II

"I'm perfectly delighted to have the Baron. Why didn't you bring

Pierrepont, too? How d'y' do, Baron? Let me present you to my husband.

Gordon--Baron de Ville. I'll put you and Mr. McAllister together. We're

just a little crowded. You've hardly time to dress--dinner in just

nineteen minutes."

"Zank you! It ees so vera hospitable!" said the Baron, bowing low, and

twirling his mustache in the most approved fashion.

"Come on, de Ville." McAllister slapped his Old-Man-of-the-Sea upon the

back good-naturedly. "You can give Mrs. Blair all the _risque_ Paris

gossip at dinner." They followed the second man upstairs. Although an

old friend of both Mrs. Blair and her husband, McAllister had never been

at the Scarsdale house before. It was new, and massively built. They

were debating whether or not to call it Castle Blair. The second man

showed them to a room at the extreme end of a wing, and as the servant

laid out the clothes McAllister thought the man eyed him rather

curiously. Well, confound it, he was getting used to it. Barney lit a

cigarette and measured the distance from the window to the ground with a

discriminating eye.

"Well," said the clubman, after the second man had finally retired, "are

you satisfied? And what the deuce is going to happen now?"

Barney sank into a Morris chair and thrust his feet comfortably on to

the fender.

"Fatty," said he, as he blew a multitude of tiny rings toward the blaze,

"you're a wizard! Never seen such nerve in my life--and you only out two

months! You've got the clothes, and, what's more, you've got the real

chappie lingo. It's great! I'm sorry to have to pull in such an artist.

I am, honest. An' now you've got to go behind prison bars! It's

sad--positively sad!"

"Look here!" demanded McAllister. "Do you mean to tell me you're such a

bloomin' ass as to think that I'm a crook, a professional burglar, who's

got an introduction into society--a what-do-you-call-him? Oh,

yes--Raffles?"

Barney grinned at his victim, who was just getting into his dress-coat.

"Don't throw such a chest, Fatty!" he said genially. "I think you've got

Raffles whipped to a standstill. But you can't fool me, and you can't

lose me. By the way, what am I goin' to do for evenin' clothes?"

"Dunno. Have to stay up here, I guess. You can't come to dinner in those

togs. It would queer everything."

"I'm goin', just the same. Not once do I lose sight of you, old chappie,

until you're safely in the cooler at headquarters. Then your swell

friends can bail you out!"

It was time for dinner. The little Dresden china clock on the mantel

struck the hour softly, politely. McAllister glanced toward the door.

The room was the largest of a suite. A small hall intervened between

them and the main corridor. His hand trembled as he lit a Philip Morris.

"Come on, then," he muttered over his shoulder to Barney, and led the

way to the door leading into the bath-room, which was next the door into

the hall and identical with it in appearance. He held it politely ajar

for the detective, with a smile of resignation.

"Apres vous, mon cher Baron!" he murmured.

The Baron acknowledged the courtesy with an appreciative grin and passed

in front of McAllister, but had no sooner done so than he received a

violent push into the darkness. McAllister quickly pulled and locked the

heavy walnut door, then paused, breathless, listening for some sound. He

hoped the feller hadn't fallen and cut his head against the tub. There

was a muffled report, and a bullet sang past and buried itself in the

enamelled bedstead. Bang! Another whizzed into the china on the

washstand.

McAllister dashed for the corridor, closing both the outer and inner

means of egress. At the head of the stairs he met Wainwright.

"What the devil are you fellers tryin' to do, anyway?" asked the latter.

"Sounds as if you were throwin' dumb-bells at each other."

McAllister lighted another cigarette.

"Oh, the Baron was showing me how they do '_savate_,' that kind of

boxing with their feet, don'cher know!"

Chubby was entirely himself again. An unusual color suffused his

ordinarily pink countenance as he joined the guests waiting for dinner.

He explained ruefully that the Baron had been suddenly taken with a

sharp pain in his head. It was an old trouble, he informed them, and

would soon pass off. The nobleman would join the others presently--as

soon as he felt able to do so.

