Central Park, even with its horde of transitory inhabitants, looked more
than ever like home to Peter Pape this late afternoon. Feeling the
necessity of a private conclusion or two, he loped Polkadot into what he
hoped would prove the less used path. His thoughts, like the pinto's
hoof-beats, were of a rather violent, not to say exclamatory sort.
Three whole days since he had met her, and not once since had he seen
her! Considering the emphasis with which he had interpolated himself
into her acquaintance that opera evening, the length of the unbroken
after-pause seemed incredible. Here was he, lonelier than before receipt
of the advices of 'Donis Moore, in that now he knew what earlier he only
had suspected he was missing.
He felt as forlorn as looked a bent old woman who stood beneath the
trail-side shade, leaning against a tree. Out of date was her
nondescript bonnet of the poke persuasion, rusty her black silk dress,
ineffectual her attitude. Too primitive for the Society into which he
had cantered must be his Far-West methods, since rusted over were his
hopes and resultless his to-day.
Sight of a sheep herd browsing over "The Green" sufficiently surprised
and pleased his pastoral eye as to brighten temporarily his mood. He
polkaed Dot down to a walk.
A flock of Dorsets in the Great Garden of New York Town! More than a
hundred horned heads he estimated them, not counting the wobbly-legged
lambs trailing the ewes. Although oil was Pape's bonanza, cattle was his
stock in trade, yet he felt none of the cowman's usual aversion for the
wearers of fleece. He was, as a matter of fact, a "mixed" rancher, with
sheep of his own on the Hellroaring reaches. He rejoiced that these
animals, at least, could enjoy the company of their kind and graze to
their taste. Indeed, a more satisfactory pasture could not have been
found for them, except for the fact that an over-used auto-road
"unfenced" that side of it next the bridle path. The condition,
precarious both for the sheep and the drivers of cars, hung heavily in
his consideration until he caught sight of the dog that was on guard.
"What d'you think of that, horse-alive?" he made demand of Polkadot. "A
police hound instead of a collie--a Belgian, at that--close-herding the
woollies?"
When one of the fattest of the mutton-heads waddled into the
auto-greased roadway in an ambitious expedition toward the grass-tufted
border along the path, Pape pulled his painted pony to a stop and
watched with active interest.
"Quick, Kicko, round her up!"
The shouted command came from the flock-master, appearing at a run
around the far side of the band.
Unmistakable as the breed of the dog was the intelligence of his work.
With warning, staccato yelps he dashed from among the more discreet of
his charges, cut off the stray from her goal, snatched her by a mouthful
of wool out of the path of a speeding car, then nipped her into a return
rush to the safety of The Green.
"Great work, Kicko! Here, boy, I want to shake!"
Pape, enthusiastic over the best bit of herding he ever had seen done
under adverse circumstances, rode toward the dog hero, swung out of the
saddle and met him more than halfway in the paw-shaking, ear-scratching
formalities that followed.
The master, a stout, middle-aged, uniformed expert, showed himself as
pleased with the introduction as his canine assistant. He gave his name
as Tom Hoey of the Sheepfold, the gabled roof of which could be plainly
seen a short distance south and nearer the park wall. Willingly enough
he contributed to the information fund of the easy-going stranger.
Yes, Kicko was a police dog, the gift of a returned army captain and the
only herder of his breed in captivity. The park collie, in active
service for years, had been about ready for retirement at the time of
the foreigner's arrival. A short chain attached to the swivel collars on
the necks of both had enabled the old Scot to teach the young Belgian
the trade of disciplining woolly quadrupeds instead of two-legged
humans.
"I, for one, don't hope to meet a better policer in this world and I
sure don't expect to in the next," the owner boasted. "He's got a whole
repertory of tricks that he's worked out for his own amusement, besides
knowing by heart all the dog A-B-C's, such as shaking hands, speaking
and fetching things. One of the most useful things he does is going for
my lunch noontimes. He brings it nice and hot in a tin pail from my
house by the wall yonder. There's just one trouble about him,
though--eh, old side Kick? If he meets up with one of the many friends
he's made, or even if he takes a special shine to somebody new--Kicko's
one fault is his sociability--he'll like as not present my meal to some
one that ain't half as hungry or as entitled to it as I."
