I WIN THE QUEEN
"Well," resumed Blunt, "I told you the boat docked at eight thirty,
special customs arrangements having been made, and when Miss Gelette
got back to the Waldorf--I believe she had been in the company of an
ancient female friend whom she met by chance, and who carried her off
and simply forced her to remain for dinner----"
"I've been called everything in my day but an ancient female," I
interrupted. "As it seems there isn't much you don't know, I take
it that you're fully aware that Miss Gelette dined with me at the
Claremont?"
"Oh, sure," said my companion blithely. "I'm only relating the story
that an ingenuous and repentant niece told to a certain sick and irate
uncle. I've no use for a woman who can't tell a well-constructed lie on
occasion," he added parenthetically. "When Miss Gelette got back, she
found her uncle down with an attack of acute indigestion, and hopping
mad at having been left alone so long. The house physician was in
attendance and Mr. Varney felt so ill that he couldn't go to the dock.
Therefore, Miss Gelette went alone----"
"Alone! Great Scott, Blunt! Why didn't you tell me----"
"Hold on; you needn't break my arm, old man. Don't excite yourself.
She's quite all right, and safe as a church. Well, to proceed, she went
alone in the car, having no suspicion of Joyce, even if he was being
stalked by a jealous Italian. Yes, I know about that little affair of
the blow-out. The idea was for Silas Varney to put up at the Waldorf
for the night, owing to his brother's illness. Now Bright had been
tipped off, but Joyce and his pals were too slick for him; they ditched
him and his men, chucked Miss Gelette out in a side street, and made
off with the bound and gagged Silas--same trick they worked on you.
Everything worked just as they had planned, and this business of yours
helped them; at least it kept me from being on hand. Well, as I say,
there was a risk of their killing Varney and you if we didn't get the
jump on them, and so when I got to the house it was arranged for me to
first sneak in and short circuit any such plan. There was a ladder with
the crowbars and axes in the patrol wagon, and so I skinned up and the
rest was easy."
"Yes, when you say it like that. There's an apology due you by me,
Blunt. For all your reputation, I was beginning to think you'd been
over-rated, and that you were asleep on the job. I take it all back.
You've simply done wonders----"
"Not I," he laughed. "It wasn't any one-man job, as I warned you.
Lannigan, Bright, the boys in blue of Philadelphia and Boston--all had
as much to do with it as I. It was simply organization and hard work,
and we'd have been nowhere but for you. It was you who started the
whole business, and only for you, Scallon would have got away with his
game, and the Black Company would have been more flourishing than ever.
A whole lot of good certainly came from that wild jag of yours; but I'm
not saying the moral of the tale is, 'Go thou and do likewise.'"
"What about Theodore Varney and his niece?" I asked. "How much do they
know? And where is Miss Gelette now?"
"At her hotel. That's what helped to delay Bright and Lannigan--the
old gag of throwing food to the pursuing wolves. They happened upon
her after Joyce had doubled on them--I believe that's some car of
Varney's, and that Joyce must have been born with a steering wheel in
his fist--and they detailed a couple of men to see her home. Yes, of
course she knows her uncle's been kidnaped, and I'll stop in and tell
the sequel. There's no harm in her knowing the inside of it. Of course,
Scallon and his crowd will have to stand their trial on the Varney
charge; it's only the inside stuff about his mission here that won't be
made public."
He glanced at his watch as we reached Thirty-fourth Street. "Close on
twelve. Do you think it's too late for an ancient female friend to tell
the sequel to Miss Gelette instead of me?"
"You bet it is," I said. "No, it wouldn't do at all. I had no idea we
were so near the Waldorf; I should have been walking the other way.
I've got to beat it."
"I've got work to do, Lawton, and you haven't. Go in and tell her----"
"Far be it from me, Blunt; she wouldn't see me no matter what time it
was. You see, there was--er--a sort of misunderstanding at the dinner.
When you're at the explaining business, you might put in a good word
for me--in fact, several words, a whole poem. I need it. If you can
manage to represent me as outclassing Sherlock Holmes, Sir Galahad, and
General Joffre, so much the better."
"I'll do more--I'll tell the truth about you."
"For Heaven's sake, don't! I can't afford it, Blunt. She knows me a bit
too well as it is. I tell you I'm in wrong----" I stopped; a taxi had
drawn in to the curb opposite where we stood, and a woman had alighted.
