"In sound American slanguage," Lanyard replied, crossing to the
fireplace and applying the flame to the wicks of moulded and tinted
candles which decorated its mantel--"our friends have flown the coop.
You see, Morphew just now told me he is the proprietor of these
premises; so I'm inclined to suspect the lights were put out to permit
him to make a clean getaway. . . . But here's your wrap." He draped the
sable robe round the woman's shoulders. "And your bag," he added,
finding the same where Folly had left it.
"But I don't understand," she protested, lifting a bewildered small face
to the light.
"I never imagined you, would, Mrs. McFee," Lanyard laughed, catching up
one of the candlesticks and turning to the door. "If you had understood,
I fancy, you would never have come here tonight--or any night--that is,
unless it's a fad of yours to live up to your nickname. . . ."
The words failed on his lips as he pulled up, finding the door blocked
by a long, lanky shape of humanity that lounged with one lazy shoulder
against the frame; the derby of tradition on the back of his head, hands
buried in the pockets of an unbuttoned overcoat--one of them, Lanyard
hadn't any doubt whatever, holding an automatic pistol ready.
"The devil!" he involuntarily exclaimed.
"Devil yourself, Monseer Lanyard," a nasal drawl retorted. "Funny! I was
thinking only a day or so ago, it was about time for you and me to be
bumping into each other again. And now, lo and behold you!"
"It can't be!" Lanyard incredulously cried, stepping nearer and holding
his candle high.
"Wrong again: it can," drawled the humorous voice--"it is!"
Candlelight ruddled the lineaments of a North American Indian in the
skin of a paleface: narrowed eyes beneath a lofty brow, a thin nose with
a prominent bridge, lantern jaws and high cheek-bones, a wide slit of a
firm-lipped mouth.
"Crane!" Lanyard cried in unfeigned pleasure.
"Never forget anything, do you?" Mr. Crane complained in mock
bitterness. "Here I was counting on being able to put something
over on you, because you hadn't seen me for five or six
years--Nineteen-Seventeen, wasn't it?--and you'd ought've forgotten my
map entirely . . . Swell chance!"
He surrendered to Lanyard's friendly grasp a bony hand of tremendous
strength. "Well!" he groused on: "I guess here's where I miss another
opportunity to put you out of harm's way--in the hoosegow--because you
wouldn't be so gosh-awful glad to see me if you'd been doing anything
real naughty."
"My dear man!" Lanyard informed him: "if every American detective
discovered even a tenth of your deductive intelligence, New York's
crime wave wouldn't be a ripple. . . . That aside, I'm more glad to see
you than I can tell."
"I bet you are," Crane assented with ironic intent. "And I'll risk
another safe bet, too: The sooner you see the last of me for tonight,
the gladder you'll be."
"Why waste time trying to deceive you? I don't deny it."
"Then I reckon it'll make you and your lady happy if I fix it up pronto
for you to get away without being mugged and finger-printed and all?
Well: I'm a sworn servant of the law, and by all accounts you're a
desperate bad lot; but come along . . . Only you got to promise you
won't tell on me."
Crane sighed and straightened up, only to have Lanyard drop a detaining
hand on his arm.
"A moment, my friend, by your leave. My personal gratitude I hope to
prove when you are less occupied. But Mrs. McFee, too, would like to
thank you. . . . Permit me, Mrs. McFee: Mr. Crane . . ."
"Mrs. Folliott McFee?" Crane quickly queried, with a glint of interest,
and engulfed in his grasp her absurdly insignificant hand. "How do you
do, ma'm? Pleased to meet you."
"It's awfully sweet of you," Folly replied with trusting eyes and that
hint--no more--of an infantile lisp which she had found so serviceable
in dealing with certain types of men. "I'm sure I'd be frightened silly
if it wasn't for you and Mr. Lanyard."
[Illustration: THE LONE WOLF PLAYS A PRACTICAL JOKE ON PURSUING
DETECTIVES.]
"Nothing for you to be scared about," Crane reassured her. "It's the
outfit runs this joint we're after tonight, not the general public,
that great body"--his tone took on the authentic twang of a public
orator--"of simple-minded, plain-living, law-deriding hooch hounds that
forms the sturdy backbone of this glorious nation. . . . Listen to 'em
yap!" He grinned broadly, cocking an appreciative ear to the racket.
"No, ma'm: even if you and Monseer Lanyard hadn't run into me, the worst
that could happen to you would be to have your names and addresses
taken, so's you could be called as witnesses in case we caught somebody.
Which," Crane added with conviction, "I don't much think we will, not
tonight, not since they put the lights out on us. That's a brand new
dodge, and a hot one. After this gets out, I reckon we'll have to carry
our own lighting-plant along with us for night work, like in the
movies."
