"DEAR MRS FOLLINGSBEE."
While the previously related scenes of this fateful night are
transpiring Richard Stanhope finds his silken-trained disguise a snare
in which his own feet become entangled, both literally and figuratively.
[Illustration: "Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows
after; a man in the garments of a sailor."--page 90.]
Moving with slow and stately steps through the vista of splendid rooms,
taking note of all that he sees from behind his white and blue mask, he
suddenly becomes the object of too much attention. A dashing Troubador
presents himself, and will not be denied the pleasure of a waltz with
"the stately and graceful Miss Columbia."
The detective's feet are encased in satin shoes that, if not small, are
at least shapely. He has yet nearly an hour to spare to the masquerade,
and his actual business is done. Why not yield to the temptation? He
dances with the grace and abandon of the true music worshipper; he loves
brightness and gayety, laughter and all sweet sounds; above all, he
takes such delight in a jest as only healthy natures can.
"It would be a pity to disappoint such a pretty Troubador," muses
Richard while he seems to hesitate; "he may never have another
opportunity to dance with a lady like me."
And then, bowing a stately consent, he moves away on the arm of the
Troubador, who, chuckling at his success, mentally resolves to make a
good impression on this mysterious uninvited lady.
Van Vernet's plot works famously. The Troubador is enchanted with the
dancing of the mysterious Goddess, who looks at him with the handsomest,
most languid and melting of brown, brown eyes, letting these orbs speak
volumes, but saying never a word. And when his fellow-plotter claims the
next dance, he yields his place reluctantly, and sees the waist of the
Goddess encircled by the arm of the Celestial, with a sigh of regret.
Richard Stanhope, now fully given over to the spirit of mischief, leans
confidingly upon the arm of this second admirer, looking unutterable
things with his big brown eyes.
They hover about him after this second dance, and he dances again with
each. If the Troubador is overflowing with flattery, the Celestial is
more obsequious still. Stanhope finds the moments flying, and the
attention of the two gallants cease to amuse, and begin to annoy. In
vain he tries to shake them off. If one goes, the other remains.
After many futile efforts to free himself from his tormentors, he sees
Mr. Follingsbee approach, and beckons him forward with a sigh of relief.
The two maskers, recognizing Uncle Sam as a fitting companion for Miss
Columbia, reluctantly yield their ground and withdraw.
"Have those fellows been pestering you?" queries the lawyer, with a
laugh.
"Only as they bade fair to prove a hindrance," with an answering
chuckle. "They're such nice little lady killers: but I must get away
from this in a very few minutes. My disguise has been very successful."
"I should think so! Why, my boy, half the people here, at least those
who have recognized me through my costume, think you are--ha! ha!--my
wife!"
"So much the better."
"Why, little Winnie French--she found me out at once--has been looking
all through the card rooms for "Dear Mrs. Follingsbee."" And the jolly
lawyer laughs anew.
"Mr. Follingsbee,"--Stanhope has ceased to jest, and speaks with his
usual business brusqueness--"Mrs. Warburton, I don't know for what
reason, wished to be informed when I left the house. Will you tell her I
am about to go, and that I will let her hear from me further through
you? I will go up to the dressing room floor, and wait in the boudoir
until you have seen her."
The boudoir opening upon the ladies' dressing rooms, is untenanted. But
from the inner room, Stanhope catches the hum of feminine voices, and in
a moment a quartette of ladies come forth, adjusting their masks as
they move toward the stairway.
Suddenly there is a little exclamation of delight, and our detective,
standing near the open window, with his face turned from the group,
feels himself clasped by a pair of pretty dimpled arms, while a gay
voice says in his ear:
"Oh! you dear old thing! Have I found you at last? Follingsbee, you look
stunning in that costume. Oh!--" as Stanhope draws back with a
deprecating gesture--"you needn't deny your identity: isn't Mr.
Follingsbee here as Uncle Sam? I found him out at once, and didn't
Leslie and I see you enter together?"
Stanhope quakes inwardly, and the perspiration starts out under his
mask. It is very delightful, under most circumstances, to be embraced by
a pair of soft feminine arms, but just now it is very embarrassing
and--very ridiculous.
Divided between his desire to laugh and his wish to run away, the
detective stands hesitating, while Winnie French, for she it is, begins
a critical examination of his costume.
"Don't you think the dress muffles your figure a little too much,
Follingsbee? If it were snugger here,"--giving him a little poke
underneath his elbows,--"and not so straight from the shoulders. Why
didn't you shorten it in front, and wear pointed shoes?"
And she seizes the flowing drapery, and draws it back to illustrate her
suggestion.
Again Stanhope recoils with a gesture which the gay girl misinterprets,
and, quite ignoring the persistent silence of the supposed Mrs.
Follingsbee, she chatters on:
[Illustration: "Don't you think your dress muffles your figure a little
too much, Follingsbee?"--page 94.]
"I hope you don't resent _my_ criticisms, Follingsbee; you've picked
_me_ to pieces often enough. Or are you still vexed because I _won't_
fall in love with your favorite Alan? There, now,"--as Stanhope, grown
desperate, seems about to speak,--"I know just what you want to say, and
you need not say it. Follingsbee," lowering her voice to a more
confidential tone, "if I ever _had_ a scrap of a notion of that sort, I
have been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I know
he's your prime favorite, but you can't tell _me_ anything about Alan;
I've got him all catalogued on my ten fingers. Here he is pro and con;
pro's _your_ idea of him, you know. You say he is rich. Well, that's
something in these days! He's handsome. Bah! a man has no business with
beauty; it's woman's special prerogative. He came of a splendid
blue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is American _rubbish_.
He's talented. Well, that's only an accident for which _he_ deserves no
credit. He's thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he's _too_ bolt
upright for me."
"So," murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, "I am making a point
in personal history, but--it's a tight place for me!" And as Winnie's
arms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feels
tempted to retort in kind.
"Now, then," resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing her
victim to check off her "cons" on the pretty right hand; "here's _my_
opinion of Mr. Warburton. He's _proud_, ridiculously proud. He worships
his _name_, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving.
He's _hard-hearted_. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate him
utterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference,
impossible to resent and horrible to endure,--and all because he chooses
to believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking it
for love of the Warburton fortune instead of the race."
Up from the ball-room floats the first strains of a delicious waltz.
Winnie stops, starts, and turns toward the door.
"That's my favorite waltz, and I'm engaged to Charlie Furbish--he dances
like an angel. Follingsbee, bye, bye!"
She flits to the mirror, gives two or three dainty touches to her
coquettish costume, tosses a kiss from her finger tips, and is gone.
"Thank Heaven," mutters Stanhope. "I consider _that_ the narrowest
escape of my life! What a little witch it is, and pretty, I'll wager."
He draws from beneath his flowing robe a tiny watch such as ladies
carry, and consults its jewelled face.
"My time is up!" he ejaculates. "Twenty minutes delay, now, will ruin my
Raid. Ah! here's Follingsbee." And he moves forward at the sound of an
approaching step.
But it is not Follingsbee who appears upon the threshold. It is,
instead, Stanhope's too-obsequious, too-attentive admirer, the
Celestial, who has voted the prospect of a flirtation with a mysterious
mask, a thing of spice.