A YOUNG LADY ENTERS
Mr. Van Pycke got down in front of the Purdwell mansion. It must be
admitted that he almost funked when he opened the door of the cab and
let in a gust of wind and snow that almost took his breath away. But he
steeled himself and slipped out into the seething blizzard. He blinked
around in all directions as the taxicab chortled off into the white
whirlwind. So dense was the flying snow that he could scarcely see the
houses on the inner side of the pavement; he was nearly a minute in
getting his bearings. Then he shuffled off through the great drifts on
the walk, pointed toward a fashionable apartment building whose lights
glimmered fantastically against the whistling, shifting screen.
It may be added that Mr. Van Pycke was cursing himself for a fool at
every wretched step of the way. Never, in all his life, had he seen
snowdrifts so deep and never so stubborn. He said to himself that he'd
be d--d if he pay a cent of taxes until civic affairs were administered
by an assembly that knew enough to keep the sidewalks clear of snow. He
also experienced the doleful fear that his nose was freezing in spite of
all that he could do to prevent it.
Bosworth's taxicab floundered heroically on for two blocks. Then it gave
out and came to a frantic stop, pulsing and throbbing and jerking its
very vitals out in the effort to go ahead.
"She's stuck, sir," said the driver, opening the door.
"Where are we?" demanded young Mr. Van Pycke. "Please come inside and
close the door. I hate a draft. That's better. Now we can talk it over.
Are we lost?"
"Lost, sir? C'tainly not. I know w'ere we are, all right. Only we can't
budge out of this snowdrift. It's the woist ever."
"I suppose we'll have to sleep here," said Bosworth, resignedly. He was
comfortably sleepy by this time.
The driver struck a match, the better to inspect his amiable fare. "Not
if I know myself," he growled. "If you should happen to lose your watch
while you're in this condition, I'd be jugged for it. I'll take you to
the Lackaday Hotel in the next block below and turn you over to the
chambermaids. Come along, pardner. I'll see that you get there all
right."
Buzzy sat up and glared at him in the darkness. "Strike another match,
confound you," he commanded. "How the devil am I to see your number?
Never mind; I sha'n't report your impertinence, after all. I dare say
you meant well. I am a bit drunk. But I can get along all right by
myself. You say the Lackaday is back there in the next block?"
"Yes, sir. The number you wanted is about three blocks furder up. If it
hadn't a been--"
"Let me out. I'll walk back. You--you've taken me past the number I
wanted."
"The ticket says 714, sir, plain as day," began the driver. "You didn't
say nothin' about the Lackaday--"
"You're quite right, my man. And you didn't say anything about stopping
in the middle of the block for the night, did you? Well, there you are!
That squares us."
He clambered out into the snowdrift and unbuttoned his overcoat. The man
seemed undecided whether to let him go or to drag him back into the
vehicle. Bosworth found what he was looking for in his waistcoat pocket.
He pressed it into the driver's hand.
"I'm sorry it isn't more," he said regretfully. "It may be a dollar, or
it may be a five, but no matter which it is, it ought to be more. Now
I'll tell you what I want you to do. If you can't get this thing going
by 'leven o'clock, I want you to go up to Martin's and have 'em send a
four-horse sleigh to No. 511. It's the first residence north of the
Lackaday, and it's the number I've been compelled to select as a last
resort. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Martin's livery, sir. I'll attend to everything, sir. Thank
you, sir."
He stood there in the blinding snow, watching his fare struggle to the
sidewalk. Then he decided to follow along behind him until the "young
gent" was safely within the doors of No. 511. He had driven Mr. Van
Pycke before and he knew that it was not a dollar bill.
Bosworth reached the steps leading up to the rather imposing doorway at
No. 511. There was a heavy, stubborn iron gate at the foot, which he
had some difficulty in opening because of the snow. While he was working
with it, a man came plump up against him. Together they seized upon the
gate and yanked with all their might and main.
"Thanks," said Buzzy, when it was open.
"Don't thank me," snapped the other. "I'm going in myself."
They mounted the six or eight steps to the storm doors, side by side,
enveloped in the snow that scuttled around the corner of the big
Lackaday hotel next door. With a great stamping of boots they floundered
into the shelter of the outer vestibule.
