Simpson spoke: "He's all right. It's the bridge trick."

No further explanation was necessary. Their chauffeur suddenly swerved

south on Dearborn Street, making in a burst of speed for the River. The

bridge bell was jangling its warning that traffic must stop for the

opening of the bridge to let a steamer pass. Theirs was the last

vehicle on the bridge. The bars dropped behind them. Looking back

through the peephole window, our passengers had the satisfaction of

seeing the yellow cab caught behind the bars, unable to follow them,

unable even, because of other vehicles crowding behind, to turn out and

make a detour to another bridge.

Rockwell excitedly seized the tube. "Good work!" he called. "I'll give

you another ten for that."

"Thank you, sir," came the complacent reply.

With a sigh of relaxing tension Merriam sank back in his corner,

abandoning the peephole.

"Who do you suppose it was?" he asked.

"Thompson?"

"Oh, no, not Thompson himself. One of his henchmen. He and Norman have

all kinds of assistants!"

"Where are we going?" asked Father Murray.

Rockwell laughed. "I'd almost forgotten that you don't know yet. I'll

tell you," and he entered upon an explanation of Thompson's discovery

and proposed method of verification and their own counterplot.

Father Murray was feebly protesting against the difficulties and dangers

of the counterplot, but these complaints were interrupted by the

stopping of the taxi. They had reached the Eighteenth Street Station of

the Elevated.

Rockwell looked quickly through the peephole window and then opened the

door and jumped out. The others followed. They scanned the street in

both directions. There was no other taxicab in sight.

Rockwell stepped up to the smiling chauffeur, asked the amount of the

fare, and paid it with the thirty-five dollars bonus.

"You did the trick very neatly," he said. "Now scoot!"

"Thank you, sir. Yes, sir."

There was still no trace of curiosity in the man's tone or glance.

"Come!" said Rockwell, and he led them to the entrance of the Elevated

Station.

At Forty-Seventh Street they left the Elevated and, walking to the

corner, waited for a cross-town surface car.

"What's the idea?" Merriam asked, his mind becoming active again.

"Well," said Rockwell, "the first thing our late chauffeur will do after

getting back to town will be to gather in another twenty-five dollars or

maybe more for telling some one of Thompson's men where he left us. So

it's best to muss up our trail a bit more before we strike Jennie's."

He was hailing an east-bound car.

As they sat silent again inside, Merriam's mind took its cue from

Rockwell's last word. "Jennie's!" Phrases from his one brief telephone

dialogue with Jennie sounded in his ear, oddly clear and melodious:

"Georgie, boy! Don't you know me?--You ought to!" with a thrilling

little laugh. "You must be careful, Georgie," in a lowered tone. "Can

you come anyway?--You'll telephone again?--Georgie, boy!" and the sound

of a kiss!

These phrases--surely nothing in themselves--echoed in his mind with the

same unaccountable piquancy and warmth with which they had first come to

him over the telephone. He flushed a little, sitting there in the

stuffy, bumping, jangling car, as he recalled the way he had

involuntarily "played up" to them. He had promised to go to her if he

could get away, to telephone her again if he could. That was mere

trickery and deceit, a part of the game he was playing; that was all

right. But his final whispered "Dearie, good night!" Had that been

necessary? He remembered Rockwell's dry comment: "You don't need much

prompting!" But his thoughts ran away with him again. Now he was going

to see her--to spend a night in her apartment. What would she be

like--tall or short, slender like Mollie June or plump like Alicia, fair

or dark, with blue eyes or brown or black, curly hair or straight? He

could not frame an image that satisfied him as the instrument of that

voice.

"Well, what is it to me?" he demanded roughly of himself, suddenly

realising the tenor of his meditations. "See here, my boy, you must be

careful. She's probably a regular chorus girl--or worse." (But he did

not really believe that of her.) "She's nothing whatever to me," he

asserted sternly to his truant fancy. "She belongs to--Simpson. And I

belong to Mollie June."

