I
"Party to see you, sir, in the visitors' room. Didn't have a card. Said
you would know him, sir."
Although Peter spoke in his customary deferential tones, there was a
queer look upon his face that did not escape McAllister as the latter
glanced up from the afternoon paper which he had been perusing in the
window.
"Hm!" remarked the clubman, gazing out at the rain falling in torrents.
Who in thunder could be calling upon him a day like this, when there
wasn't even a cab in sight and the policemen had sought sanctuary in
convenient vestibules. It was evident that this "party" must want to see
him very badly indeed.
"What shall I say, sir?" continued Peter gently.
McAllister glanced sharply at him. Of course it was absurd to suppose
that Peter, or anyone else, had heard of the extraordinary events at the
Blairs' the night before, yet vaguely McAllister felt that this
stranger must in some mysterious way be connected with them. In any case
there was no use trying to duck the consequences of the adventure,
whatever they might prove to be.
"I'll see him," said the clubman. Maybe it was another detective after
additional information, or perhaps a reporter. Without hesitation he
crossed the marble hall and parted the portières of the visitors' room.
Before him stood the rain-soaked, bedraggled figure of the valet.
"Wilkins!" he gasped.
The burglar raised his head and disclosed a countenance haggard from
lack of sleep and the strain of the pursuit. Little rivers of rain
streamed from his cuffs, his (McAllister's) coat-tails, and from the
brim of his master's hat, which he held deprecatingly before him. There
was a look of fear in his eyes, and he trembled like a hare which pauses
uncertain in which direction to escape.
"Forgive me, sir! Oh, sir, forgive me! They're right hafter me! Just
houtside, sir! It was my honly chance!"
McAllister gazed at him horrified and speechless.
"You see, sir," continued Wilkins in accents of breathless terror, "I
caught the train last night and reached the city a'ead of the detective.
I knew 'e'd 'ave telegraphed a general halarm, so I 'id in a harea all
night. This mornin' I thought I'd given 'im the slip, but I walked
square into 'im on Fiftieth Street. I took it on a run hup Sixth
Havenue, doubled 'round a truck, an' thought I'd lost 'im, but 'e saw me
on Fifty-third Street an' started dead after me. I think 'e saw me stop
in 'ere, sir. Wot shall I do, sir? You won't give me hup, will you,
sir?"
Before McAllister could reply there was a commotion at the door of the
club, and he recognized the clear tones of Barney Conville.
"Who am I? I'm a sergeant of police--Detective Bureau. You've just
passed in a burglar. He must be right inside. Let me in, I say!"
Wilkins shrank back toward the curtains.
There was a slight scuffle, but the servant outside placed his foot
behind the door in such a position that the detective could not enter.
Then Peter came to the rescue.
"What do you mean by trying to force your way into a private club, like
this? I'll telephone the Inspector. Get out of here, now! Get away from
that door!"
"Inspector nothin'! Let me in!"
"Have you got a warrant?"
The question seemed to stagger the detective for a moment, and his
adversary seized the opportunity to close the door. Then Peter knocked
politely upon the other side of the curtains.
"I'm afraid, Mr. McAllister, I can't keep the officer out much longer.
It's only a question of time. You'll pardon me, sir?"
"Of course, Peter," answered McAllister.
He stepped to the window. Outside he could see Conville stationing two
plain-clothes men so as to guard both exits from the club. McAllister's
breath came fast. Wilkins crouched in terror by the centre-table. Then a
momentary inspiration came to the clubman.
"Er--Peter, this is my friend, Mr. Lloyd-Jones. Take his coat and hat,
give me a check for them, and then show him upstairs to a room. He'll be
here for an hour or so."
"Very good, sir," replied Peter without emotion, as he removed Wilkins's
dripping coat and hat. "This way, sir."
Casting a look of dazed gratitude at his former master, the valet
followed Peter toward the elevator.
"Here's a nice mess!" thought McAllister, as he returned to the big
room. "How am I ever going to get rid of him? And ain't I liable somehow
as an accomplice?"
He wrinkled his brows, lit a Perfecto, and sank again into his
accustomed place by the window.
"That policeman wants to see you, sir," said the doorman, suddenly
appearing at his elbow. "Says he knows you, and it's somethin' very
important."