The light in the hall beyond shone through the glass doors, illuminating
the box-like coop in which they paused, each selfishly to occupy himself
in catching his breath and at the same time shake the snow from his
person. In the act of knocking the snow from the tops of their silk hats
they glanced up simultaneously, each having arrived at the moment when
it was convenient for him to inquire into the identity of his fellow
visitor.
They stared hard for a moment.
"Hello, dad! Are you lost?"
Mr. Van Pycke muttered something into the collar of his coat.
Fortunately the wind outside was making such a noise that his son did
not hear the remark.
"Is that you, Bosworth?" he demanded querulously, almost on the instant.
"Yes, sir,--your long lost son. I--I thought I let you out at
Purdwell's?" Bosworth seemed a bit hazy.
Mr. Van Pycke cleared his throat. "I didn't find any one at home." It
did not occur to him to ask why Bosworth was there. "So I came up here,
unexpectedly, mind you. I thought perhaps the weather being so dreadful,
I'd be sure to find Mrs. Scoville at home. No one would think of going
out on a night like this."
"Do you suppose the Purdwells went out _without_ thinking?" asked
Bosworth, innocently.
"Ring the bell," said Mr. Van Pycke, very sharply.
His son found the button with some difficulty, and gave it a violent and
unintentionally prolonged push. In silence they awaited the response of
the footman.
"Is your mistress at home, Bellows?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, as the door
was opened part way to allow the indignant inspection of one who had
certainly expected beggars.
Bellows, smileless and resourceful individual, seemed a bit uncertain,
not to say upset. He glanced over his shoulder in a very far from
imperious manner, apparently expecting the answer to come from the
softly lighted hallway behind him.
"I'll see, Mr. Van Pycke. Will you step inside?"
"Get a broom, Bellows, and brush off some of this snow."
"Yes, sir." The footman appeared a moment later with a whisk broom.
"It's a very nawsty night, sir," he informed them jointly as he began
scattering the snow in all directions. From tip to toe he whisked the
shivering Mr. Van Pycke, and then turned upon his silent companion. The
elder slipped into the warm hall, feeling his nose in considerable
agitation.
"Bellows, come in here and take my coat. By Gad, I wonder if I am likely
to catch pneumonia."
"In a moment, sir."
"You--you think it likely, Bellows? That suddenly?"
Bosworth stepped inside, and Bellows gently closed the door before
turning to the distressed Mr. Van Pycke, senior.
"Bellows, is my nose frozen?" demanded that gentleman, in tones faint
with dread.
"No, sir. It looks to me to be quite warm, sir."
"Is your mistress engaged, Bellows?" inserted Bosworth, quietly. "If she
is, I'll not trouble you to help me off with my coat."
"I--I think she is, sir. I'll see, however."
"Very odd," said Mr. Van Pycke, senior, as the man disappeared down the
hall.
"I think there's a dinner going on," said Bosworth, beginning to button
up his coat.
"No one would go to a dinner on such a night as this," rasped Mr. Van
Pycke, who knew all of the eleventh-hour habits of society. He took up
his position over a simmering floor register. "I'm wet to my knees. My
feet are like ice. I wish that demmed servant would hurry back here and
get me a hot drink of some sort. Ring the bell there, Bosworth. I'm--I'm
quite sure I feel something stuffy in my chest. Good God, if it should
be pneumonia!" His legs trembled violently.
Bosworth did not ring the bell. He was staring thoughtfully at the
floor, and paid no attention to his father's maunderings. The humor of
the situation was beginning to sift through his slowly clearing brain.
Bellows returned.
"Mrs. Scoville is at home, and begs the Misters Van Pycke to bear with
her for a few minutes. She is at dinner with a few guests. In the
drawing-room there are other guests. You will please to make yourselves
at home until she leaves the table. The gentlemen are to smoke in the
drawing-room to-night."
"A crowd?" muttered Bosworth. Then his eyes lighted up with sudden
relief. "Thank the Lord, I won't have to do it."
"Do what?" demanded his father.
Bosworth's wits were keener. "Go out into the storm without something to
warm me up," he equivocated.
"Bellows, who is in the drawing-room?" asked Mr. Van Pycke, eying the
door with some curiosity. "They're deuced quiet, whoever they are."
Bellows grew very red in the face and resolutely pressed his lips
together. He took Mr. Bosworth's overcoat and hat and laid them
carefully on the Italian hall seat before venturing to reply.