The car stopped at last, and Rockwell was getting up.

When they had descended into the street Merriam found that they were at

the end of the line by the Lake.

"Illinois Central next," said Rockwell, grinning, and marched them to

the Forty-Seventh Street Station of that railway. None of the others

spoke.

Their guide bought tickets to the City. "Are we going back to the Loop,

then?" thought Merriam.

In a moment they were on the platform. Merriam walked back and forth

apart from the others, drawing deep breaths of the Lake air and looking

up at the stars, dimly bright in the April night. "I belong to Mollie

June," he said firmly to himself.

Presently one of the odd little suburban trains drew up, and they

entered.

But they had scarcely sat down and yielded up their tickets when

Rockwell routed them out--at Forty-Third Street. Evidently his buying

tickets clear to the City had been a part of his elaborate ruse.

Rockwell went at once to a telephone to call up a neighbouring garage.

Merriam took a cigarette and lighted it and again walked up and down.

His thoughts now ran unbidden upon Mollie June. Images of her crowded

his mind: Mollie June rosy and bright-eyed as he had seen her last at

the dinner table in the alcove of the Peacock Cabaret; Mollie June by

his "sick" bed, standing over him after he had impulsively declared his

love, her hand hovering above his hair, tears upon her face, turning

bravely away from him; Mollie June above the roses, as he had first seen

her that morning--was it only that morning?--lifting the wet stems from

the bowl; Mollie June confronting Mayor Black, refusing in angered

innocence to leave the room; Mollie June in the Peacock Cabaret the

night before; Mollie June in the front row in "Senior Algebra" back in

Riceville. Ah, he _did_ belong to Mollie June, heart and soul. There was

no doubt of that, and all the Jennies in the world were of no account

whatever.

So it was a young man in a very laudable frame of mind indeed--waiving

the fact that Mollie June was a married woman!--whom Rockwell presently

bundled into the taxi he had summoned. Father Murray was already

inside. Rockwell followed, leaving Simpson to speak to the chauffeur.

It puzzled Merriam to find Simpson thus placed in command, as it were,

and his thoughts came back to the present adventure. He listened

closely.

"Stop first at Rankin's Hardware Store," Simpson said to the chauffeur,

"on Forty-Third Street."

In a couple of minutes, it seemed, they stopped before Rankin's

emporium. Simpson alone descended. The other three remained in the

taxicab, Rockwell openly smiling at the puzzled inquiry on Merriam's

face but vouchsafing no enlightenment. Merriam would not ask questions.

The hardware shop was closed, but there was a light within and a man.

Simpson pounded at the door till he gained admittance, and in a few

minutes returned bearing--a small stepladder!

"What on earth----?" The words were almost starting from Merriam's

lips, but he managed to swallow them, and listened again for Simpson's

direction to the driver.

It was an address: "612 Dalton Place." That meant nothing to Merriam.

Again a brief drive, Merriam laboriously cogitating, with bewildered

eyes on the small ladder--an affair of some six steps,--which Simpson

had brought into the cab and was holding upright between them.

Father Murray asked the question which Merriam had so manfully (and

youthfully) repressed:

"What's that for?"

"You'll see," said Rockwell, grinning, enjoying the mystery.

Simpson remained as silent and grave as an undertaker.

The taxicab had turned several corners and covered perhaps a couple of

miles of streets. Now it slowed down, stopped.

"There ain't no 612," said the driver through the tube.

Rockwell took command again.

"Isn't there?" he said. "Let's see."

He got out. Peering through the open door of the taxicab, Merriam could

see that the house before which they had stopped was numbered 608.

"612's a vacant lot," he heard the chauffeur say.

"So it seems," Rockwell replied. "Well, we'll get out here anyway."

Merriam eagerly took this cue, and the other two followed, Simpson

bringing his ladder. Rockwell was handing a couple of green bills to

the driver.

"Drive on opposite where 612 ought to be," he said, "and wait. We'll be

back by and by."