"We'll meet again."
So Pape assured the shepherd pair on continuing his ride. He wished that
all the folks he met were as friendly and as easy to understand as they.
By comparison, for instance, each and every member of that dressed-up
party of Gothamites into whose midst he had insisted himself the other
night seemed doubly complex.
His attitude had been plain as day; theirs, both separately and as a
whole, incomprehensible. And since that evening, the conduct of all had
been as misleading as his had been direct. This was the afternoon of the
third ineffectual after day. It was all right for handsome fellows like
the traffic cop to advise him to do something that would "make 'em take
notice." He had done it--done it so well that they had noticed him
enough to decide not to notice him. To him the situation seemed to call
for some deed even more noticeable. Again, _what_? Leaving the pace to
the piebald, he brisked along in review.
At the enthusiastic hour of six _a.m._ that morning after sighting
Society, he had risen and rigged himself to do and dare on the high-seas
of adventure. Any idea of adhering to the original "slow and steady"
stipulation of his experiment not already quashed by first sight and
sound of Miss Lauderdale must have been ruled out by sub-consciousness
during his brief sleep. Slow and steady would have been proper enough in
almost any other conceivable case of discovering whether a woman was
_the_ woman. But as applied to Jane, any method other than gun-fire
quick seemed somehow a reflection on her. An excellent rule, no
doubt--slow and steady. She, however, was super-excellent--an exception
to any rule.
Realization that he was essaying rather an early start had struck him as
he steered a course through Mr. ----or Mrs. Astor's fleet of scrub
ladies, tugging at their brush anchors over the seas of Jersey-made
marble, evidently about ready to call it a night's voyage. He had left
his berth without any call, as six _a.m._ long had been and doubtless
long would remain his hour for setting sail into the whitecaps of each
new day.
So transformed was The Way outside that he scarcely could recall its
nocturnal whiteness or gayety. Strict business ruled it. Luggage-laden
taxis sped toward or from the ports of early trains. Surface cars
demanded blatantly, if unnecessarily, the right o' way. Motor trucks
groaned hither and yon with their miseries of dripping ice, jangling
milk cans, bread, vegetables--what not. Only the pavements were empty at
that hour. Blocks and blocks of them stretched out, practically
uncontested.
A moment he "lay-to" for an upward survey of the greeting he had bought
from himself to himself, which last evening had seemed the howdy-doo of
Destiny. It wasn't so conspicuous in daytime with the lights off,
although the contractor had been clever about blocking in behind the
incandescents so that the letters within the bouquet border still were
legible. Even had they not been, he shouldn't have felt disappointed. To
every electric sign its night, as to every dog his day! Wasn't he now
the gayest dog that ever believed in signs? And wasn't this to be his
day?
More often than not breakfast to Pape was a matter of bacon, coffee and
buckwheat cakes. Although the more expensive restaurants along The Way
were, like the lobby of his hotel, still in process of being scrubbed
out, he soon found a chop-house ready to "stack" for him. At table he
ate rather abstractedly, his mind and most of his fingers engaged with
the sheaf of morning papers collected during his walk.
Yes, the curiosity of reportorial minds to the number of three had been
sufficiently stirred by the mystery of the new sign to give it mention.
One touched the subject only to drop it, frankly suspicious of some new
advertising insult. Another treated it in jocular vein, with that
grateful spur-of-the-moment wit which occasionally enlivens columns
thrown together under such stress of time. A third declared its
ignorance of the whyfore of Why-Not Pape, but had no objection to his,
her or its being welcomed to the city. The question was raised, however,
of just what awful thing W. N. Pape could have committed in his past to
need the moral support of so rare and roseate a reassurance.
When the last drop of coffee had washed down the last scrap of
wheat-cake, the man from Montana further treated himself to a series of
chuckles. Was the joke on him or on the Big Town? Which or whether, it
was catching on. And there was one small assortment of A1 New Yorkers
who would enjoy the joke with him--who knew the kingdom, gender,
case-number and several other etceteras of Why-Not Pape. That is, they
would enjoy it if not too suspicious of him. Just about how suspicious
they were was the next thing he needed to know.