"You can't hear them for the wind, sir," he said.
"Bellows, I'm catching my death," shivered Mr. Van Pycke. "I feel it
coming. Get me something to drink. My God, look at my shoes! They're
sopping wet. Bosworth, don't stand there like a clothing store model! I
must have dry shoes and stockings. I can't--"
"A clothing store model?" murmured the footman, strangely perturbed.
"I can't run the chance of pneumonia at my age," went on Mr. Van Pycke.
"Bellows, do you suppose there's a dry pair of trousers in the house?
I'm wet to the knees. I must have shoes. Demmit, Bosworth, do
something!"
"My dear father, don't look at me. I'm using my trousers. I dare say
Bellows has an extra suit of livery."
"If you wouldn't mind wearing brown trousers with a yellow stripe down
the leg, sir," began Bellows.
"Anything," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke, irritably. "But I must also have
shoes."
Bellows was thoughtful. "I think, sir, that there is an old pair of
riding boots under the stairs, sir. They belonged to poor Mr. Scoville,
sir."
"I don't like the idea of wearing other men's shoes--" objected Mr. Van
Pycke, with an apprehensive glance at his son.
"I don't think it would matter, sir," said Bellows, affably. "Mr.
Scoville hasn't worn them in two years and a half."
Mr. Van Pycke's look of horror caused Bellows to realize.
"I beg pardon, sir. It would be rather grewsome getting into dead men's
boots, sir. I never thought--"
"That's undoubtedly what Mr. Van Pycke is contemplating, Bellows," said
Bosworth, slyly.
"Sir!" snapped Mr. Van Pycke.
Bellows' face lighted with the joy of a great discovery. "I have it,
sir. If you will wait out here just a few moments, sir, I can have
trousers, shoes, and stockings. Have you a notion, sir, as to the size?"
He stood back and looked Mr. Van Pycke over carefully. "I think I can
fix it, sir."
He departed hastily, closing the drawing-room door behind him. Bosworth
sat down upon a frail Italian chair and watched his father unbutton his
shoes while standing on one foot, propped against the wall.
"Dad, he's going to sandbag one of the guests and take off his clothes,"
the young man said, smiling broadly. His eyes were quite steady now, and
merry.
"Why are you here, sir?" demanded his father, irrelevantly, suddenly
remembering that Bosworth had not mentioned his intention to stop at
Mrs. Scoville's.
The young man was spared the expediency of a reply by the return of
Bellows, with a pair of trousers over his arm, shoes and stockings in
his hand. He seemed in some haste to close the drawing-room door behind
him.
"You can change in the room at the head of the stairs, sir."
Mr. Van Pycke, in his stocking feet, preceded the footman up the stairs,
treading very tenderly, as if in mortal fear of tacks.
Buzzy twirled his thumbs impatiently. He yawned time and again, and more
than once cast his glance in the direction of his coat and hat. Never
before, in any house, had he been required to sit in a reception hall
until the hostess was ready to receive him elsewhere. He could not
understand it. Above all places, Mrs. Scoville's, where the freedom of
the house was usually extended to all who in friendship came.
From behind closed doors--distant closed doors, by the way--came the
sound of laughter and joyous conversation, faintly audible to the young
man in the hall.
"I feel like an ass," said young Mr. Van Pycke, probably to the newel
post, there being nothing else quite so human in sight. Then he leaned
back with a comfortable smile. "I've virtually tried the three eligibles
to-night," he mused. "It's a satisfaction to feel that they haven't
dismissed me in so many words, and it's a relief to feel that they
haven't had the actual opportunity to accept me. I've done my best. The
blizzard disposes. I'll see Krosson to-morrow about a place in his
offices."
Mr. Van Pycke came down stairs even more tenderly than he went up. There
was a look of pain in his face, and he walked slack-kneed, with his toes
turned in a trifle. He was wearing a pair of trousers that had been
constructed for a much larger man, except as to height.
"The shoes are too small and the trousers too big," he groaned. "I'm
leaving my own up there to be dried out. Bellows says they'll be dry in
half an hour. I had to put these on for a while. One can't go around
with--er--nothing on, so to speak."
"I'm trying to think who's in there that wears trousers of that
size--and shape," murmured Bosworth, surveying his father critically.
"Bah!" rasped the uncomfortable Mr. Van Pycke. "Announce us, Bellows."
