"WE TWO WILL MEET AGAIN."
[Illustration: ""That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarls the now
thoroughly angry detective."--page 278.]
There may have been times in Alan Warburton's life--such times come to
most fastidious city-bred people--when he doubted the wisdom of
Providence in permitting the "street musician" to inherit the earth,
and, especially to transport so much of his "heritage," wheresoever he
might go, upon his person. But to-day, for the first time, he fancies
that he sees some reason for the existence of the species, and he finds
himself looking down almost complacently upon the crouching minstrel who
has lawlessly invaded the sanctity of his splendid cabinet.
This strange intruder has brought him at least a respite; and he
breathes a sigh of relief even as he asks sternly:
"Fellow, how long have you been hiding in that cabinet?"
But the culprit is once more a mute; again the pathetic look is in his
eyes, and with Grip's hand still clutching his shoulder, he begins a
terrified pantomime.
"Bah!" says Mr. Grip, pushing his prisoner away contemptuously, "that
won't wash. You ain't deaf--not much; nor dumb, neither. Answer me,"
giving him a rough shake, "how came you here?"
There is no sign that the fellow hears or understands; he continues to
gesticulate wildly.
Mr. Grip releases his hold, and bends upon Alan a look of impatience. In
a moment, the organ-grinder bounds to the cabinet and, dragging forth
his organ, turns back, displaying it and slinging it across his shoulder
with grimaces of triumph.
"That won't go down, either," snarls Mr. Grip. "Put that thing on the
floor, _presto_!"
But the minstrel only grins with delight, and throwing himself into an
attitude, begins to grind out a doleful air. With an angry growl, Mr.
Grip makes a movement toward him. But the organist retreats as he
advances, and the doleful tune goes on.
It is a ludicrous picture, and Alan smiles in spite of himself, even
while he wishes that Leslie would come now,--now, while he might warn
her; now, while Mr. Augustus Grip, in his pursuit of the intruding
musician, has put the width of the room between himself and his chosen
place of concealment.
But Leslie does not come. And Mr. Grip's next remark shows that he has
not forgotten himself. With a sudden movement, he wrests the organ from
the hands of its manipulator, and converting the strap of the instrument
into a very serviceable lasso, brings the fellow down upon his knees
with a quick, dexterous throw, and holding him firmly thus, says over
his shoulder, to Alan:
"This is a fine thing to happen just now! The fellow must be got out of
the way, and kept safe until I have time to discover his racket. He's
not such a fool as he looks. Can't you get in a policeman quietly? We
don't want any servants to gossip over it, or to see me."
Alan turns his face toward the closet. "Can't we lock him up again?" he
suggests.
"My dear sir," says Grip coolly, "this fellow is probably a _spy_."
"What!" Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder.
Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, "nonsense;
look at that stolid countenance."
"Umph!" mutters Grip; "too much hair and dirt." Then turning toward the
side window: "I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get in
a policeman somehow; try the window."
As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state of
utter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp of
Mr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew his
pleading, terrified pantomine.
"Ah," says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, "this window must
have been the place where he entered." Then, after a prolonged look up
and down the street: "I don't see an officer anywhere."
"No; I presume not. Try the other windows."
"The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds."
"Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and come
and guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment."
Alan turns again, and looks down into the street.
"I think," he says, quietly, "that we will just drop him back into the
street whence he came."
"You seem to want this fellow to escape," snarls the detective, casting
upon Alan a glance of suspicion. "He shall not escape; I'll take care of
him!"
At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie,
breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room.
"Mr. Alan," she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants of
the room; "we can't find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!"
"What!" Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment.
"Ah-h-h!" Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full of
meaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed.
"Impossible, Millie," says Alan sharply; "go to Miss French--"
"I did, sir, and she is--"
She pauses abruptly, for there in the doorway is Winnie French, pale and
tearful, an open letter in her hand.
"Read that, sir," she says, going straight up to Alan and extending to
him the letter. "See what your cruelty has done. Leslie Warburton is
gone!"
"Gone!"
This time Grip and Alan both utter the word, both start forward.
For just one moment the hand that clutches the collar of the
organ-grinder relaxes its hold, but that moment is enough. With amazing
agility, and seemingly by one movement, the prisoner has freed himself
and is on his feet. In another second, by a clever wrestler's
man[oe]uvre, he has thrown Mr. Grip headlong upon the floor. And then,
before the others can realize his intentions, he has bounded to the open
window, and flung himself out, as easily and as carelessly as would a
cat.
But Mr. Grip, discomfited for the moment, is not wanting in alertness.
He is on his feet before the man has cleared the window. He bounds
toward it, and drawing a small revolver, fires after the
fugitive--once--twice.
"Stop!" It is Alan Warburton's voice, stern and ringing. He has seized
the pistol arm, and holds it in a grasp that Mr. Grip finds difficult to
release.
"Hands off!" cries Grip, now hoarse with rage. "That man's a _spy_!"
"No matter; we will have no more shooting."
"_We_!" struggling to release his arm from Alan's firm grasp; "who are
you that--"
"I am master here, sir."
With an angry hiss, the detective from Scotland Yards throws himself
upon Alan, and they engage in a fierce struggle. But Alan Warburton is
something more than a ball-room hero; he is an adept in the manly
sports, and fully a match for Mr. Grip.
Panting and terrified, Winnie and Millie stand together near the door;
and the eyes of the latter damsel wander from the combatants near the
window, to something that has fallen close at her feet, and that lies
half hidden by the folds of her dress.
But disaster has befallen Mr. Grip. While they wrestle, Alan's quick eye
has detected something that looks like a displacement of Mr. Grip's
cranium, and with a sudden, dexterous, upward movement, he solves the
mystery. There is an exclamation of surprise, another of anger, and the
two combatants stand apart, both gazing down at the thing lying on the
floor between them.
It is a wig of curling auburn hair, and it leaves the head of Mr. Grip
quite a different head in shape, in size, in height of forehead, and in
general expression!
"So," sneers Alan, "Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards, saw fit to visit me in
disguise. Is your name as easily altered as your face, sir?"
The discomfited wrestler stoops down, and picking up his wig adjusts it
carefully on his head once more; bends again to take up his fallen
pistol; lifts his hat from a chair, and returns to the window.
"My name is not Augustus Grip," he says coolly. "Neither will you find
me by inquiring at police headquarters. But you and I will meet again,
Mr. Warburton."
[Illustration: "Drawing a small revolver, he fires after the
fugitive--once--twice!" page 283.]
And without unseemly haste, he places his hand upon the window-sill,
swings himself over the ledge, resting his feet upon the iron
railings, and drops down upon the pavement.
By this time some people have collected outside, attracted by the
pistol-shots. Two laggard policemen are hastening down the street. A
group of servants are whispering and consulting anxiously in the hall,
and cautiously peeping in at the study door.
The coolness of the false Mr. Grip takes him safely past the group of
inquiring ones.
"It was a sneak thief," he explains, as he leaps down among them. "Don't
detain me, friends; I must report this affair at police headquarters."
A few quick strides take him across the street to where a carriage
stands in waiting. He enters it, and in a moment more, Mr. Grip and
carriage have whirled out of sight.
"I'd give a hundred dollars to know what that fellow was in hiding for,"
he mused, as the carriage rolled swiftly along. "Could he have been put
there by Warburton? But no--Confound that Warburton, I'll humble his
pride before we cry quits, or my name is not _Van Vernet_!"
But Vernet little dreamed that he had that day aimed a bullet at the
life of a brother detective; that his disguise had been penetrated and
his plans frustrated, by _Richard Stanhope_!