That supper party at the Sturgis house had run its courses smoothly
enough, at least on the surface. But their see-you-again-soons had a
haziness which he could not break through. It is true that Irene had met
the mention of his favorite pastime of horse-backing in the park with a
far from hazy hint that they "co-ride." But that possibility he had
preferred to leave vague. He had "pulled out" creditably, he hoped--with
all the good-form he remembered having been taught or told about.
The evening's paramount issue had increased in importance
overnight--that matter of a safe robbed of unnamed loot. What could the
stolen treasure be--of a size that could be hidden in a snuff-box, yet
so valuable that its loss was tragedy?
Jane Lauderdale was a number of wonderful things. Was she wonderfully
unreasonable or more wonderfully distrustful of him? There was a chance
that overnight she had had one of those changes of mind said to be the
pet prerogative of the fair. Just perhaps she now would be willing to
accept the service he had offered--service which he meant should be hers
whether she wished it or not.
The next impending question regarded the hour at which young ladies got
up of a morning in this woman's town. This he put to the sleepy-eyed
blond cashier of the restaurant.
"You trying to kid me, customer?" was her cautious reply. "If no, it
depends upon where said lady lives. Fifth Avenue in the Sixties? Ain't
you flapping kinda high? I'd say anywheres from ten _A.M._ to twelve
noon. Why not jingle up her maid and ask? Oh, you're welcome and to
spare. Keep the change."
Before entering the nearest cigar store to act on this suggestion, Pape
remembered that last night the Sturgis' phone had been declared
useless--its wires cut. He called for the repair department of the
company. The voice with a rather dubious "smile" at the other end of the
line agreed to enquire just when the number would be restored to
service.
"Say, Useless," came the answer in a moment, "that line's in order.
Hasn't been out. I just got an O. K. over it. You must have got wrong
information from one of our centrals. Excuse, please."
He would have "excused" with more pleasure if his simple question had
not started a series of others more involved. How did a 'phone fallacy
fit into the robbery plot? Why had the wheezy butler, Jasper, been sent
afoot to the nearest police station if the wires had not been cut? Did
Jane know or did she not that the line was in order when she stopped him
in his attempt to call Headquarters?
He decided not to "jingle her maid" at once but to await the hour first
suggested by the "blond" cashier before asking answers. Jane Lauderdale
looked the kind of girl who would have arisen by ten _a.m._ At any rate,
he would give her benefit of doubt. But no mental preparation during the
interim, as to what tack her temper might take, in any way prepared him
for that morning's second shock.
Jasper answered--there was no mistaking his voice. Pape followed the
announcement of his name with a comment over the speed with which the
telephone had been fixed, to which the born butler replied smoothly,
impersonally, non-committally.
"Yes, Mr. Pape. The Telephone Company is exceedingly efficient, sir."
The request for speech with Miss Lauderdale was met with equal
competence.
"The family is all out. They left early this morning for the country,
sir, to seek a few days of peace and quiet."
"All of them?"
"Yes, Mr. Pape, all of them."
"What's their address?"
"They left no address. They never do, sir, when they go for peace and
quiet. Good day, sir."
With which, actually, that sebacious, ostentatious, fallacious
importation had hung up on him.
To Pape's daily inquiries since Jasper had replied with consistent
politeness, if with consistent lack of information. The Westerner hated
him for his very perfection in his part; was inclined to the belief that
America was no place for an intelligence limited to being a butler.
What about his--Why-Not's--peace and quiet? Wasn't _he_ entitled to any
such? Indignation had flung with him out of the booth that first
morning; had matched his pace since; was riding with him to-day.
In the interval Pape had made efforts other than over the Sturgis
telephone to locate geographically the rural resting-place mentioned all
too vaguely by Jasper. His first visit to that mountainous district
known to the Metropolitan Police as "below the dead-line" was not in the
squaring of certain overdue accounts of his own which had been the basic
impulse of his Eastern exile, but in the hope of locating the other
members of that Zaza box-party.