It was Brenda Gelette.
"Good evening--I mean good morning," I said, raising my hat.
"I wish to speak with Mr. Blunt," she said, ignoring my dignified
salute.
"Certainly," I said. "Blunt----" I turned, but the perfidious Blunt had
vanished.
"I'm sure I saw him," said Miss Gelette.
"I'm sure, too," I agreed. "He was here--and now he isn't."
"So I see. You told him to go."
"_I?_ Indeed no. Why should I?"
She blushed profusely under the electrics. "Because you did! It would
be just like you. You knew I wanted to see him. Of course you did!"
She backed toward the taxi, I followed. "Where are you going?" I asked.
"I thought you were arriving home. But now it seems you're going."
"How intelligent you are," she murmured.
I peered into the taxi; it was empty. "Do you know what time it is?" I
demanded. "You're not going gallivanting about the streets at this hour
alone. It is my duty to go with you."
"But it is not my pleasure, Mr. Lawton."
"I can't help that, Miss Gelette. Either I march you back to the
Waldorf, or I accompany you on this errand. Take your choice."
"Oh, very well," she shrugged. "Of course, if you're going to be
perfectly brutal again, I am quite defenseless, and I must go to
Roosevelt Hospital. I've not time to argue----"
We entered the taxi and sat in formidable silence.
"Well?" said Miss Gelette at length, her foot tapping. "Why don't you
demand why I'm going to the hospital at this hour? I suppose you are
going to force me to tell you, but I won't."
"Really, I'm not at all inquisitive."
"Then you've changed greatly. But, of course, the real fact is that you
know already. Mr. Blunt told you; I'm positive he did."
"Well, that's true," I admitted. "I was taking a walk and happened to
meet him, and he told me about your Uncle Silas. I suppose they phoned
you from Roosevelt? Fancy all that has happened in a few hours; it
doesn't seem possible. You must have had a very exciting time, from all
accounts."
"I had," she said uncompromisingly. "What did Mr. Blunt tell you?"
"Oh, that Joyce is a rascal--which is no more than I suspected----"
"If you suspected that, then why didn't you tell us?"
"Well, I wasn't sure----"
"No, of course you weren't. You never suspected him at all. We might
all have had our throats cut and you'd never have known, or cared."
"Oh, but I would; I don't like my throat being cut--well, no matter
if you didn't mean me, too. Anyway, he's a rascal, it seems, and with
other rascals kidnaped your Uncle Silas and held him to ransom. They
took him to some lonely house and he wouldn't pay up. He was wounded
but managed to escape, and he's now at Roosevelt. It's all very
interesting, like something you'd read about."
"I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Blunt."
"Oh, in a sort of way. He tells me things."
She smiled with great superiority. "So I see. But a great deal happened
to-night that you'll never know."
"You might tell me."
"I might, but I won't. If ever I needed a friend--a _real_ friend who
could do things and not merely talk and act silly--it was to-night. I
had an awful time."
"I'm very sorry to hear it. If you had only phoned me----"
"Phoned _you_!"
"Well, I didn't even know you had an Uncle Silas; at least I'd
forgotten, and I didn't know he was coming----"
"No, of course, you didn't. You never know anything. But if you had
been there, what would you have done? Nothing. It was an occasion for
men, real men. If it hadn't been for Mr. Blunt and Mr. Bright----"
"Blunt never told me what he did."
"No he doesn't talk about himself, which must seem strange to you. But
Mr. Bright, who saved me from those wretches, told me all that Mr.
Blunt was doing."
"Well," I said as the taxi rattled under the L at Fifty-eighth Street,
"everybody can't be a hero, and you know I never pretended to be one.
One can't be everything. I hope that you really weren't in any danger."
"I was. I might have been killed; but I'm not going to tell you
anything about it. Here's the hospital. I suppose you'll insist upon
coming in?"
"No, I never liked the smell. I'll sit here and keep the car warm.
Don't be long."
"I'll be as long as I like. I don't want you to wait. I prefer to
return alone. I insist upon it."
"Very well. I shall be here."
"Oh, you--you----" Words failing her for once, she turned and entered
the hospital.
She kept me waiting a really scandalous time, simply out of spite.
It is remarkable how spiteful even the best women can be, and for
absolutely no reason at all. When at length she returned, she entered
the taxi without a word, seemingly too concerned about something even
to notice my continued presence.