He was piloting Mrs. McFee down the corridor while thus discoursing, in
the wake of Lanyard's candle. Now, at the head of the stairs, he nodded
to a patrolman stationed there, and the three were permitted to descend.
The raiding party had by this time found other candles and brought a few
electric torches into play, by whose meagre illumination the business of
winnowing out the goats from the sheep was proceeding in the rooms which
had been reserved for dancing. But of this Lanyard and Folly McFee
caught only the barest of glimpses in passing; for Crane, obviously in
haste to discharge his friendly duty and be rid of them, passed them
with all possible expedition through the house. At the front door he
nevertheless held them for a moment.
"There's more or less a mob outside," he stated; "but I guess you won't
have much trouble finding a taxi. That is, unless Mrs. McFee came in her
own car . . ." But it transpired that Folly hadn't. "Then I guess it's
good night folks! Only, I'd like one word with you first, Lanyard, if
Mrs. McFee won't mind . . ."
Drawing Lanyard aside, Crane dropped his voice: "Still with the
B. S. S.? Doing anything special over here?"
"No: in fact, nothing. On leave of absence."
"I see. Where you stopping?" Crane noted the street number on the back
of an envelope. "I'll look you up as soon's I get time. Like to have a
chin about this and that."
"Do, my friend; and don't delay too long."
Passed by Crane through the police lines but pursued by jeers and
cat-calls of the crowd which had collected, Lanyard and Folly hurried
round the corner into Sixth avenue, and there by good fortune picked up
a cab almost at once. This they would hardly have needed but for the
drizzle, which had set in again: Folly McFee, it appeared, lived in the
lower Fifties, just east of Park avenue. Learning which, Lanyard hushed
a sigh of content: the shorter the drive, the better. This latter part
of his evening had exhilarated him not at all; and though the woman at
his side was charming enough in her way, nothing would please him more
than to see the last of her and be free to trot home to his dreams of
Eve. In fact, he found himself surprisingly sleepy, considering the
hour, which, according to a street clock on Fifth Avenue, still lacked
a few minutes of two: so swift had been the transaction of events since
his meeting with Liane Delorme.
A plaintive sigh from the other corner of the seat recalled him.
"You are tired, madame?" he enquired of the small figure huddled in that
magnificent panoply of fur.
Passing lights fitfully revealed a petulant face to match Folly's tone:
"More disgusted than tired. I'm so awfully grateful, and you've been
such a perfect brick to me, Mr. Lanyard, it makes me sick to have you
think me a little fool."
"But I assure you, I do not think anything of the sort."
"You forget what you said, back there in the Clique Club, about it's
being a fad of mine to live up to my name."
"That would be unforgiveable were it open to the construction you put on
it, madame. What I said was----"
"I know perfectly well what you said, at least what you meant: that I
ought to have known better than to be there at all. But I don't see
why."
"I should like very much to tell you, if I might without seeming to
presume . . ."
"But I want you to tell me, Mr. Lanyard; I don't want to do things that
make people think it's a fad of mine--"
"Surely you will be generous enough to forget those stupid words.
Otherwise I shall never forgive myself."
"I will . . . on one condition." A suggestion of the impish spirit of an
hour ago revived in Folly's smile. "And that is, that you explain what
you meant--right away."
"But it is so late, madame; and already we are arrived."
The cab was in fact halting in front of one of those interesting bijou
residences into which modern architectural ingenuity has, in the more
fashionable quarters of New York, remodelled so many of the brownstone
and brick abominations of decades dead and gone.
"Late?" Folly McFee expostulated, dilating eyes of naïve perplexity.
"Why, it's only two--the shank of the evening! Plenty of time to come in
and have a drink and a cigarette and tell me how to save myself from the
pitfalls of life in a great city."
And Lanyard, helping the woman to alight, with a bow and a smile covered
yet another sigh of sentimental desolation. There was no refusal
possible without rudeness . . .
By the time he had paid off the taxi Folly had used a latch-key, and was
unfastening the throat of her wrap in the little entrance-hall.
"Do leave your coat and hat here, Mr. Lanyard--and make believe you're
not bored to tears with the prospect of spending half an hour alone with
a pretty woman who thinks you're rather nice."
"You do me injustice," he gravely returned. "This pensive silence you
misconstrue is solely due to wonder what your family will think . . ."
"The Saints be praised!" cried Folly McFee, rolling up devout eyes--"I
haven't a suspicion of family, more than a maiden aunt who insists on
living with me for the looks of the thing. But if it's information
you're fishing for, it's only fair to tell you I'm a lone, lorn widdy
woman, and have been for years. So you needn't be hoping for a jealous
husband to pop in unexpectedly and save you from my wiles."