[Illustration: "I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill."]

There were murmurs of regret from all sides, since Mrs. Blair had lost

no time in spreading the knowledge of the distinguished foreigner's

presence at the house.

"Who's missing besides the Baron?" inquired Blair, counting heads. "Oh,

yes, Miss Benson!"

"Oh, we won't wait for Mildred! It would make her feel so awkward,"

responded his wife. "She and the Baron can come in together. Mr.

McAllister, I believe I'm to have the pleasure of being taken in by

you!"

"Er--ye--es!" muttered Chubby vaguely, for at the moment he was

calculating how long it would have taken that other Baron, the famous

Trenk, to dig his way out of a porcelain bath-tub. "Too beastly bad

about de Ville, but these French fellows, they don't have the advantage

of our athletic sports to keep 'em in condition. Do you know, I hardly

ever get off my peck? All due to taking regular exercise."

The party made their way to the dining-room and were distributed in

their various places. As McAllister was pushing in the chair of his

hostess his eye fell upon a servant who was performing the same office

for a lady opposite. _Could_ it be? He adjusted his monocle. There was

no doubt about it. It was Wilkins. And now the detective was locked in

the bath-room, and the burglar, his own double, would probably pass him

the soup.

"What a jolly mess!" ejaculated the bewildered guest under his breath,

sinking into his chair and mechanically bolting a _caviare

hors-d'oeuvre_. He drained his sherry and tried to grasp the whole

significance of the situation.

"I do hope the Baron is feeling better by this time," he heard Mrs.

Blair remark. He was about to make an appropriately sympathetic reply

when Miss Benson came hurriedly into the room, paused at the foot of the

table and grasped the back of a chair for support. She had lost all her

color, and her hands and voice trembled with excitement.

"It's gone!" she gasped. "Stolen! My mother's pearl necklace! I had it

on the bureau just before tea! Oh, what shall I do!" She burst into

hysterical sobs.

Two or three women gave little shrieks and pushed back their chairs.

"My tiara!" exclaimed one.

"And my diamond sun-burst! I left it right on a book on the

dressing-table!" cried another.

There was a general move from the table.

"O Gordon! Do you think there are burglars in the house?" called Mrs.

Blair to her husband.

"Heaven knows!" he replied. "There may be. But don't let's get excited.

Miss Benson may possibly be mistaken, or she may have mislaid the

necklace. What do you suggest, McAllister?"

"Well," replied our hero, keeping a careful eye upon Wilkins, "the first

thing is to learn how much is missing. Why don't these ladies go right

upstairs and see if they've lost anything? Meanwhile, we'd all better

sit down and finish our soup."

"Good idea!" returned Blair. "I'll go with them."

The three hurriedly left the room, and the rest of the guests, with the

exception of Miss Benson, seated themselves once more.

Everybody began to talk at once. By George! The Benson pearls stolen!

Why, they were worth twenty thousand dollars thirty years ago in Rome.

You couldn't buy them _now_ for love or money. Well, she had better sit

down and eat something, anyway--a glass of wine, just to revive her

spirits. Miss Benson was finally persuaded by her anxious hostess to sit

down and "eat something." Mrs. Blair was very much upset. How awkward to

have such a thing happen at one's first house party.

The searchers presently returned with the word that apparently nothing

else had been taken. This had a beneficial effect on the general

appetite.

Meanwhile McAllister had been watching Wilkins. Wilkins had been

watching McAllister. Since that Christmas in the Tombs they had not seen

each other. The valet was unchanged, save, of course, that his beard was

gone. He moved silently from place to place, nothing betraying the

agitation he must have felt at the realization that he was discovered.

People were all shouting encouragement to Miss Benson. There was a great

chatter and confusion. The tearful and hysterical Mildred was making

pitiful little dabs at the viands forced upon her. Meanwhile the dinner

went on. McAllister's seat commanded the door, and he could see, through

the swinging screen, that there was no exit to the kitchen from the

pantry.