In a cloud-piercer near the corner of William and Wall Streets he found
the office suite occupied by ex-Judge Samuel Allen and associated
attorneys, evidently an affiliation of standing "at the bar"--a phrase
which, since Volstead, is no longer misunderstood as meaning anything
but "in the Law." He gained admittance into the reception room, but, so
far as achieving audience with the head of the firm, the legal lair
proved more impregnable than the ranger-guarded Yellowstone to a
tusk-hunter.
The "line-fence" was ridden by thick-rouged, thin-bloused office girls
who doubtless had been instructed that all unexpected callers were
suspicious characters and to be treated accordingly. Once the judge was
in court, which court no one seemed to know. Pape left his name. On a
second visit he was allowed to "dig his spurs" into chair rungs most of
an afternoon under the hopeful glances of the "dolls," while awaiting
the end of an alleged conference, only to be told with
none-too-regretful apologies that Mr. Allen, having been called to
attend the directors of the Hardened Steel Corporation, had departed
without knowing that Mr. Pape awaited him. A third time----
But it is enough--was more than enough for him--that he never broke
through the barrier of too-red lips with their too-patent, stock lies;
never caught even a long-distance glimpse of the jurist of small person
and large personality.
Failure to find the likeable Mills Harford came more quickly and saved a
deal of time. "Harfy's" trail showed plainly in the City Directory and
his "ranch" proved to be another of those "places of business" where
everything but business was attended, a real-estate office in one of the
block-square structures that surround the Grand Central Terminal. Mr.
Harford had departed on a yachting trip around Long Island, Pape was
told--a statement which he had no cause to doubt.
Although Peter Pape had signaled Broadway in general with what he liked
to call the "high sign," his desire for adventure had particularized. He
could not be satisfied to go on to a next, with the first only begun. He
finished what he started, unless for some reason stronger than his will.
More than by the beauty of Jane Lauderdale's face, he was haunted by its
look of fear. The little drama at the Sturgis house that night could not
have been staged for benefit of himself, whose presence there was purely
accidental. Its unaccountable denouement had terrorized the aunt as well
as niece. Much more was unexplained than the nature of the stolen
treasure and the cause of that false report anent the severed telephone
wires.
To epitomize the present state of mind of Why-Not Pape, "making 'em
notice him" had boiled down into one concentrated demand that the
high-strung girl whom he had self-selected and later approved by
instinct instead of rule--that Jane Lauderdale should notice his
readiness to do or die in her service.
He had the will. Whither was the way?
Nights and days had passed since he had pressed that thrilling kiss of
allegiance upon her finger-tips. Yet here was he strolling aimlessly
down The Way, after having stabled Polkadot for an equine feast _au
fait_ and himself dined at a restaurant near Columbus Circle. The bright
lights could have no allurement for him. Signs were dull indeed that one
didn't wish to follow.
The wish formed in his mind for some friend with whom to talk. Not that
he was given to confidence with men or cared to engage any feminine ear,
save one. But he would have appreciated a word or look of simple
sympathy--a moment of companionship that he knew to be genuine with----
He turned squarely about and started back the way he had come. The very
sort of friend he needed!
Kicko would be off duty by now and likely as glad as he to improve their
acquaintance, so pleasantly begun. If Shepherd Tom was about they could
smoke and talk sheep. There was a lot about woollies these B'way folk
didn't know--that, for instance, they could take care of themselves for
eight months of the year and cost only seven cents a day for the other
four. Yes, he and Tom Hoey could talk sheep at the city's Fold. He would
seek that "peace and quiet" which he hoped Jane had found in the
deepening shade of the only part of Manhattan that at all resembled his
West; was more likely to locate it there than along the avenue of
amperes and kilowatts.
His ambition seemed to be shared before announced. Scarcely had he
turned into the roadway leading from Central Park West to the Sheepfold
when he met the police dog coming out. All that he had hoped for was
Kicko's greeting. The more conveniently to vent his feelings, the
astute, sharp-featured Belgian placed upon the ground the small tin
bucket which he was carrying, evidently the lunch pail of his favorite
"trick." Soon picking it up, however, he issued a straight-tailed
invitation to "come along." Pape realized that he had some definite
objective--probably was taking supper instead of lunch to Shepherd Tom.