"This way," he added, and started with Merriam and Father Murray down

the street past the vacant lot. Simpson, carrying his small stepladder

as unobtrusively as possible at his side, followed laggingly behind.

The square beyond the next avenue seemed to be occupied entirely by a

huge block of apartments. They did not cross the avenue but turned the

corner and walked on down one side of the great flat building but on the

opposite side of the street. Their side held a miscellany of small

detached houses.

Merriam glanced at Rockwell. He was slowing his steps and seemed to be

watching a couple of men who were moving in the same direction as their

own on the other side of the street immediately under the apartments.

A moment later these two men turned in at one of the entrances of the

flat building. After perhaps twenty feet more Rockwell glanced over his

shoulder. Merriam involuntarily did likewise. Half a block behind them

was Simpson with his ladder. There was no one else in sight.

Rockwell stopped for a second, then said, "Come!" and quickly crossed

the street and entered another door of the flat building.

Within the vestibule he stopped again.

"We must wait for Simpson," he said.

He began reading the names below the battery of bells. Merriam and

Father Murray stared at each other.

In a moment Simpson joined them with his ladder. Rockwell promptly

opened the inner door of the vestibule and proceeded to ascend the

stairs. Simpson trudged after him, and Merriam and the priest followed

perforce.

They reached the second floor and the third and continued on up to the

fourth, which was the top floor.

Arriving there, Merriam found Rockwell pointing to a sort of trapdoor in

the ceiling above the landing at the head of the stairs.

"Right!" he whispered.

Simpson calmly set his ladder down, separated its legs, and planted it

firmly beneath the trap. He and Rockwell paid no attention to the doors

of the two apartments which opened off the landing within a few feet of

them. Simpson amended the ladder and, exerting his strength, pushed the

trap door up. It moved with a grating sound, startlingly loud in their

quasi-burglarious situation The night air rushed in. The trap gave upon

the roof of the building.

Simpson did not hesitate but pulled himself up on to the roof.

Rockwell followed.

"You're to come too," he said as he looked down at Merriam gleefully and

winked. He was evidently pleased with himself. "You wait here, Father

Murray. Remember, if any one comes you're a roof inspector. That's

next door to a sky pilot anyway!"

The priest groaned but made no protest, well knowing, doubtless, that

rebellion now would avail him naught, and Merriam quickly followed

Rockwell on to the roof.

It was a flat tar-and-gravel roof--not an unpleasant place to be in the

starry April night. They circled about chimneys and miscellaneous pipe

heads and stepped across brick ledges, which seemed to separate

different sections of the building from one another.

Presently they were approaching the opposite side of the building,

having circled the interior court and light wells. They came to another

trap-door, a twin of the one by which they had ascended.

Simpson was about to open this second trap when Rockwell spoke:

"Wait a minute!"

Stooping lower and lower till at last he seemed to be almost sitting on

his heels as he walked, he made his way to the edge of the roof on the

new street and peeped over the parapet--a dozen feet perhaps beyond the

trapdoor. For a moment only he looked, then returned in the same

cautious and laborious manner.

"We were right," he said to Simpson.

"Watchers?" Simpson asked.

"Two of them. And half way down the block a taxi."

But now Simpson was carefully raising the trap-door. After listening for

a minute he put his head down and looked.

"Coast is clear," he reported.

"Go ahead, then," said Rockwell.

So Simpson put his legs down inside, hung, and dropped into the

vestibule. Rockwell and Merriam followed.

Straightening himself up inside, Merriam found Rockwell facing the door

of the right-hand apartment.

"This is Jennie's!" he whispered.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*JENNIE*

Rockwell knocked twice. A girl with a thin, dark face peeped out.

"Hello, Margery," said Rockwell.

"Oh, how d'you do?" said the girl, recognizing the speaker. Relief was

mingled in her tone with continuing caution. "Who's with you?"

"Friends," said Rockwell. "Mr. Merriam, the Senator's double. And

Simpson."

