In each of the two paneled show-windows one marvelous wig was displayed
on its stand, nothing else. The interior was discreetly curtained from
view. Opening the door, the pungent odor of grease paints greeted
Jack's nostrils. Inside was as neat as out. There was a showcase
setting forth cosmetics, and a counter beyond with another wig or two
on stands. Back of the counter were tiers of drawers neatly labeled.
The wall outside the counter was filled by a collection of small
engravings of historical personages with especial regard to their
hirsute appendages. Away back in the shop were several curtained
alcoves for trying on.
Behind the counter sat a little, dumpy old lady befrilled and
befrizzed, who suggested an erstwhile favorite of the boards now
retired. Her large, faded eyes fell on Jack with a startled look,
which however instantly disappeared in the polite saleswoman, as she
inquired what he wished.
It appeared that Mr. Evers was engaged with a customer.
This customer presently issued from one of the alcoves, a dandy of the
old school who was obviously much beholden to the wig-maker's art.
Evers followed at his heels, rubbing his hands, and proudly surveying
his work. Jack had the impression of a stout, rubicund little man of
middle-age, clean-shaven and bald as an egg. True to the custom of
tradesmen generally, he neglected his trade in his own person.
He was talking volubly as he came: "A very interesting question, sir,
the relation of brains to hair. It is popularly supposed that a bald
head is the result of great mental activity, but I have not found it so
in my practice. Among ordinary men it is about six of one and half a
dozen of the other. But I believe that a man cannot rise to real
heights of greatness without a good head of hair. Yes, I know, there
was Julius Caesar, and I admit it would be difficult to prove my case
by historical examples, because wigs have always been procurable, and
fashionable portrait painters naturally do not call attention to them.
But it is an interesting speculation. Good morning, sir."
Jack asked to speak to Mr. Evers in private, and was shown into one of
the alcoves. It was like a theatrical dressing-room, with a mirror
surrounded by electric lights, and a shelf beneath.
Jack did not offer to tell who he was, and the little wig-maker, who
seemed the soul of discretion, betrayed no curiosity on the subject.
Jack came to the point at once.
"Circumstances make it necessary for me to do a little private
detective work, and I'm obliged to learn how to disguise myself, well
enough I mean, so I can go about the streets without danger of
recognition. Can it be done?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Evers. "It is done oftener than you suppose."
"What sort of disguise do you recommend?"
"Let me think," said Mr. Evers, putting a thoughtful finger to his chin.
Jack was sitting facing the mirror, while Evers stood behind him
studying his reflection through half closed eyes. Meanwhile Jack took
stock of him. In repose the garrulous little man's face showed
unexpected lines of resolution. He had a strong eye. That kind of eye
may be found in wig-maker or bank president, but whatever the trade of
the possessor may be, it is a pretty safe guess that he is master of
it. All the visible part of Evers' skin, neck, face, skull, was of a
curious angry pink shade--but not unhealthy. He had but a fringe of
gray hair around the base of his skull, and his eyebrows were scanty.
Certainly, in extolling the superiority of hairy men he had been
disinterested.
"It is a good mask," he said--meaning Jack's face. "Good bones, well
placed. A promising foundation for me to work on. You are young, too.
No tell-tale lines for me to erase. Your hair is too luxuriant, but I
don't suppose you want me to cut it."
"What would be the gain if it altered my usual appearance?"
"True, true! We'll get around that somehow. Difficulties only add
zest to the artist's work."
After studying a little longer he said: "Since your purpose is to
escape observation, I would suggest making you as insignificant as
possible. Say a business man in a small way; industrious but not very
bright; of very ordinary taste both in ideas and dress."
"My idea exactly!" said Jack.
"But I must impress upon you that my work here with false hair and
pigments is only the beginning. To be successful our character must be
constructed from the inside out. Before you leave here I will write
out a description of the character as I see it, which I will ask you to
study at your leisure. I particularly recommend that you repeat it to
yourself just before falling asleep at night. It is the surest way of
impressing it on your subconsciousness."