Wilkins approached with the fish. As the valet bent forward and passed

the dish to his former master McAllister whispered sharply in his ear:

"You're caught unless you give up that necklace. There's a Central

Office man outside. _I_ brought him. Pass me the jewels. It's your only

chance!"

"Very good, sir," replied Wilkins without moving a muscle.

The guests were still discussing excitedly Miss Benson's loss.

McAllister's thoughts flew back to the time when, locked in the same

cell, he and Wilkins had eaten their frugal meal together. He could

never bring himself now to give him up to that detective fellow--that

ubiquitous and omniscient ass! But Wilkins was approaching with the

_entrée_. As he passed the _vol au vent_ he unostentatiously slipped

something in a handkerchief into McAllister's lap.

"May I go now, sir?" he asked almost inaudibly.

"Have you taken anything else?" inquired his master.

"Nothing."

"On your honor as a gentleman----'s gentleman?"

Wilkins smiled tremulously.

"Hon my onor, Mr. McAllister."

"Then, go!--You seem to have a _penchant_ for pearls," McAllister added

half to himself, as he clasped in his hand the famous necklace. Common

humanity to Miss Benson demanded his instant declaration of its

possession, but the thought of Wilkins, who had slipped unobtrusively

through the door, gave him pause. Let the poor chap have all the time he

could get. He'd probably be caught, anyway. Just a question of a few

days at most. And what a chance to get even on the Baron!

But meanwhile the service had halted. The butler, a sedate person with

white mutton-chops, after waiting nervously a few minutes, started to

pass the roast himself.

Miss Benson had been prevailed upon to finish her meal, and after dinner

they were all going to have a grand hunt, everywhere. Afterward, if the

necklace was not discovered, they would send for a detective from New

York.

Suddenly two pistol shots rang out just beside the window. Men's voices

were raised in angry shouts. A horse attached to some sort of vehicle

galloped down the road. The guests started to their feet. A violent

struggle was taking place outside the dining-room door. McAllister

sprang up just in time to see the Baron break away from Blair's coachman

and cover him with his pistol. The jehu threw up his hands. He was a

sorry spectacle, collarless, and without his coat. Damp earth clung to

his lower limbs and his defiant eyes glowed under tousled hair, while a

bloody, swollen nose protruded between them.

"Here! What's all this?" shouted Blair. "Put up that pistol! Who are

you, sir?" Then the host rubbed his eyes and looked again.

"By George! It's the Baron!" yelled Wainwright.

"The Baron! The Baron!" exclaimed the others.

"Baron--nothin'!" gasped Barney, still covering the coachman, while with

the other hand he tried to rearrange his neckwear. "I'm Conville of the

Central Office, and this man has aided in an escape. I'm arrestin' him

for felony!"

The detective's own features had evidently made a close acquaintance

with mother earth, and one sleeve was torn almost to the shoulder. His

eye presently fell upon McAllister, and he gave vent to an exclamation

of bewilderment.

"You! _You_! How did you get out of that wagon so quick? I've got you

now, anyway!" And he shifted his gun in McAllister's direction. The

women shrieked and crowded back into the dining-room.

The coachman, who had not dared to remove his eyes from the detective,

now began to jabber hysterically.

"Hi think 'e's mad, I do, Mr. Blair! Hi think we all are! First hout

comes Mr. McAllister, whom I brought from the station only an 'our ago

an' says as 'ow 'e must go back at once to New York. So I 'arnesses up

Lady Bird in the spyder an' sends Jeames to put hon 'is livery. Just as

Jeames comes back an' Mr. McAllister jumps in, hout comes _this_ party

_'ere_ an' yells somethin' about Welch an' tries to climb in arter Mr.

McAllister. Jeames gives the mare a cut an' haway they go. Then this

'ere party begins to run arter 'em and commences shootin'. _Hi_ tackles

'im! _'E_ knocks me down! _Hi_ grabs 'im by the leg, an' 'ere we are,

sir, axin' yer pardon--Hello, why _'ere's_ Mr. McAllister _now_! May I

ask as 'ow you _got_ 'ere, sir?"

But Barney had suddenly dropped the pistol.