Bellows opened the drawing-room door, took a quick peep within, and
then, standing aside, announced in his most impressive tones:
"Mr. Van Pycke! Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke!"
The two gentlemen stepped into the long, dimly lighted room. Bellows
disappeared quickly down the hall. Mr. Van Pycke, his sense of dignity
increased by the desire to offset the only too apparent lack of it,
advanced into the middle of the room, politely smiling for the benefit
of a group of ladies and gentlemen congregated at the lower end, near
the windows. So far as he could see, they were engaged in the vulgar
occupation known as staring.
Bosworth Van Pycke stopped just inside the door, clapping his hand to
his forehead. His mouth fell open and his eyes popped wide with
amazement--almost horror. He sat down suddenly in the nearest chair and
continued to gaze blankly at the figures down the room. He heard his
father say "Good evening" twice, but he heard no response from the
group. His abrupt, incontrollable guffaw of understanding and joy caused
his now annoyed parent to whirl upon him in surprise.
"Oh, this is rich!" Bosworth was holding his sides, laughing
immoderately.
"Bosworth!" hissed his father, with a conscious glance at his feet and
legs. "What the devil amuses you?"
For answer his son strode over and clutched him by the arm, turning him
around so that he faced the silent, immovable group.
"See that man back there without trousers? The bare-legged, bare-footed
chap? Well, dad, you've got on his pants."
"Good God!" gasped Mr. Van Pycke, nervously hunting for the bridge of
his nose with his glasses. "Is the poor fellow naked?"
"Half naked, dad, that's all. Look closely!"
"Sh! Demmit all, boy, he'd knock me down! And the ladies! What the devil
does he mean, undressing in this bare-faced--"
"Bare-legged, dad." With a fresh laugh he leaned forward and chucked the
nearest lady under the chin. As she was standing directly in front of
Van Pycke, senior, that gentleman, in some haste, moved back to avoid
the retort physical.
"Bosworth! How--how dare you?" he gasped.
"Can't you see, dad? This is the richest thing I've ever known. Don't be
afraid of 'em. They're wax figures, every one of them!"
Mr. Van Pycke started. Then he stared.
"Well, upon my soul!" he gasped. He repeated this remark four or five
times during a hasty parade in front of the group, in each instance
peering rudely and with growing temerity into the pink and white face of
a surpassingly beautiful lady.
"It seems to me that I recognize this one," he said, with a cackle of
joy. "I've seen her in Altman's window. 'Pon my soul I have, Bosworth."
"I don't know what Laura's game is, but, by Jove, it's ripping, I'll say
that for it," said Bosworth, his face beaming. "How many of them are
there?" He counted. "Fourteen. Seven spiketails and seven directoires.
Great!"
The two gentlemen withdrew to the upper end of the room, to better the
effect. From the dining-room, four rooms away, came the more distinct
sounds of laughter and conversation.
"There is a _real_ party out there," said Bosworth, rubbing his chin
contemplatively. "I wonder what's up?"
Mr. Van Pycke sat down and twirled his thin mustache, first one side and
then the other, murmuring "By Jove!" over and over again in a most
perplexed way. Bosworth stood, with his chin between finger and thumb,
thoughtfully viewing the inanimate group. For several minutes his face
indicated the most penetrating contemplation of the exhibit down the
room. He was still a trifle dizzy, but in no danger of losing his
attitude of sober reflection.
There were blond ladies and brunettes, old ladies and young ones, and
some who were neither; all beautifully, elaborately gowned in the latest
models from Paris. Their starry glass eyes gazed into space with the
same innocuous stare that baffles all attempts to divert it through
plate-glass windows. Some were sitting, some were standing. Gentlemen in
evening clothes, with monocles or opera hats--mostly plebeian persons,
from Eighth Avenue, you'd say--stood vaguely but stanchly in
juxtaposition to ladies who paid no heed to them, but who, however, were
not unique in their abstraction. Fuzzy-mustached gentlemen were they,
with pink cheeks and iron-clad shoulders. They stared intently but not
attentively at the chandeliers or the wall-paper, unwinking gallants who
seemed only conscious of their clothes.
The effect was startling, even grewsome. For five minutes Bosworth
surveyed the waxy, over-dressed group in profound silence, cudgeling his
brain for a key to the puzzling exhibition.