"Fine!" said Jack, more and more taken with the philosophic wig-maker.
Evers began to lay out the implements of his trade. While he worked he
talked uninterruptedly.
"I assure you one's subconsciousness is all-important. Most people,
unknown to themselves, play an assumed part throughout their lives, a
part that has been suggested to the subconsciousness in early life by
something they admire in other people or in books. When some great
disturbance brings the real self to light people are amazed at what
they discover in themselves.--Remove your coat, waistcoat and collar,
please."
"Make it simple, please," said Jack. "Something that I can put off and
on myself at need."
"The best art is always simple," said Mr. Evers. "First a wash for the
entire face and neck. It is very thin and contains no grease to betray
you in the sunlight. Its purpose is merely to dim the youthful glow of
health that distinguishes you. See! You look fifteen years older
already! A slightly darker tone under the eyes gives you a sedentary,
slightly bilious look. Next heavy eyebrows, which with round
spectacles will give you an owlish expression. Also a stiff, closely
cropped mustache. You put on eyebrows and mustache with loose hair and
glue which I will furnish you. Comb them out and clip them to the
desired length after they are stuck on. The ready-made articles never
look natural. You may depend upon the glue. It is my own invention.
No amount of heat nor perspiration, nor soap and water can affect it,
but it melts at a touch of alcohol. Lastly, pomade your hair
liberally, and slick it down hard. See, it makes your hair look thin,
and alters the whole shape of your head. There you are!"
"Wonderful!" said Jack, gazing at his strangely altered aspect.
"Oh, we've only just begun!" said Mr. Evers. "Next comes the question
of clothes. Its importance cannot be exaggerated. Taste in clothes is
of slow growth. The clothes of a youth tell you nothing, but a mature
man's attire betrays him unerringly. Let me see! This requires study.
We shall probably not hit it exactly at the first trial. I should say
first a derby hat of very conservative shape, slightly old-fashioned,
and a suit stiffly cut, of good material but ugly pattern of cloth.
Shirt and necktie are very significant. They should be of common
design and coloring, such as might be picked up at a sale. I have all
such things here. The suit may not fit you perfectly, but it will take
you as far as a clothing store where you can buy another."
In due course Jack was ready to brave the sunshine in his new guise.
The charge was steep, but he could not deny that the work was worth it.
He left his other clothes with Mr. Evers since he would have to return
to the shop to change. The wig-maker stood off and examined him with
satisfaction. Mrs. Evers was called on to admire her husband's work.
"What name would you suggest for my new character?" asked Jack, smiling.
Mr. Evers took the matter with entire seriousness. "Let me see--you
look to me as if your name might be----" His face cleared--"I have it!
Your name is certainly Mr. Pitman."
"Mr. Pitman it shall be!"
"Mr. Fred Pitman," added Evers.
As Jack left the shop it was a few minutes before twelve, that is to
say, just about the time he had designed to try out his new character
for the first. He made his way up to Forty-Second street, and took up
his station before the building that housed the offices of the Eureka
Protective Association.
Here he walked slowly up and down well lost in the crowd hurrying east
and west. He found his disguise effective in that the passers-by no
longer noticed him. Only when people stopped looking at him did Jack
become aware that in his proper person he attracted friendly glances
wherever he went. That started a curious speculation in his mind: "How
do people know whether they want to look at you or not, if they don't
look at you first to see what you are like?"
It was half-past twelve before the man he was waiting for appeared.
Mr. Dave Anderson turned east on Forty-Second street at a brisk pace.
The pseudo-Pitman followed close at his heels. The chase led across
Fifth and Madison and in front of the Grand Central station. Jack
began to fear that Anderson lived in the neighborhood, and was bound
home.
But at a modest saloon on Lexington avenue, a place with a
long-established air, he turned in. After loitering a moment or two
outside Jack followed. Behind the saloon was a small glass-roofed
"garden" set with tables. The settled familiar style of the waiters
and diners suggested that this was a real eating-place. Jack commended
Mr. Anderson's discrimination.