"Simpson can't come here!" said Margery sharply.

Merriam glanced at Simpson and was amazed to see how moved he was. He

had a sense that the man could hardly keep himself from trembling.

"He's come to help take Norman away," said Rockwell. "He need go no

farther than the hall. Come, Margery, let us in. We can't stand here

all night. I'll explain to both of you inside. I'm George's friend,

you know."

"Well!" Still unwillingly Margery released the chain and moved back,

opening the door for them.

As they stepped inside she stared at Merriam.

"The devil!" she exclaimed.

"No," said the young man, "my name's Merriam. How do you do, Miss

Milton?"

He looked at Margery almost as curiously as she was looking at him. He

was really as innocent as Mollie June--more so, in fact, not being

married,--and Margery was the first member of the demi-monde or the near

demimonde with whom he had ever had personal contact. He found her

disappointing. She was thin to the point of angularity, in a trying

yellow negligee, with straight black hair, black eyes that were

unpleasantly direct, and a lean dark face that was undeniably hard.

For a moment only she stared. Then she shut the door and spoke to

Simpson:

"You stay here!"

"Yes," said Simpson, with more than servitorial humility.

Rockwell was advancing into the sitting room, which opened immediately

off the tiny hall, and Merriam, feeling himself dismissed by Miss

Milton, followed.

Merriam's sole first impression of the sitting room was of a soft,

rather agreeable harmony in yellow. The wall paper, the hangings, the

upholstery of chairs and davenport, the shades of lights were all in

mild tints of that pleasant colour. Probably Margery's yellow negligee

was intended to fit into this ensemble.

But he had no time for detailed observation. For as they stepped forward

the yellow portieres at one side of the room parted, and another girl

appeared between them--undoubtedly Jennie.

This time he was surprised but hardly disappointed. The figure between

the portieres was that of a stage parlour maid--just the right height

for a soubrette and just pleasantly, youthfully slender, yet rounded, in

a trim-fitting dress of some black material, cut rather low at the

throat and edged with white, with a ridiculously small, purely

ornamental, white apron with pockets. Black-silk-stockinged ankles and

black, high-heeled satin pumps completed a picture that was both chic

and demure. Merriam remembered that it was as a parlour maid that

Norman had first known Jennie and guessed that this costume had been

assumed for his benefit.

In a moment the portieres closed behind her. She was looking at the

older man, having barely glanced at Merriam.

"How do, Mr. Rockwell," she said.

Merriam, almost with alarm, recognised the tones that had so piqued him

over the telephone.

Then she turned to him.

"This is---- Gee, but you're like him! I wouldn't have believed it."

"Miss Higgins, Mr. Merriam," said Rockwell tardily.

Merriam responded awkwardly:

"How do you do, Miss----"

"'Miss Jennie' will do," interrupted Jennie.

(Merriam remembered uncomfortably how Mollie June had hit upon a similar

"compromise.")

"I ain't partial to 'Higgins,'" Jennie added. "I'm thinking of changing

it to 'Montmorency.' Wouldn't 'Jennie Montmorency' be nice, Mr.

Rockwell?"

"I don't think it fits very well," said Rockwell. "You'd better change

it to Simpson."

Jennie coloured. She coloured easily, as Merriam was to learn. Now

that she had turned again to Rockwell he had a chance to look at her

face. She was an exceedingly pretty blonde. Her throat was attractively

rounded, her shoulders also. Those shoulders might be unpleasant when

she was older and stouter, but at present they were charming. Her chin

and cheeks were also daintily full--quite the opposite of Margery

Milton's. The cheeks were pink, slightly heightened with rouge perhaps

but not with paint. The eyes were softly, brightly blue. The hair fair

and smoothly wavy, if one may attempt to express a nuance by combining

contradictory terms. In short, she was, as some of her admirers

undoubtedly expressed it, "not a bit hard to look at."

For a moment Jennie's colour flooded. Then came her retort to Rockwell:

"Mind your own business," she said.