The clubman smothered a curse. His first impulse was to tell the
impudent fellow to go to the devil, but then he thought better of it. He
had beaten Conville once, and he would do so again. When it came to a
show-down, he reckoned his brains were about as good as a policeman's.
"All right," he replied. "Tell him to sit down--that I've just come in,
and will be with him in a few moments."
"Very good, sir," answered the servant.
McAllister perceived that he must think rapidly. There was no escape
from the conclusion that he was certainly assisting in the escape of a
felon; that he was an accessory after the fact, as it were. The idea did
not increase his happiness at all. His one experience in the Tombs,
however adventitious, had been quite sufficient. Nevertheless, he could
not go back on Wilkins, particularly now that he had promised to assist
him. McAllister rubbed his broad forehead in perplexity.
"The officer says he's in a great hurry, sir, and wants to know can you
see him at once, sir," said the doorman, coming back.
"Hang it!" exclaimed our hero. "Yes, I'll _see_ him."
He got up and walked slowly to the visitors' room again, while Peter,
with a studiously unconscious expression, held the portières open. He
entered, prepared for the worst. As he did so, Conville sprang to his
feet, leaving a pool of water in front of the sofa and tossing little
drops of rain from the ends of his mustache.
"Look here, Mr. McAllister, there's been enough of this. Where's Welch,
the crook, who ran in here a few moments ago? Oh, he's here fast enough!
I've got your club covered, front and behind. Don't try to con _me_!"
McAllister slowly adjusted his monocle, smiled affably, and sank
comfortably into an armchair.
"Why, it's you, Baron, isn't it! How are you? Won't you have a little
nip of something warm? No? A cigar, then. Here, Peter, bring the
gentleman an Obsequio. Well, to what do I owe this honor?"
Conville glared at him enraged. However, he restrained his wrath. A wise
detective never puts himself at a disadvantage by giving way to useless
emotion. When Peter returned with the cigar, Barney took it mechanically
and struck a match, meanwhile keeping one eye upon the door of the club.
"I suppose," he presently remarked, "you think you're smart. Well,
you're mistaken. I had you wrong last night, I admit--that is, so far
as your identity was concerned. You're a real high-roller, all right,
but that ain't the whole thing, by a long shot. How would you like to
wander down to Headquarters as an accomplice?"
A few chills played hide-and-seek around the base of the clubman's
spine.
"Don't be an ass!" he finally managed to ejaculate.
"Oh, I can't connect you with the necklace! You're safe enough there,"
Barney continued. "But how about this little game right here in this
club? You're aiding in the escape of a felon. That's _felony_. You know
that yourself. Besides, when you locked me in the bath-room last night
you assaulted an officer in the performance of his duty. I've got you
dead to rights, _see_?"
McAllister laughed lightly.
"By jiminy!" he exclaimed, "I _thought_ you were crazy all the time, and
now I _know_ it. What in thunder are you driving at?"
Conville knocked the ashes off his cigar impatiently.
"Drivin' at? Drivin' at? Where's Welch--Fatty Welch, that ran in here
five minutes ago?"
McAllister assumed a puzzled expression.
"Welch? No one ran in here except myself. _I_ came in about that time.
Got off the L at Fiftieth Street, footed it pretty fast up Sixth Avenue,
and then through Fifty-third Street to the club. I got mighty well wet,
too, I tell you!"
"Don't think you can throw that game into _me_!" shouted Conville. "You
can't catch me twice _that_ way. It was _Welch_ I saw, not you."
"You don't believe me?"
McAllister pressed the bell and Peter entered.
"Peter, tell this gentleman how many persons have come into the club
within the hour."
"Why, only _you_, sir," replied Peter, without hesitation. "Your clothes
was wringin' wet, sir. No one else has entered the club since twelve
o'clock."
"Bah!" exclaimed Conville. "If it was _you_ that came in," he added
cunningly, "suppose you show me your check, and let me have a look at
your coat!"
"Certainly," responded McAllister, beginning to regain his equanimity,
as he drew Wilkins's check from his pocket. "Here it is. You can step
over and get the coat for yourself."
Barney seized the small square of brass, crossed to the coat-room, and
returned with the dripping garment, which he held up to the light at the
window.