The tables accommodated four or six, and none was entirely vacant. It
was therefore perfectly natural for Jack to seek one of the chairs at
the table occupied by Anderson and another man. They made him welcome.
Anderson scarcely looked at Jack.
The bill-of-fare provided Jack with an opening. "Are you a regular
here?" he asked Anderson. "What's good?"
"To-day, the pot roast with noodles," was the prompt reply.
It came and it was good. Jack's hearty commendation of the dish led
naturally to a further exchange of amenities. When one of any two
people has a positive disposition to make friends, the task is usually
not difficult. Mr. Anderson discovered in this chance acquaintance a
man after his own heart, who thought the same as he on all important
matters. They were soon talking like old cronies. They finished
eating simultaneously, and left the place together. Anderson, who was
of an expansive nature, had already mentioned that he ran a detective
agency.
"You don't say!" said Mr. Pitman with an air of strong interest not
unmixed with envy. "Well, say, that's more fun than pounding the
pavements collecting overdue bills like I do."
"You must come around to my office some time, and let me show you a
thing or two," said Mr. Anderson affably.
Jack was careful to accept the invitation as casually as it was given.
"I sure will some time," he said.
They parted.
Jack went his way thinking with satisfaction: "There's my second line
started, all right."
Mr. Pitman's business was now done for the day, and Jack thought it was
high time Mr. Robinson re-embodied himself to look after his employer.
But before he changed back he had a strong desire to test his disguise
on some one who knew him better than Anderson. He thought of Kate. By
this time she must be in the thick of her preparations to open her
house.
To think of it was to turn his steps in that direction. In ten minutes
he was at the foot of the steps. Sure enough the house was already
transformed; wooden shutters taken down, doors and windows flung open,
and a small army of workmen and cleaners visible inside.
"Verily, Kate is a wonder!" he said to himself.
Mounting the steps, he rang the bell with twinkling eyes. Kate herself
answered the door. Jack, seeing her come through the dark hall,
experienced a rush of delight. With her capable, businesslike air she
was more adorable than ever. Jack longed to fling his arms around her
to see how the business woman would take it--but fortunately restrained
himself from an act so rash. She fronted him with a polite, inquiring
look. It gives one a queer turn to meet that look on a familiar face.
"Is this Miss Storer?" he asked as polite as herself, though he was
bubbling inside.
Kate had stoutly denied the necessity of her taking an assumed name.
She bowed.
"I understand you are fitting out this house to rent furnished
apartments."
She seemed slightly surprised. "Yes. But may I ask how you learned of
it?"
"Oh, a friend told me."
"What kind of accommodations do you require?"
Jack was hard put to it to keep from laughing in her face. Up till now
he had been standing in the vestibule with the light behind him. But
as Kate stood aside from the door, he stepped in and turned around, so
thus his make-up was put to a full test.
"A room in the back," he, said, "away from the noises of the street.
And not too high up. The second story rear would suit me very well."
"I'm sorry," she said soberly, "that room is already taken."
Jack could contain himself no longer. There was no one near. He took
off his glasses and smiled his own smile. "Don't you know me?" he
whispered.
Kate gasped and fell back a step. "Oh! I wasn't expecting you so
soon!"
Jack chuckled.
A charwoman with bucket and brush came through the hall, and they were
obliged to pull themselves together quickly.
"The gentleman who said he wanted that room may not come back," said
Kate. "I'll show it to you anyway."
She led him upstairs. She had not yet touched Silas Gyde's room, and
as they went in she was obliged to close the door after them to keep
the people in the house from seeing the strange conglomeration inside.
Jack seized her hand. "Katy, darling, you take my breath away, you're
so wonderful!" he said, trying to draw her towards him.
She would have none of that. "Behave yourself!" she said crushingly.