She danced to the back of the hall, a bewitching smile bidding him
follow.
The room was a study and lounge in which easy chairs faced the embers of
an open fire and windows heavily draped contributed to a cosy and
informal atmosphere.
Here, measurably less bored than he thought he ought to be, Lanyard
accepted a cigarette and a highball compounded with such Scotch as he
had not tasted since leaving England, and made himself comfortable on
one side of the fireplace while on the other Folly curled herself up in
an interesting pose with feet beneath her.
"And now," she announced with a speciously demure look--"I'm waiting to
be told why I'm aptly nicknamed."
Smiling, Lanyard put his glass aside. "Perhaps one reason is because you
recklessly invite into your house at ungodly hours a man about whom you
know nothing whatever."
"I know enough from the way you've behaved tonight. Besides, anything I
want to know about you I can find out from Liane any time I care to
ask." Folly made a provoking face. "You'll have to do better than
that!"
Lanyard shrugged. "I see there's no fobbing you off . . . Is it
permitted to be plain-spoken?"
"Please. Even if it hurts, I'm sure I'll find it refreshing . . ." With
malice Folly amended: "coming from a man." She pursued with all the
solemnity of a sagacious infant: "You know, Mr. Lanyard, it's all tosh,
this effort you men are forever making to persuade the world you're the
straight-forward sex. Maybe you are among yourselves, but with women--!"
Her eyes called Heaven to witness to the subtlety of masculine methods
with women.
"I agree entirely, madame. But do you claim more for your own sex?"
"Oh! there's never any doubt about a woman's mind. She may not always
say what she means, sometimes she doesn't just know how, but one always
knows what she means."
"One always knows she means business . . ."
"Precisely." Folly giggled joyously. "You know, Mr. Lanyard, you're too
delightful. I'm afraid you're a dangerous man."
Lanyard bowed his appreciation of this flattery. "You begin to believe,
perhaps, you may have been a trifle injudicious in asking me in . . ."
The young woman agitated a dissentient head till its bobbed brassy
tresses fluffed out like an aureole.
"Not the least bit!" she declared. "You could be dangerous and not half
try; but so long as you persist in being a gentleman, why should I
fear? Here am I using all my girlish arts to make you flirt--and all you
can think of is how quickly you can read me the lecture I need and
escape. Ain't that the truth?" She relished in elfin mischief Lanyard's
momentary loss of countenance, then abruptly made a prim mouth, and sat
with modest eyes downcast to folded hands. "Well!" she sighed: "go
on . . ."
"No," Lanyard demurred; "I don't think I shall, if you don't mind. I
begin to see my mistake: you can very well be trusted to take care of
yourself."
"But if I insist? It isn't good manners to start something without
finishing it."
"A man might better rush down a steep place into the sea than take a
dare to advise any woman . . . But evidently I may as well resign myself
to being thrown out instead of taking my leave in orderly fashion."
"Anything, so long as you get away some time soon!" Folly lisped,
without looking up: "I understand you."
"To begin with, then: You are an extremely attractive young woman."
"Yes, I know. But is this part of the lecture? or have I at last
succeeded in rousing you?"
But Lanyard wouldn't be diverted. "And apparently," he persisted, "too
well supplied with money to know a real care."
"Simple sloughs of the wretched stuff," Folly frankly admitted.
"That sable coat you wore tonight can't have cost less than twenty
thousand dollars."
"How little men know! It cost thirty."
"The jewels you're wearing would ransom a profiteer's wife--"
"Why not? I'm a profiteer's widow."
"Those emeralds alone must be worth a hundred thousand."
"You do know emeralds, don't you, Mr. Lanyard?"
"Altogether, taken as you stand, you'd probably assay a quarter of a
million. Yet you complacently riot about town and without a moment's
hesitation trust yourself in resorts like the Clique Club, rendezvous of
the rarest set of rogues New York can boast--and your host its
self-confessed proprietor!"
"Oh! everybody knows Morphy's the King of the Bootleggers; but nobody
except Revenue officials considers a bootlegger a criminal nowadays."
"Possibly not. Still, I fancy, society is less kindly disposed toward
professional blackmailers, notorious demi-mondaines, and jewel thieves
of international ill-fame."
"Mr. Lanyard! you don't mean to say--" Folly McFee sat up and made
shocked eyes.
"I am one whose lot it has been to see a vast deal of this world,
madame. I give you my word I recognized representatives of all those
classes at the Clique tonight."