"You ought to find Poole's name under the collar, and my own inside the
breast-pocket," remarked Chubby encouragingly. "It's there, isn't it?"
Conville threw the soaked object over a chair-back and made a rapid
inspection, then turned to McAllister with an expression of
bewilderment.
"I--you--how--" he stammered.
"Don't you remember," laughed his tormentor, "that there was a big truck
on the corner of Sixth Avenue?"
Barney set his teeth.
"I see you _do_," continued McAllister. "Well, what more can I do for
you? Are you sure you won't have that drink?"
But Conville was in no mood for drinking. Stepping up to the clubman, he
looked searchingly down into his face.
"Mr. McAllister," he hissed, "you think you've got me criss-crossed. You
think you're a sure winner. But I _know_ you. I know your _face_. And
this time I don't lose you, _see_? You're in cahoots with Welch. You're
his side-partner. You'll see me again. Remember, you're a _common
felon_."
The detective made for the door.
"Don't say 'common,'" murmured McAllister, as Conville disappeared. Then
his nonchalant look gave place to one of extreme dejection. "Peter," he
gasped, "tell Mr. Lloyd-Jones I must see him at once."
Peter soon returned with the unexpected information that "Mr.
Lloyd-Jones" had gone to bed and wouldn't get up.
"Says he's sick, sir," said Peter, trying hard to retain his gravity.
McAllister made one jump for the elevator. Peter followed. Of course,
_he_ had known Wilkins when the latter was in McAllister's employ.
"I put him in No. 13, sir," remarked the majordomo.
Sure enough, Wilkins was in bed. His clothes were nowhere visible, and
the quilt was pulled well up around his fat neck. He seemed utterly to
have lost his nerve.
"Oh, sir!" he cried apologetically, "I was hafraid to come down, sir.
_Without my clothes_ they never could hidentify me, sir!"
"What on earth have you done with 'em?" cried his master.
"Oh, Mr. McAllister!" wailed Wilkins, "I couldn't think o' nothin' else,
so I just threw 'em hout the window, into the hairshaft."
At this intelligence Peter, who had lingered by the door, choked
violently and retired down the hall.
"Wilkins," exclaimed McAllister, "I never took you for a fool before!
Pray, what do you propose to do now?"
[Illustration: "You think you're a sure winner. But I _know_ you. I know
your _face_."]
"I don't know, sir."
"Can't you see what an awkward position you've placed me in?" went on
McAllister. "I'm liable to arrest for aidin' in your escape. In fact,
that detective has just threatened to take me to Headquarters."
"'Oly Moses!" moaned Wilkins. "Oh, wot shall I do? If you honly get me
haway, sir, I promise you I'll never return."
McAllister closed the door, sat down by the bed, and puffed hard at his
cigar.
"I'll try it!" he muttered at length. "Wilkins, you remember you always
wore my clothes."
"Yes, sir," sighed Wilkins.
"Well, to-night you shall leave the club in my dress-suit, tall hat, and
Inverness--understand? You'll take a cab from here at eleven-forty. Go
to the Grand Central and board the twelve o'clock train for Boston.
Here's a ticket, and the check for the drawing-room. You'll be Mr.
McAllister of the Colophon Club, if anyone speaks to you. You're going
on to Mr. Cabot's wedding to-morrow, to act as best man. Turn in as soon
as you go on board, and don't let anyone disturb you. I'll be on the
train myself, and after it starts I'll knock three times on the door."
"Very good, sir," murmured Wilkins.
"I'll send to my rooms for the clothes at once. Do you think you can do
it?"
"Oh, certainly, sir! Thank you, sir! I'll be there, sir, never fail."
"Well, good luck to you."
McAllister returned to the big room downstairs. The longer he thought of
his plan the better he liked it. He was going to the Winthrops' Twelfth
Night party that evening as Henry VIII. He would dress at the club and
leave it in costume about nine o'clock. Conville would never recognize
him in doublet and hose, and, when Wilkins departed at eleven-forty,
would in all likelihood take the latter for McAllister. If he could thus
get rid of his ex-valet for good and all it would be cheap at twice the
trouble. So far as spiriting away Wilkins was concerned the whole thing
seemed easy enough, and McAllister, once more in his usual state of
genial placidity, ordered as good a dinner as the _chef_ could provide.