"You know very well why I had to close the door! How can I go on with
this if you're going to act in such a way! Please remember who you're
supposed to be! Do you suppose I'm going to be familiar with my
lodgers!"
"Oh, I forgot everything except how sweet you are!" groaned Jack.
"Look in the glass!" she said. "Do you suppose I want that yellow face
near mine?"
He frowned and rubbed his chin ruefully, not quite knowing how to take
this left-handed compliment. "But--but I shan't be able to see you for
ages, except as Pitman," he complained.
"Well, I shall survive it," she said briskly.
"Aw, Katy!"
She changed the subject in her own prompt way. "It's really a
wonderful disguise!" she said. "How ever did you do it?"
He told her of his experience with Evers.
"And you," he said, "you haven't let any grass grow under your feet.
You can open up to-morrow."
"Hardly that. My greatest problem is this room. How can I let the
cleaners in here?"
"You and I had better do this," said Jack, careful not to betray any
pleasure in the prospect.
"How can you find time?"
"I'll send Bobo to a musical comedy to-night, and slip in through the
vault. That is if you'll be here to-night."
"I've already fitted up a room for Mother and I. We'll be here."
"Good!" said Jack. The prospect of a stolen interview with the demure
Kate was unspeakably delightful.
He told her something of his adventures the night before.
"What a fool you have on your hands!" said Kate scornfully. "You'd
better hurry back and see what he's up to now."
"But I've heaps more to tell you."
"I'm busy. So are you. Tell me to-night. What will the servants say
if we stay in here with the door closed? Run along!"
And she fairly shooed him out of the house.
Jack hastened down to Evers' shop, washed his face, changed his
clothes, and returned to the Madagascar. Evers provided him with
everything necessary to re-assume the personality of Mr. Pitman when
the time came.
Bobo was out. Jack applied to Ralph for information as to his
movements. That preturnaturally knowing youth was bursting with it.
"Sure, I seen him go out. 'Bout an hour ago. Young lady come for him."
In spite of himself Jack was betrayed into a startled exclamation.
Thus encouraged, Ralph went on with gusto. "She called him up this
morning--that is I guess it was the same one. I was in the room
brushin' his clo'es, and I answered the 'phone. I hears a voice like
butter creams: 'Is this Mr. Norman?' Umm! But when she found it was
me the cream froze."
"Mr. Norman goes to the 'phone, and say, you could see by the smile
that tickled his ears that she was feedin' him the Martha Washingtons
then. 'Aw'fly good of you to call me up,' says he. 'No, I don't think
it was improper at all.' Then she must have ast him to lunch, for he
said 'Sure!' in a voice that near cracked the transmitter, and bounced
up and down like a kid when it sees its bottle.
"But then he remembered somepin and his joy was turned to grief. 'Oh,
I forgot, I can't come,' he says. I heard her voice squeakin' over the
wire: 'Why?' He says: 'I got a date with my secretary: very important
business.' After that she did most of the talkin'. He only said: 'I
can't! I can't! Say, I'm sorry!' And so on. Say, he stuck to it,
too, and at last she hung up. Say, he was almost cryin' when he come
away. He throws himself down on the bed and never says a word to me."
"Well, what then?" asked Jack.
"About half an hour after I was down in the office when I hear a young
lady in a Kolinsky cape ask at the desk for Mr. Norman. A
looker?--say, boss, some scenery! I was sent up with her card. On the
back she had written:
"I have come for you."
"Did he go?" asked Jack.
"Did he go? Does a chicken run when it hears the corn fall in the
yard!"
"Hm! What name was on the card?"
"Miss Miriam Culbreth."
15
In the end Jack had to give up the idea of separating Bobo from the
lovely Miriam. For one thing Jack needed Miriam and Mrs. Cleaver in
his present business, and Bobo supplied his only excuse for going
there. The ladies were not interested in the humble secretary for
himself.
So he warned Bobo afresh, and prayed that the infatuated youth might
not be led into any irrevocable step before he was able to tell him the
whole truth about his inamorata.