"I hope your uncle is coming along all right," I ventured at length.
No answer.
"I hope your uncle----"
"Don't speak to me!"
"Very well; as you wish. As I was saying, I hope----"
Then she burst in on me in a muffled voice. "Of all the mean,
detestable, contemptible characters I ever met--yes, I mean _you_!
I--I hate you! That's right, sit there and laugh at me. You _are_
laughing! Oh, but you are _wicked_!"
"What have I done now, or failed to do?"
"Y-you know perfectly well! You knew all the time. You were there
at that house. It was you who really saved my uncle. And--and you
pretended. You let me talk. Oh, but you are _wicked_!"
"I didn't say anything that wasn't literally true either----"
"You did! You let me think--no, it's no use trying to explain. I've
learned everything--everything! Mr. Blunt told me the whole story
over the wire. He guessed that I was going to the hospital. I know
_everything_."
"But you don't want to believe a word that man says," I assured her
earnestly. "I've got to be honest about it. I asked him to put in
a good word for me when he saw you, to tell you a lot of glorified
nonsense." To my consternation I saw that she was crying. "My dear
little girl----"
"I--I'm not your dear little girl! You hate me. Y-you never tell me the
truth about anything. You're always making f-fun of me. You m-might
have been killed. They tortured you and--and you only laugh. We--we owe
you everything, and--and--oh, Peter----"
She finished it on my knee, arms about my unworthy neck and her snub
nose buried under my collar. I don't know how it happened, nor do I
care; some things are far too wonderful to be susceptible of analysis
or explanation. It just happened; one moment she was calling me some
of the names I deserved, the next she was perched there, pouring out
the most beautiful untruths imaginable. I'm ashamed to tell you all the
nice things she said about me; I was ashamed even to listen, and by and
by I told her so.
"The only two heroes who figure in this thing," I confessed, seeing
that she'd find it out, anyway, all in good time, "are Mr. Blunt and
that stoic uncle of yours, to whom I take off my hat." Of course, this
was merely a figure of speech, my arms being fully engaged with another
figure. "I hate to think what I would have done in Silas Varney's
place--or, rather, I know only too well. I wouldn't have dedicated a
perfectly good foot----"
"Yes, you would, and more! Oh, P-Peter, I can't say half what I feel!
But, Peter dear, do--do you really love me?"
"Why, bless your heart, don't you know I do, and did from the first
moment I saw you? Haven't I been telling you all along----"
"No, you haven't. But--but, Peter dear, please begin now."
Well, do you know, I'm inclined to agree with Tim Scallon that some
fools have all the luck. Certainly it was so in my case.
The abortive German peace offer has become a matter of history, and,
since the affair of the Black Company, even the Great War itself is
over and done with, if not forgotten. It is a matter of history also
how, in spite of Silas Varney's heroism and all he suffered, his
mission was betrayed. The Wall Street side of it is likewise a matter
of history, financial if not otherwise. There were those who made
fortunes, but Tim Scallon and his crowd were not among them. No, nor I
myself, nor any honest man I know.
The erstwhile Black King, with several of his court, including Roupell
or Rose, Corby, and Joyce, are the guests of the State at its famous
rest home on the banks of the Hudson, where they promise to remain for
a considerable period. For in no case was there found evidence capable
of convicting them of first-degree murder, and I dare say Scallon,
while making brushes, is comforting himself with the hope that some day
he will be free to pick that long-deferred bone with Lisping Jimmie.
I hear there is some talk about Silas Varney being our next
representative at the Court of St. James. He walks now with a slight
but permanent limp that rather adds to his distinguished appearance.
Theodore Varney is still alive and kicking. Indeed, his hold on life
seems to have increased, if anything, and he is looked on as a sort of
medical marvel, perversely defying all the accepted notions as to the
duration of his singular disease.
And so we still keep up the "tragic farce," but all his bitterness and
venom have gone. Perhaps this is due to his absorbing interest in the
antics of a small namesake. Oh, yes, I've forgotten about that sinister
Demon; it had no chance in the Argonne and was perhaps finally slain by
the bullet that invalided me out. Anyway, its final passing heralded
the coming of this delightful one. At least, the harried neighbors
call him a demon, and Brenda says he gets all his inquisitiveness,
impudence, and lack of reverence for the truth, from me. Also, by the
way, all his good looks. Of course, that goes without saying.
THE END.