
was again bobbing up to render him miserable. He wished, as he had
wished a thousand times, that Wilkins had been sentenced to twenty years
instead of one. He had evidently been discharged from prison and was at
his old tricks again, with the result that once more his employer was
playing the part of Dromio. McAllister had succeeded by judicious
bribery and the greatest care in preserving inviolate the history of his
incarceration. Had this not been the case one word now to the determined
individual with the icy eye would have set the matter straight, but he
could not bear to divulge the secret of those horrible thirty-six hours
which he, under the name of his burglarious valet, had spent locked in a
cell. Maybe he could show the detective he was mistaken without going
into that lamentable history. But of course McAllister proceeded by
exactly the wrong method.
"Oh," he laughed nonchalantly, "there it is again! You've got me
confused with Fatty Welch. We do look alike, to be sure." He put up his
monocle and smiled reassuringly, as if his simple statement would
entirely settle the matter.
But Barney only winked sarcastically.
"You show yourself quite familiar with the name of the gentleman I'm
lookin' for."
McAllister saw that he had made a mistake.
"No more foolin', now," continued Barney. "Will you come as you are, or
with the nippers?"
The clubman bit his lip with annoyance.
"Look here, hang you!" he exclaimed angrily, dropping his valise, "I'm
Mr. McAllister of the Colophon Club. I'm on my way to dine with friends
in the country. I've got to take this train. Listen! they're shouting
'All aboard' now. I know who you're after. You've got us mixed. Your
man's a professional crook. I can prove my identity to you inside of
five minutes, only I haven't time here. Just jump on the train with me,
and if you're not convinced by the time we reach 125th Street I'll get
off and come back with you."
"My, but you're gamer than ever, Fatty," retorted Barney with
admiration. Thoughts of picking up hitherto unsuspected clews flitted
through his mind. He had his man "pinched," why not play him awhile? It
seemed not a half bad idea to the Central Office man.
"Well, I'll humor you this once. Step aboard. No funny business, now.
I've got my smoke wagon right here. Remember, you're under arrest."
They swung aboard just as the train started. As McAllister sank into his
seat in the parlor car with Barney beside him he recognized Joe
Wainwright directly opposite. Here was an easy chance to prove his
identity, and he was just about to lean over and pour forth his sorrows
to his friend when he realized with fresh humiliation that should he
seize this opportunity to explain the present situation, the whole
wretched story of his Christmas in the Tombs would probably be divulged.
He would be the laughing-stock of the club, and the fellows would never
let him hear the last of it. He hesitated, but Wainwright took the
initiative.
"How d'y', Chubby?" said he, getting up and coming over. "On your way to
Blair's?"
"Yes. Almost missed the confounded train," replied McAllister,
struggling for small talk.
"Who's your friend?" continued the irrepressible Wainwright. "Kind o'
think I know him. Foreigner, ain't he? Think he was at Newport last
summer."
"Er--ye--es. Baron de Ville. Picked him up at the club--friend of
Pierrepont's. Takin' him out to Blair's--so hospitable, don'cher know."
He stammered horribly, for he found himself sinking deeper and deeper.
"Like to meet him," remarked Wainwright. "Like all these foreign
fellers."
McAllister groaned. He certainly was in for it now. The 125th Street
idea would have to be abandoned.
"Er--_Baron_"--he strangled over the name--"_Baron_, I want to present
Mr. Joseph Wainwright. He thinks he's met you in Paris." Our friend
accompanied this with a pronounced wink.
"Glad to meet you, Baron," said Wainwright, grasping the detective's
hand with effusion. "Newport, I think it was."
The "Baron" bowed. This was a new complication, but it was all in the
day's work. Of course, the whole thing was plain enough. Fatty Welch was
"working" some swell guys who thought he was a real high-roller. Maybe
he was going to pull off some kind of a job that very evening. Perhaps
this big chap in the swagger flannels was one of the gang. Barney was
thinking hard. Well, he'd take the tip and play the hand out.
"It ees a peutifool efening," said the Baron.
The train plunged into the tunnel.
"Look here," hissed McAllister in Barney's ear. "You've got to stick
this thing out, now, or I'll be the butt of the town. Remember, we're
going to the Blairs at Scarsdale. You're the particular friend of a man
named Pierrepont--fellow with a glass eye who owns a castle somewhere in
France. . . . Are you satisfied yet?" he added indignantly.
"I'm satisfied you're Fatty Welch," Barney replied. "I ain't on to your
game, I admit. Still, I can do the Baron act awhile if it amuses you
any."
The train emerged from the tunnel, and McAllister observed that there
were other friends of his on the car, bound evidently for the same
destination. Well, anything was better than having that confounded story
about the Tombs get around. He had often thought that if it ever did he
would go abroad to live. He couldn't stand ridicule. His dignity was his
chief asset. Nothing so effectually, as McAllister well knew, conceals
the absence of brains. But could he ever in the wide, wide world work
off the detective as a baron? Well, if he failed, he could explain the
situation on the basis of a practical joke and save his face in that
way. Just at present the Baron was getting along famously with
Wainwright. McAllister hoped he wouldn't overdo it. One thing, thank
Heaven, he remembered--Wainwright had flunked his French disgracefully
at college and probably wouldn't dare venture it under the
circumstances. There was still a chance that he might convince his
captor of his mistake before they reached Scarsdale, and on the strength
of this he proposed a cigar. But Wainwright had frozen hard to his Baron
and accepted for himself with alacrity, even suggesting a drink on his
own account. McAllister's heart failed him as he thought of having to
present the detective to Mrs. Blair and her fashionable guests and--by
George, the fellow hadn't got a dress-suit! They never could get over
_that_. It was bad enough to lug in a stranger--a "copper"--and palm him
off as the distinguished friend of a friend, but a feller without any
evening clothes--impossible! McAllister wanted to shoot him. Was ever a
chap so tied up? And now if the feller wasn't talking about Paris!
_Paris!_ He'd make some awful break, and then-- Oh, curse the luck,
anyway!
Then it was that McAllister resolved to do something desperate.