He accepted.
Many a lead had the whys and why-nots of Peter Pape's nature forced him
to follow, but never so interestedly had he followed the lead of a dog.
And Kicko showed that he appreciated the confidence. He would dash
ahead; would stop and look back; would set down his precious pail, most
times merely to yap encouragement, twice to return to his new friend and
urge him on by licking his hand.
When they left the beaten path for the natural park and approached a
hummock marked by rocks and a group of poplars whose artistic setting
Pape had admired in passing earlier that afternoon, the police dog's
excitement grew. Beside a dark mass, hunched-over close to the ground,
Kicko dropped the bucket with a final yelp of accomplishment.
At once the dark mass straightened into human shape. Pape stopped and
stared. Almost at once he recognized the poke-bonneted old lady with
whose forlorn appearance he had compared his own state. Then she had
stood leaning against a tree at the foot of the hill. Now she looked to
have been digging in the woodsy earth. A considerable mound of soil lay
beside the hole over which she had crouched and she brandished a trowel
against Kicko's exuberant importunities. Her back was toward Pape.
As he hesitated over whether to advance or face about, disliking both to
startle her and to be caught in what might seem the retreat of a spy, he
overheard what she was saying to the dog. He shivered from an odd
sensation, not like either cold or heat, that passed up his spinal
column and into his neck.
"No, you don't, you wriggly wretch! I know perfectly well what you've
got in that bucket of yours this time of day--nothing but the saved-up
old bones that they don't want you to bury in the flower-beds about the
Sheepfold."
When Kicko, as if acknowledging himself caught, seized the handle of his
pail and shook it toward her appealingly, she took off the lid and
laughed aloud at his ruse. In the regardless embrace which she threw
around his scraggy neck, she spilled what showed to be a collection of
more or less aged bones.
"Just because you're so attractive, I'll _maybe_ let you have your way,"
she informed him seriously as though addressing a human. "If I don't
find what I'm after, you may bury your precious _debris_ as I scoop back
the dirt. But you'll have to wait until I-- Back, now! I tell you,
you've got to wait until I'm sure this isn't the place where----"
Pape didn't stand still longer. Her voice--sweet, strong,
familiar--lured him. He forgot his question to advance or retreat. He
advanced--and rapidly. By the time he reached her he had outstrode all
his consideration for her age and forlorn state. His hurry made him
rough. He stooped over the lowered poke bonnet; unclasped the two arms
from about Kicko's neck; literally, jerked the woman to her feet.
Well proportioned, for so old and ill-clad a lady, did she show to be as
she sprang back from him, surprised into height, straightness and
lissome lines. The face within the scoop of the bonnet was pale from
passion--surprise, anger, fear--or perhaps all three. She was----
"Jane!" he exclaimed.
"_You_!" cried she.
He stared at her, his tongue too crowded with demands to speak any one
of them. He continued to stare as she fell back to her knees and, with
her trowel, refilled the hole she had dug. Before he realized what she
was about, she had picked up a pile of wilted plants that lay nearby;
had down-doubled her tallness, straightness and lissomeness into her
former old-lady lines; with a rapid, shuffling walk, had started down
and around the hummock.
"Just a minute, Miss Lauderdale," he called. "I didn't mean to startle
you. Can't we have a word or two or three?"
She did not answer, did not turn--only hurried away from him the faster.
He set out after her; recrossed the bridle path; entered the deepening
shadows toward the heart of the park.
Kicko, who had shown in his whines a spirit torn by regret to forsake
either his bones or his friends, now caught up with Pape, briefly
sniffed his hand, then trotted after the bent, dingy, scuttling figure
merging into the gloom beyond.
The dog's appeal she heeded, but with a well-aimed stone.
"Go back," she ordered him. "Don't you dare follow me. If you do--if
anybody follows me--I'll find a policeman and get you both arrested for
annoying me."
Kicko, tail between legs, skulked back in the general direction of his
treasure pile.
Pape, too, heeded to some extent her warning, evidently meant more for
him than the dog. But, although he slackened his pace, he did not turn
or skulk. There were reasons a-plenty why he felt justified in pursuit.