"For the life of me," he said at last, "I can't understand it."
"I understand it perfectly," said his father, still somewhat dismayed by
the steady gaze of the last pair of blue eyes he had encountered. "Mrs.
Scoville is ordering some new gowns, and the--er--modistes have sent up
samples. Perfectly clear to me."
"I suppose she's ordering a few suits of men's garments--garments is
what they say in the clothing stores--to lend variety to her wardrobe,"
said Bosworth, dryly.
Mr. Van Pycke coughed indulgently. "Bosworth, you shouldn't take so many
cocktails before--"
"Yes, father," interrupted Bosworth, humbly. "I quite agree with you.
For a while I thought it might be the cocktails, but now that you see
them, too, I am very much relieved."
"I am very sorry to see a son of mine--"
"Hello!" said Bosworth, his gaze suddenly encountering a table near the
fireplace on which were piled a number of small boxes. One could see at
a glance that they were jeweller's boxes. "Looks like Christmas."
He got up and strode over to the table.
"Christmas is a week off," said Mr. Van Pycke. "What's up? Some one
coming down the chimney? It wouldn't surprise me, by Jove!"
His son was gazing, as if thunderstruck, at the contents of more than a
dozen boxes of various sizes. He whistled softly, to best express his
wonder.
"Great Scott!" he said, after a moment. "There's half a million dollars'
worth of dog-collars, pendants, tiaras, rings, and--" He was holding up,
for his father's benefit, a rope of pearls that could not have cost less
than a hundred thousand dollars. "Take a look at this, dad!"
Mr. Van Pycke made his way painfully to his son's side. "Astounding!" he
murmured, touching a tiara with respectful fingers.
"Say!"
The two Van Pyckes jumped. The voice that uttered the raucous
monosyllable was masculine, and it seemed to burst from a spot not far
removed from their elbows. Bewildered, they stared this way and that in
quest of the rude owner of that voice.
"Keep your hands off o' them jewels," said the voice, levelly.
Bosworth's indignant gaze discovered the man in the very centre of the
group of "dummies." The young man experienced a queer shiver of dismay.
Was he losing his senses?
A pink-cheeked gentleman with a crêpe mustache arose from a chair in the
extreme background. He leveled a menacing finger, with Bosworth as the
object of its concern.
"Move back from that table, gents," remarked the vivified object near
the windows. The Messrs. Van Pycke fell back several paces, still
staring blankly at the figure.
Bosworth gulped. "Are you--alive?" he demanded, putting his fingers to
his temple.
"Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?" exclaimed the figure.
"I meant to say, are you the only live one in--in the crowd?"
The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. "Oh, you mean
these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork,
do I? I--"
Mr. Van Pycke had recovered his dignity. "What the devil is the meaning
of all this, sir? Explain yourself."
The man picked his way carefully through the group of wax figures. He
was a sturdy person whose evening clothes did not fit him, now that one
observed him carefully. When he was clear of the group, he calmly turned
back the lapel of his coat, revealing a nickel-plated star.
"Does that star signify anything, gents? It says I'm here on this job,
that's all. Just to see that nobody walks off with the sparklers. I'm
from Wilkerson's Private Detective Agency. See? Now, I'd like to know
when and how you got into this room."
He faced them threateningly.
The Van Pyckes started.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Bosworth, turning quite red.
"Just what I say, young feller. When did you come in here?"
"You say you are a detective!" sneered Bosworth.
The man from Wilkerson's blinked his eyes suddenly. "I--I guess I
dropped off to sleep for a couple of minutes. Up for three nights--"
"Do you recognize these trousers?" demanded the young man, pointing to
his father's ridiculous legs.
The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared
at him through his glasses.
"By thunder, they _don't_ fit him, do they? Say, there's something wrong
with you guys. Where'd you get them pants, you?"
"Me?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke.
"Yes, _you_!"
"I'll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!"
roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy.
"Where'd you get them pants?" repeated the sleuth, steadily. "And them
shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I'll have to--here! What's the matter
with you? What you laughin' at? It won't be so blamed funny, young
feller, let me tell you that. You guys can't--"
"You're a fine detective, you are," laughed Bosworth.
"I'm Doxey, the star man of the agency," retorted the detective,
angrily.