Meanwhile one of those tremendous intimacies characteristic of the
fluff of society sprang up between the four. Within a few days Bobo
and Jack were all but living at Mrs. Cleaver's house. A hundredfold
millionaire gets on fast socially. Jack was always included in Bobo's
invitations as an understood thing. One witty lady was heard to call
him the sugar that coated the pill.
Jack speculated endlessly on the real nature of the relations between
Clara Cleaver and Miriam. It was given out that they were cousins, and
on the surface they exhibited a formal affection towards each other.
But that they did not love each other was very clear. Dislike the same
as murder will out. Off her guard Mrs. Cleaver's manner towards Miriam
was as to something she was obliged to put up with, and the younger
woman in her more natural moments displayed more than a touch of
arrogance towards her supposed hostess. Moreover, Mrs. Cleaver was
clearly well-born and Miriam just as clearly was not. Not for a moment
did Jack believe in the supposed blood relationship.
Jack liked Mrs. Cleaver a lot better than Miriam. The former might be
light-headed, vain, luxury-loving, rather silly, but she had a kind
heart. Jack could not conceive of her as being engaged in calculated
villainy. Yet she must be in the game, too. She and Miriam worked
together. The farther he explored this amazing game the greater became
Jack's perplexity. The different elements were so incongruous.
"But if I go deep enough I _must_ find the link that connects them
all!" he told himself. "The decent little gentleman with the imperial;
Barbarossa, the anarchist; Dave Anderson, the detective; Clara Cleaver,
the well-born lady, and Miriam Culbreth, the adventuress!"
The relation between Jack and Miriam was a complicated one. As in the
beginning, she made it clear that while she intended to marry the
millionaire she was not averse to having the secretary make love to
her. Jack's indifference piqued the spoiled beauty almost beyond
bearing. She longed to bring him to her feet, and she hated him
cordially, too, as he learned before he had been visiting Mrs.
Cleaver's house many days.
It was the tea hour. Jack had come after Bobo, but found everybody
out. They had left word for him to wait, so he drifted up to the
library where they usually had tea, and picking up a book he dropped
into a chair to read. At his left hand hung a portière dividing the
library from the central hall, which ran up through the house.
After a little while Miriam and Bobo came up in the elevator.
Evidently there had been a misunderstanding about Jack's
arrival--possibly some other servant had admitted them, for Miriam said:
"We'll wait a while for him before we ring for tea."
They dropped into a cozy corner in the hall, a nook favored of couples.
It was immediately on the other side of the curtain at Jack's hand and
he could therefore hear every word spoken above a whisper. He was
debating with himself whether or not the circumstances justified him in
playing the eavesdropper, when he heard Miriam say:
"You've never told me how you and Jack met, and how you came to choose
him for your secretary."
That decided Jack. He gave no sign of his presence.
Bobo replied: "Oh, I've known him a good while. When I worked in the
sash factory down-town, he was there, too."
"What did you do there?"
"Bookkeeper."
"What did Jack do?"
"Oh he--he was a bookkeeper, too. There were two of us. And we were
friends outside the office, too. Used to go round together nights. So
when I came into my money--why it was natural for me to get Jack to
help me to look after it."
"Not bad for Bobo," thought Jack. He pricked up his ears at the next
words.
"I don't see how you put up with him!" said Miriam.
"Put up with him!" echoed Bobo. In his fancy Jack could see the blank
look that overspread the honest fat face. "Why--why, what's the matter
with Jack?"
"The way he runs you, I mean. One would think he was the millionaire,
and you the hired secretary."
Bobo made queer, scared noises in his throat. It seemed to Jack that
Miriam must suspect that she had hit the nail on the head, but
apparently she did not, for her next words were in the same drawling,
careless tone.
"He all but tells you how to answer when people speak to you."
"Oh!" said Bobo, somewhat relieved. "But Jack's clever, and I'm not."
