The revelry was at its height when Henry VIII realized with a start that
it was already half after eleven. First there had been a professional
presentation of the scene between Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby
Belch that had made McAllister shake with merriment. He thought Sir
Andrew the drollest fellow that he had seen for many a day. Maria and
the clown were both good, too. McAllister had a fleeting wish that he
had essayed Sir Toby. The champagne had been excellent and the
characters most amusing, and, altogether, McAllister did not blame
himself for having overstayed his time--in fact, he didn't care much
whether he had or not. He had intended going back to his rooms for the
purpose of changing his costume, but he had plenty of clothes on the
train, and there really seemed no need of it at all. He bade his hostess
good-night in a most optimistic frame of mind and hailed a cab. The long
ulster which he wore entirely concealed his costume save for his shoes,
strange creations of undressed leather, red on the uppers and white
between the toes. As for his cap and feather, he was quite too happy to
mind them for an instant. The assembled crowd of lackeys and footmen
cheered him mildly as he drove away, but Henry VIII, smoking a large
cigar, noticed them not. Neither did he observe a slim young man who
darted out from behind a flight of steps and followed the cab, keeping
about half a block in the rear. The rain had stopped. The clouds had
drawn aside their curtains, and a big friendly moon beamed down on
McAllister from an azure sky, bright almost as day.
The cabman hit up his pace as they reached the slope from the Cathedral
down Fifth Avenue, and the runner was distanced by several blocks.
McAllister, happy and sleepy, was blissfully unconscious of being an
actor in a drama of vast import to the New York police, but as they
reached Forty-third Street he saw by the illuminated clock upon the
Grand Central Station that it was two minutes to twelve. At the same
moment a trace broke. The driver sprang from his seat, but before he
could reach the ground McAllister had leaped out. Tossing a bill to the
perturbed cabby, our hero threw off his ulster and sped with an agility
marvellous to behold down Forty-third Street toward the station. As he
dashed across Madison Avenue, directly in front of an electric car, the
hand on the clock slipped a minute nearer. At that instant the slim man
turned the corner from Fifth Avenue and redoubled his speed. Thirty
seconds later, McAllister, in sword, doublet, hose, and feathered cap,
burst into the waiting-room, carrying an ulster, clearing half its
length in six strides, threw himself through the revolving door to the
platform, and sprang past the astonished gate-man just as he was
sliding-to the gate.
"Hi, there, give us yer ticket!" yelled the man after the retreating
form of Henry VIII, but royalty made no response.
The gate closed, a gong rang twice, somewhere up ahead an engine gave
half a dozen spasmodic coughs, and the forward section of the train
began to pull out. McAllister, gasping for breath, a terrible pain in
his side, his ulster seeming to weigh a thousand pounds, stumbled upon
the platform of the car next the last. As he did so, the slim young man
rushed to the gate and commenced to beat frantically upon it. The
gate-man, indignant, approached to make use of severe language.
"Open this gate!" yelled the man. "There's a burglar in disguise on that
train. Didn't you see him run through? Open up!"
"Whata yer givin' us?" answered Gate. "Who are yer, anyhow?"
"I'm a detective sergeant!" shrieked the one outside, excitedly
exhibiting a shield. "I order you to open this gate and let me through."
Gate looked with exasperating deliberateness after the receding train;
its red lights were just passing out of the station.
"Oh, go to--!" said he through the bars.
* * * * *
"Is this car 2241?" inquired the breathless McAllister at the same
moment, as he staggered inside.
"Sho, boss," replied the porter, grinning from ear to ear as he received
the ticket and its accompanying half-dollar. "Drawin'-room, sah?
Yes-sah. Right here, sah! Yo' frien', he arrived some time ago. May Ah
enquire what personage yo represent, sah? A most magnificent sword,
sah!"
"Where's the smoking compartment?" asked McAllister.
"Udder end, sah!"
Now McAllister had no inclination to feel his way the length of that
swaying car. He perceived that the smoking compartment of the car behind
would naturally be much more convenient.
"I'm going into the next car to smoke for a while," he informed the
darky.
No one was in the smoking compartment of the Benvolio, which was bright
and warm, and McAllister, throwing down his ulster, stretched
luxuriously across the cushions, lit a cigar, and watched with interest
the myriad lights of the Greater City marching past, those near at hand
flashing by with the velocity of meteors, and those beyond swinging
slowly forward along the outer rim of the circle. And the idea of this
huge circle, its circumference ever changing with the forward movement
of its pivot, beside which the train was rushing, never passing that
mysterious edge which fled before them into infinity, took hold on
McAllister's imagination, and he fancied, as he sped onward, that in
some mysterious way, if he could only square that circle or calculate
its radius, he could solve the problem of existence. What was it he had
learned when a boy at St. Andrew's about the circle? Pi R--one--two--two
Pi R! That was it! "2 pi r." The smoke from his cigar swirled thickly
around the Pintsch light in the ceiling, and Henry VIII, oblivious of
the anachronism, with his sword and feathered cap upon the sofa beside
him, gazed solemnly into space.
"Br-r-clink!--br-r-clink!" went the track.
"Two Pi R!" murmured McAllister. "Two Pi R!"