"Quick!" he shouted wildly. "Harness another horse! We've still got

time. I can't lose my man this way!"

"Well, who _is_ he? Who _was_ it you shot at?"

"Welch! Fatty Welch!" shrieked the Baron. "There's two of 'em! But the

one I want has started for the station. I must catch him!"

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the old butler, who alone had preserved

his equanimity, addressing Mr. Blair. "My impression is, sir, that it

must have been Manice, sir--the new third man, sir. I saw him step out.

He must have taken Mr. McAllister's coat and hat!"

There was an immediate chorus of assent. Of course that was it. The man

had disguised himself in McAllister's clothes.

"He's got the necklace!" wailed Mildred. "Oh, I _know_ he has!"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Of course he's got it!"

"After him! After him!"

"Necklace! What necklace?" inquired Barney, more bewildered than ever.

"My mother's pearl necklace! She bought it in Rome. And now it's gone.

He's got it."

Barney made a move for the door.

"Run and harness up, William!" directed Blair. "Put in the Morgan

ponies. Hustle now. The train isn't due for fifteen minutes and you can

reach the station in ten. Don't spare the horses!"

William, with a defiant look at the detective, hastened to obey the

order.

Barney was running his hands through his hair. He certainly had stumbled

on to somethin', by Hookey! If he could only catch that feller it would

mean certain promotion! He had to admit that he had been mistaken about

McAllister, but this was better.

"You see, I was right!" remarked our hero to the detective in his usual

suave tones. "You should have done just what I said. You stayed too long

upstairs. However, there's still a running chance of your catching our

man at the station. Here, take a drink, and then get along as fast as

you can!"

He handed Barney a glass of champagne, and the detective hastily gulped

it down. He needed it, for the fifteen-foot jump from the bath-room

window had shaken him up badly.

"Trap's ready, sir!" called William, coming into the hall, and Barney

turned without a word and dashed for the door. The whip cracked and

McAllister was free.

"Well, well, well!" remarked Blair. "Don't let's lose our dinner,

anyway! Come, ladies, let's finish our meal. We at least know who the

thief is, and there's a fair chance of his being caught. I will notify

the White Plains police at once! Don't despair, Miss Benson. We'll have

the necklace for you yet!"

But Mildred was not to be comforted and clung to Mrs. Blair, with the

tears welling in her eyes, while her hostess patted her cheek and tried

to encourage a belief that the necklace in some mysterious way would

return.

"No, it's gone! I know it is. They'll never catch him! Oh, it's

dreadful! I would give anything in the world to have that necklace

back!"

"_Anything_, Miss Benson?" inquired McAllister gayly, as he rose from

his place and held up the softly shining cord of pearls. "But perhaps

if I held you to the letter of your contract you might claim _duress_.

Allow me to return the necklace. It's a great pleasure, I assure you!"

"Hooray for Chubby!" shouted Wainwright. The company gasped with

astonishment as Miss Benson eagerly seized the jewels.

"By George, McAllister! How did you do it?" inquired his excited host.

"Yes, tell us! How did you get 'em? _Where_ did you get 'em?"

"Who was the Baron?"

"How on earth did you know?"

They all suddenly began to shout, asking questions, arguing, and

exclaiming with astonishment.

McAllister saw that some explanation was in order.

"Just a bit of detective work of my own," he announced carelessly. "I

don't care to say anything more about it. One can't give away one's

trade secrets, don'cher know. Of course that assistant of mine made

rather a mess of it, but after all, the necklace was the main thing!"

And he bowed to Miss Benson.

Beyond this brilliant elucidation of the mystery no one could extract a

syllable from the hero of the occasion. The Baron did not return, and

his absence was not observed. But Joe Wainwright voiced the sentiments

of the entire company when he announced somewhat huskily that

McAllister made Sherlock Holmes look like thirty cents.

"But, say," he muttered thickly an hour later to his host as they

sauntered into the billiard-room for one last whiskey and soda, "did you

notice how much that butler feller that ran away looked like McAllister?

'S livin' image! 'Pon my 'onor!"

"You've been drinking, Joe!" laughed his companion.