"It's a wonder my father isn't wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It
would have been quite as easy, and I really think they'd fit him better
than they fit you. Don't lose your temper, please. Good detectives never
lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you'll be good enough
to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over
there, you'll--"
"Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging.
"That's right! Keep your eye on him. I don't know who your friend is,
Mr. Doxey, but my father is temporarily inhabiting his trousers--and
shoes. You must have slept soundly not to have been disturbed when
Bellows took them off. You'll find--"
"Come off!" growled Doxey. "The old man didn't come here without pants,
did he? And if he had his own on, what in thunder was he trading with--"
Bosworth held up his hand imperatively.
"Good detectives don't discuss their deductions with--never mind! I
sha'n't say it. Now, it may interest you to know that we are close
personal friends of Mrs. Scoville. We--"
"Don't haggle with the demmed scoundrel," protested Mr. Van Pycke,
vigorously.
"Now, don't get fresh--don't get fresh!" said Mr. Doxey, his fusty black
mustache coming loose on one side and drooping over his lip.
"Don't bite it!" cautioned Bosworth, hastily. Mr. Doxey stuck it back in
place with a white kid paw of huge dimensions.
"I am Bosworth Van Pycke, and this is my father, Mr. Van Dieman Van
Pycke," said Bosworth, bowing very low.
"Van Pycke? Wait a minute. I got a list of the guests here in my pocket.
I'll see if you're among 'em. If you belong here, why ain't you out
there eatin' with the rest of 'em?" Mr. Doxey looked up suspiciously
from the paper he had taken from his coat pocket. "I don't like this
pants gag. It sounds fishy."
"Fishy?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke. "What the devil does he mean by that,
Bosworth?"
"It's his way of calling me a liar, dad, that's all."
"Say, there ain't any Van Pyckes on this list. And this is the _correct_
list, too. The butler gave it to me himself. I--"
Bosworth suddenly lost his playful manner. He was tired of the game.
"That will do, Mr. Doxey. Be good enough to go back to your corner," he
said coldly. "I mean it. Don't stand there glaring. It has no effect on
me. I _am_ Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke. I don't blame you for protecting the
jewels--even from Van Pyckes--but there's nothing more for you to do, so
far as we are concerned. We are waiting for Mrs. Scoville and her
guests. And, say, on your way back to your chair--or was it a couch?--be
good enough to drape a table cover about the limbs of that unfortunate
person with the bald head--and bald legs, I might add."
Mr. Doxey looked from one to the other with interest, not to say
curiosity. Something in the young man's manner carried conviction.
"Are you the--the Buzzy Van Pycke who gave the supper for Carmen the
other--"
"I am," Bosworth interjected. "I didn't see you there, Mr. Doxey."
Mr. Doxey snickered. "My wife wouldn't 'a' stood for me--"
"My good man, there were a number of married men there. All of 'em, no
doubt, were being shadowed by detectives. I thought perhaps you might
have got in--but, there! I am tattling. Please sit down, Mr. Doxey."
He threw himself into a comfortable chair and crossed his legs. Then he
proceeded to light a cigaret.
Mr. Van Pycke, senior, had been sitting for some minutes, a strangely
preoccupied look in his eyes, his lips twitching as if with pain.
"I guess I'll just set out here," said the detective, looking from one
to the other shrewdly. "The town's full of those Raffles crooks. How do
I know--"
"Quite right, Doxey. How could you know? You sleep too soundly."
"If you're what you say you are, why don't you call in the footman to
identify you?"
"Bellows has already announced us, Mr. Doxey. I'm hanged if I'll ask him
to do it over again. Now that I think of it, he almost burst while doing
it. It's not my fault that you did not hear him."
Mr. Doxey looked uncomfortable.
"Well, just keep your hands off from the jewels," he said.
Mr. Van Pycke, senior, spoke for the first time in many minutes. It was
easy to see where his thoughts had been directed during the trifling
dialogue. His gaze was attached to the patent-leather shoes he wore.
"I don't see how that demmed dummy ever got into these shoes. They're
almost killing me. Confound it, Bosworth, don't grin like an ape! You
are tight, sir,--disgustingly tight!"
"I'll lay you a fiver I'm not so tight as the shoes, dad."
Mr. Doxey snickered. Van Pycke, père, glared at him in a shocked sort of
way for a moment, and then, disdaining the affront, fell to tenderly
pressing each of his insteps, very much as if trying to discover a spot
that had not yet developed a pain.