The woman illustrated a little thrill of delicious dread. "Of course, as
to blackmailers, I've nothing to fear--"
"Pardon: but can you be sure? In the absence of any fair excuse for
bleeding their victims, blackmailers have been known to manufacture
evidence. And it's always, with them, the open season for high-spirited
young women of fortune with a taste for entertaining indiscretions."
The violet eyes widened and darkened. "Mr. Lanyard! you don't mean--you
don't think--!"
"Tell me this, Mrs. McFee: How did you make the acquaintance of Mr.
Morphew?"
"Why! through Madame Delorme--"
"And Liane?"
"Mally introduced us."
"And Mr. Mallison?"
"Oh! I don't know . . . I really don't remember where I met Mally.
Somewhere at a dance. He's the perfectest dancer in Town."
"They are, as a rule."
"'They'?"
"Permit one more impertinent question: Does Mr. Mallison make love to
you?"
"Why, of course! it's the only conversation he knows."
"And you encourage him?"
"Now it's no use your trying to make me believe Mally's a blackmailer.
He hasn't got enough brains--or anything else."
"Perhaps not. But others have, with whom he herds. For example, Mr.
Morphew."
"Morphy!" Folly laughed the notion to scorn--"the King of the
Bootleggers makes too much money, he doesn't need to levy blackmail."
"It may be merely a hobby of his," Lanyard submitted reasonably; "or
perhaps he's keeping his hand in order to have a good trade to fall back
on if ever anything happens to upset the Eighteenth Amendment."
"You aren't serious, Mr. Lanyard?"
"Madame: I _know_."
"How can you?"
"Your American courts permit a witness to refuse to answer leading
questions on the ground that his testimony might tend to incriminate or
degrade."
"You mean Morphy's trying to blackmail you? What a wicked life you must
have led!"
"I don't deny that; but rest assured, I admit it only to convince you I
am not guessing. You will do well, believe me, madame, to avoid
hereafter Mr. Morphew and all his crew."
"Mally and Peter Pagan and Liane Delorme? And they've been such fun!
What's the matter with Liane?"
"Madame Delorme," Lanyard said slowly and with meaning, "I have known
many years. Her friendship I value highly. I should be very sad to do
anything to deserve her enmity."
"You _are_ provoking!" Folly declared--"forever tantalizing one with
hints. I presume you mean me to understand she's the notorious
demi-mondaine you mentioned."
"Has Liane told you nothing about herself?"
"Oh heaps! but--"
"Then I beg you to excuse me from saying anything that might, possibly
through my ignorance of the true facts, conflict with her confidences."
"Beast!" said Folly McFee with feeling, and made him a face of pique. "I
suppose it's no use trying to pump you about that international jewel
thief . . ."
"None whatever, madame."
"Of course, you mean the Lone Wolf."
"But why that one?"
"Peter Pagan was talking about him at the Ritz tonight, told us there
was a rumour the Lone Wolf had convalesced from his reformation and was
on the loose again, right here in New York."
"I have no doubt," Lanyard agreed with entire tranquillity, "there is
such a rumour . . . And now that I have duly functioned in my paternal
rôle, my dear young woman"--he rose--"now I have told you all I know--"
"Anybody that believes that--!"
"I fancy you will be relieved if I bid you good night."
"I think you're perfectly damn' horrid," said Folly McFee, rising and
extending her hand. "First you spoil my evening, then you run away."
"You will forgive me one spoiled evening, I know, if anything I may have
said preserves to you the beauty of your tomorrows."
"I won't forgive you for running away from me," the young woman promised
darkly, holding fast to his hand and unleashing 80 c.-p. eyes to do
their devastating work. "You can be rather a dear when you choose; but I
don't think it's a bit fair of you to rob me of four friends and not
replace them with one."
"But I trust very truly--" Lanyard began.
A peremptory buzz of the doorbell interrupted.
V
Folly McFee whipped her hand away with a jerk, her round eyes consulted
Lanyard's, in that furtive tone which people seem instinctively to adopt
in times of apprehension, irrespective of the possibility of being
overheard, "What can that mean?" she demanded--"at this hour of morning!
Who can it be?"
"One or more of our fancy friends, undoubtedly," Lanyard replied with
comforting absence of agitation--"calling to enquire if you got safely
home--with, I'll wager, some transparent excuse for having left you to
shift for yourself during the raid."
"But," the woman boggled, with a frown, "I don't want to see them . . .
And all the servants are in bed . . ."
"Then I'm afraid there's no way out of it." Lanyard moved toward the
hall door as the bell sounded another and more imperative stridulation.
"Let me--"
"No," Folly decided, darting ahead--"I'll let them in. But I do wish I
didn't have to."