"You're not as stupid as he likes to make out," suggested Miriam.
"Devil!" thought Jack.
"Make out!" said Bobo. "Jack doesn't make out anything. He's my
friend."
"My poor Bobo!" she said with indulgent tenderness. "You're criminally
good-natured! Of course he knows which side his bread is buttered on.
He's not going to say anything openly. But _friends_! Oh, how blind
you are!"
"Jack and I are friends," repeated Bobo. "Jack's on the square!"
She laughed delicately. Jack guessed that she patted Bobo's hand or
something like that. "Oh, well, let's change the subject," she said in
a tone that forced him to continue it.
"No," said Bobo, just as she had intended him to. "Tell me what you
mean. Does he talk about me?"
"Oh, it isn't what he _says_," she said with seeming reluctance. "But
it makes me mad! Always poking fun at you!"
"Liar!" thought Jack.
"Making fun of me!" said Bobo in hurt tones. "Behind my back! I
didn't think it of him!"
"There, forget it," she said soothingly. "It doesn't make any
difference to your real friends."
"What did he say about me?"
"I shan't tell you. I don't want to make trouble."
Jack grimly smiled to himself.
"But I don't see why you put up with it," she presently went on. "As
it is, you daren't call your soul your own. He manages you like a
child--you a grown man."
"What can I do?" said poor Bobo.
"Fire him!"
"So that's your game!" thought Jack. "It's foredoomed to failure,
lady!"
"Oh, I can't do that!" said Bobo horrified.
"Why not? I guess you can manage your own affairs as well as other
men, can't you? Get a lawyer to help you. Everybody would think more
of you if you came right out and put Jack in his place. They talk
about it, you know. It's unmanly to submit to the dictation of one who
is really no more than your servant. Send him away, and see how much
better you'll get along with people. He fixes it so that you always
show to a disadvantage beside him. That hurts me, because I know what
there is in you!"
"Oh, you siren!" thought Jack. In a way, he could not but admire her
cleverness.
She went on: "Some day I suppose you'll want to marry." Jack could
imagine how modestly she cast down the long lashes when she said this.
"I say this for your own good. No woman, you know, would want to put
herself in the position of being under the thumb of her husband's
secretary."
All Bobo could find to say was: "I'm sorry you don't like him." Jack
had to confess to himself that a better man than Bobo might well have
been stumped by such a situation.
"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," she said, "but he is openly rude to
me. You don't seem to care."
"I do! I do!" cried poor Bobo. "I'll put a stop to that. I'll speak
to him!"
"Yes," she said with a kind of plaintive spitefulness, "tell him I told
you, and then he'll act worse to me than ever. If you cared about me
at all, you wouldn't keep him for another day."
"You just leave it to me, I'll fix it," said Bobo desperately.
"That's what you say every day, but I don't see any change."
"So this is an everyday affair!" thought Jack. "Poor Bobo!"
"It can't go on," she said gloomily. "I think too much of you as a
friend to stand seeing another man run you. I'd rather give you up--as
a friend. If I've got to put up with Jack Robinson, I don't want to
see you any more."
The softest creature, pushed to the wall, shows fight. "I won't fire
Jack," said Bobo sullenly. "You're just trying to run me the same way
you say he is. If I've got to go, I'll go!"
"Good for Bobo!" thought Jack.
She quickly performed the undignified maneuver known as climbing down.
"No, Bobo," she said meltingly. "You are right. I shouldn't have
spoken that way. It is none of my business. But I can't bear to see
you imposed on. It made me forget myself!"
"I can take care of myself," muttered Bobo.
"Forgive me," she said angelically, "and let's change the subject.
Come into the library, and I'll order tea."
It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He judged from her voice that she
had already risen, so he had about two seconds to make up his mind how
to act. He relaxed completely in the big chair, let his head fall
back, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
She came between the curtains. He heard the swish of her silk
petticoat.
"Oh!" she said sharply. Surprise, fear, chagrin, all were blended in
the sound.