The detective took a seat where he could watch the two gentlemen and at
the same time keep an eye on the door through to the dining-room far
beyond. Bosworth smoked in silence for some time.
"What's the meaning of all this?" he asked, after a while, indicating
the group of dummies with a comprehensive sweep of his hand.
"I'm not here to answer questions," said Mr. Doxey, succinctly.
"Oh!" said Bosworth.
Mr. Van Pycke stirred restlessly. "By Jove, I think I'll--'I'll have to
go upstairs and change these shoes for my own, wet or dry. I can't stand
'em any longer. I dare say my trousers are dry by this time, too." He
arose with great deliberateness. He took two delicate steps toward the
hall door; then Mr. Doxey's irritatingly brusque voice brought him up
with a jerk.
"Hold on, there! None o' that--none o' that! You set right where you
are, mister. I guess I'll just keep you in plain view for a while. Fine
work, me lettin' you go upstairs, eh? Fine work, I don't think!"
"Confound you, sir, I'll--" began Mr. Van Pycke, drawing himself to his
full height with a spasmodic effort that brought its results in pain.
"Sit down, father," advised Bosworth, gently. Mr. Van Pycke sat down.
"There's some one coming," added his son a moment later. He arose and
turned toward the portières at the upper end of the room, prepared to
greet the beautiful Mrs. Scoville.
The portières parted at the bottom. All eyes were lowered. The most
unamiable looking bulldog that ever crossed man's path protruded his
squat body into the room, pausing just inside the curtains to survey the
trio before him in a most disconcertingly pointed manner. His whole body
seemed to convert itself into a scowl of disapproval.
Bosworth sat down dismayed. His father swore softly and drew his feet a
bit nearer to the legs of the chair. Both of them knew the dog. They
knew, moreover, that the only living creature in the whole world exempt
from peril was the beast's mistress, the fair lady to whom they had come
to pay coincidental devoirs. All other persons came under the head of
prey, so far as Agrippa was concerned--Agrippa being the somewhat
ominous name of the pet.
"How--how does he happen to be loose?" murmured Bosworth, with a side
glance at the detective.
"Is he dangerous?" asked Mr. Doxey.
"He's a man-eater," said the other, quite uncomfortably.
"Nobody told me about a watchdog."
"Ah, now I understand why he's loose," said Bosworth, promptly. Mr.
Doxey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened his lips to resent
the imputation, half rising from his chair to obtain greater emphasis in
his delivery.
Agrippa emitted a prophetic growl. Mr. Doxey resumed his seat in some
haste.
"Will he bite?" he demanded instead.
"Bite? Hang it all, man, he'll chew us to ribbons if we move. I--I know
that dog. We don't dare to twiddle until Mrs. Scoville comes in to call
him off. He's got us treed, that's all there is to it. I wouldn't move
my little finger for fifty dollars cash. Look at his eyes! Observe the
size of his incisors!"
"I believe you," said Mr. Doxey, with a belated shudder.
"Demmed outrage!" sputtered Mr. Van Pycke. "Now I _can't_ take them
off."
Mr. Doxey was seized by an inspiration. He smiled. "Why don't you go
upstairs and change 'em?" he asked. Mr. Van Pycke moved one foot,
evidently agitated by a desire to kick Mr. Doxey. Agrippa growled. "Just
to see if he _will_ bite," added the detective, with a nervous laugh.
"You go to the devil, sir!" grated Mr. Van Pycke, but entirely without
muscular emotion.
Conversation lagged. For five minutes the three men sat immovable,
staring with intensely wakeful eyes at the grim figure of Agrippa, who
had eyes for all of them. He had moved farther into the room, possibly
for the purpose of indulging in a more or less unobstructed scrutiny of
the mysterious group of ladies and gentlemen beyond. Agrippa was puzzled
but not disturbed. He was not what you would call an inquisitive dog.
"I have never been so insulted in my life," said Mr. Van Pycke, without
raising his voice above a polite monotone.
"Neither have I," said Mr. Doxey.
"You, sir? You are the _insult_, sir. How can you be insulted? It is
impossible to insult an insult. I won't put up with--"
"Keep cool, father," warned Bosworth. "You came very near to moving your
leg just then. I warn you."