"Then remember," Lanyard enjoined: "better not give them any reason to
suspect I have warned you . . ."
"I understand." She paused an instant, nodding back to him. "I'll do my
best. But promise me one thing: you won't leave me alone with them."
He promised, a gay flirt of that fair head thanked him, Folly vanished.
And in another moment Lanyard heard her give little cries of elation
whose ring was as true as one could wish: "Liane! Peter! how sweet of
you both!" And the listener gave a nod of thoughtful approbation.
The dry accents of Mr. Pagan replied: "I told Liane you were all right,
but she wouldn't hear of going home without stopping to make sure . . ."
"Oh I'm all right, of course! Mr. Lanyard brought me home. Thanks to him
we didn't have the least trouble. But do come in, both of you, and tell
him how _you_ got out of it."
Liane was heard to consent, stipulating, however, that they would stop
only a moment; and the three entered the study to find Lanyard at a wide
window in the rear wall, thoughtfully peering out through its
tear-blinded panes.
"Ah! ah! my friend," Liane saluted him in lively imitation of the tone
she might have used to a child caught in mild mischief; and wagged a
forefinger of reproof. "What are you up to there?"
"Trying to make out whether or not it's raining," Lanyard serenely
explained, dropping the draperies his hands had parted.
"You might have waited to enquire of us."
"Judging by the state of mind you and Monsieur Pagan were betraying when
I saw you last," Lanyard retorted, "it seemed fair to doubt whether
you'd pay much attention to a drop or two of water." He comprehended
Pagan in a lightly mocking bow. "You might tell us--we've been no end
mystified--"
"I know," Mr. Pagan interrupted brightly. "You want the answer to that
historical riddle: Where was Morphew when the lights went out?"
"Not where he was, monsieur, but where he went--and not alone--and with
such amazing expedition."
"We didn't know what to think," Folly declared. "You vanished from that
room like tumblers in a pantomime."
"It was very simple," Pagan glibly elucidated: "Everybody seemed to be
making for the roof, so we followed the crowd."
"Presuming, of course," Liane amended, "you would, as well."
"You see," commented Lanyard, nodding to Folly, "how simply some things
may be explained!" And thereby earned, and enjoyed, a resentful look
from Pagan. "And did you actually get away across the roofs?"
"Unhappily, no. Those wretched police were up there, too," said Liane,
with disgust. "So we had to go back and line up with the rest and give
our pedigrees."
"Monsieur Morphew, too?" Lanyard's tone was skeptical. "And that so
charming Monsieur Mallison?"
"All of us," Pagan snapped in a strangely sour temper. "That's what
delayed us."
"Frankly, monsieur, you surprise me."
"How so?"
"Why! if I were in Monsieur Morphew's shoes--"
"You'd rattle," Pagan asserted.
"What a literal mind you have, my friend! Well; but if I were, like that
good soul, head of an institution so exposed to police attentions, I
would be at pains to provide myself with more than one secret avenue of
escape--when the lights were out."
"You've got to make allowances for Morph," Pagan blandly declared; "he
hasn't had your early advantages."
"What do I see?" Apparently possessed by the belief that some sharp
distraction was indicated if open hostilities were to be averted, Liane
pounced upon Lanyard's barely tasted highball. "And this hour I have
been dying of thirst!" She gulped with gusto, making eyes at Lanyard
over the glass. "Yours, my friend? Never mind: Folly will fetch you
another."
"Do with a drink myself," Pagan volunteered. "No, don't you trouble,
Mrs. McFee, I know the way."
He ducked briskly out into the hall and was presently heard in the
dining-room making melody with glasses and siphons and ice.
Liane set aside an empty glass, crossed to Lanyard, and petted his cheek
with the authentic professional touch. "You mustn't mind Peter, mon
coco," she cooed affectionately in French. "He presumes, perhaps, but
then he's a privileged type."
"Mind him?" Lanyard questioned in a tone that implied he found the
thought weird. "Vermin, my dear Liane, were ever my pet aversion. If you
set any value on this insect, be good enough to keep him out from under
my feet."
"Every time you do that," Folly grumbled in English, "you make me sick,
to think of all the youth I wasted studying what I fondly thought was
French."
Liane turned with a murmur of self-reproach, and gracefully posing on
the broad arm of the easy chair passed a fair arm round Folly's even
fairer shoulders.
"Forgive me, my pretty. Michael and I knew each other so long ago in
that dear Paris of before the War, it goes against Nature to converse
with him in any tongue but French. . . . Ah! my old one," she lamented
to Lanyard. "Those old days! will we ever know their like again?"