"I'm quite sure a dog couldn't _add_ anything to the pain I'm already
suffering from these demmed shoes. Come here, doggie! Nice doggie!" The
wheedling tones made no impression on Agrippa. "What an unfriendly
beast!"
The figures in wax down the room were not more rigid than the four
creatures above--three men and a dog. A little French clock on the
mantelpiece clicked off the seconds in a more or less sonorous manner;
Mr. Van Pycke's sighs and the detective's heavy breathing were quite
plainly distinguishable, even though the wind howled with lusty lungs at
every window in an effort to monopolize attention.
"I shall have that dog shot the very first thing," mused Mr. Van Pycke
aloud.
"I guess not," protested Bosworth. "He's a corker. I wouldn't take a
thousand for him."
Then they shot simultaneous glances of apprehension at each other. Each
wondered if he had let his cat out of the bag.
Bosworth was quick to say to himself: "I see through the governor's
game. Well, I'm a dutiful son. I've tried for three of them to-night and
Fate has been against me. It means that I'm intended for something
better than matrimony."
Bosworth's father was thinking: "If I don't ask her at once, he'll
propose. And she'll take him in a second if he does. I'll not give him
the chance. I'll get it over with inside of five minutes. And I _will_
kill that demmed dog."
Agrippa pricked up his ears and turned his head ever so slightly in the
direction of the portières behind him. A moment later the light, quick
tread of some one was heard in the adjoining room, accompanied by the
swish of silky garments.
Three pairs of eyes were lifted to the portières. A young woman appeared
between the heavy silk curtains. For a second she held an attitude of
polite inquiry. Then a wrinkle of perplexity crept into her smooth,
white forehead. She looked in surprise from one to the other of the
motionless gentlemen, ignoring the detective as completely as if he had
not been there at all.
What surprised her most was the fact that the Messrs. Van Pycke, noted
as the most courteous of men, remained rooted to their chairs.
"Good evening," said Bosworth, allowing his gaze to stray from her now
indignant face to the commanding jowl of Agrippa. "Pardon me for not
arising--pardon all of us, I might say,--but it is quite out of the
question. By Jove! Do you happen to know Agrippa? If you don't, please
escape while you can. He's--"
"Agrippa? Oh!" She had a very soft, musical voice. It was doubly
attractive because of an uncertain quaver that bespoke amazement. "Are
you Mr. Van Pycke?" She looked at the young man with unmistakable
interest--or was it curiosity?
"I am Mr. Van Pycke's son," said Bosworth, cautiously inclining his
head.
The young lady smiled suddenly. "You poor men!" she cried. "Agrippa!
Come here, sir!"
Agrippa's dominion was ended. He turned to her, a very humble dog. She
leaned over and boxed his ears with a soft, white hand--but so gently
that Agrippa would have smiled if he knew how. He did wag his stubby
tail by way of acknowledgment. "Please don't stir," she said to the
three appalled observers. "I'll take him away. He's a very naughty dog."
She departed, Agrippa's collar in her fingers. A moment later she
returned. The three men were standing, but, by curious coincidence, each
had taken a position behind the chair he had occupied.
"Mrs. Scoville begs me to say that she is sorry to have kept you waiting
so long, and that she will be down as soon as she has changed her
gown."
"Her gown?" murmured Bosworth.
"Changing it for what?" muttered Mr. Van Pycke, dreadfully bewildered.
"For a street gown. She's going out, you see."
Mr. Doxey coughed by way of attracting attention. "Do you know these
gents, Miss Downing?"
The smile deepened in her face. Bosworth never had seen a smile so
ravishing. He smiled in sympathy, without knowing just why he did it.
"It isn't necessary to watch them any longer," she said very sweetly.
Mr. Doxey retired to the group near the windows.
"Thanks," said Bosworth, bowing to her.
"Pardon me," said his father, "but I understood Mrs. Scoville was at
dinner."
"That was some time ago, Mr. Van Pycke," the girl said quickly. "She
just _had_ to change her gown, you know."
"Spilled something on it?" he queried. "These confounded servants are
so--"
"Won't you sit down?" she interrupted. Bosworth noted a sudden touch of
nervousness in her manner. For some reason she bit her lip as she looked
in the direction of the dummies.
"If you don't mind," mumbled Mr. Van Pycke, "I think I'll go upstairs
and change my shoes and trousers." He started for the door.
Miss Downing stood aghast--petrified.