The words were sharp, but somehow the tone was not. The voice was still

soft and--warm. It is the only word. It was the voice one might

attribute to a kitten, if a kitten were gifted with articulate speech.

Rockwell only laughed. At the same moment Margery Milton entered from

the hall, where she had presumably been impressing upon Simpson the

necessity of remaining in strict hiding.

Jennie glanced at her friend.

"Well," she said, "may as well sit down."

She dropped into a chair and crossed one leg over the other.

"You've come to take Georgie away," she continued as the others sat

down.

"Yes," said Rockwell. "Listen, Jennie. You too, Margery," and he began

to explain the new situation which had resulted primarily from Margery's

confidences to Thompson. He did not soften this point in his relation.

"See what your gabbling's done," said Jennie, without anger, to her

friend when he had finished. "You always talk too much."

"I can talk if I please," said Margery sullenly.

"It will pay you better to keep still this time," said Rockwell.

"Pay me? How much?" demanded Margery promptly.

"Say a hundred dollars."

"A hundred----! I'm mum as a stone image. When do I get it, though?"

"Here's twenty now on account." Rockwell held out a yellow-backed bill,

which Margery quickly accepted. "You get the rest when this is all

over."

"How do I know I get the rest?"

"Shut up, Marge," said Jennie. "You know Mr. Rockwell."

"We've no time to lose," Rockwell continued, looking at his watch.

"It's twenty-five minutes to ten now. Thompson said ten, but he might

come a bit sooner. We must get Norman away at once. You understand that

you're to let Mr. Merriam go to bed in his stead. When Thompson comes

you must admit him. You can pretend to be unwilling to do so, but you

must let him in without too much fuss. You're to tell him that Norman's

not here and has not been here--that there's a man here who looks

tremendously like Norman and that at first you fooled Margery into

thinking it was Norman."

While Rockwell was issuing these instructions Jennie's cheeks had grown

hot.

"I'm not that kind," she cried. "I've never had any one but George."

Margery also glowered.

"I know that, my dear," said Rockwell, mendaciously perhaps but

promptly. "But you've got to do what I tell you to-night. You don't

care what a fellow like Thompson thinks. He always thinks the worst

anyhow. It's to save George. He'll be ruined unless we can fool

Thompson completely to-night. It's for George," he repeated. "You'd do

a lot for George."

Jennie's colour was subsiding. She had uncrossed her legs and was

sitting erect. She looked fixedly at Rockwell.

"I _have_ done a lot for him," she said.

"I know," said Rockwell. "And you'll do this to-night." He was using

his most persuasive tones.

Jennie stole an almost timid glance at Merriam.

The latter's youthful chivalry was aroused. He was filled with pity for

her, mingled with something like admiration on account of her

prettiness. He saw her, more or less correctly, as a pathetic victim of

real love and a false social system. He smiled at her reassuringly.

"It'll be all right," he said. "I shan't trouble you at all."

Jennie's glance lingered on his face--the face that was so much like

Norman's. She saw him for the clean, innocent, naive boy that he was.

He was what George Norman might once have been, long years ago. I am

afraid that something akin to interest crept into her look. She dropped

her eyes.

"All right," she said curtly to Rockwell. "I suppose I will."

"Jennie, you're a fool!" cried Margery.

"Shut up, Marge," said Jennie, with whom this seemed to be a frequent

locution.

Rockwell had already risen.

"Is George dressed?" he asked.

"No," said Jennie. "He's too sick."

"Come, then," said Rockwell to Merriam. "We must help him into his

things."

He crossed the small room and passed through the yellow portieres.

Having been at the apartment earlier in the day with Aunt Mary, he was

acquainted with its geography.

Merriam rose to follow, but he felt that something more ought to be said

to relieve the half-hostile awkwardness of the situation. Jennie's eyes

were still cast down.

"Is he pretty sick?" he asked as he moved across the room. He was not

much concerned about Senator Norman, but he could think of no other

remark.

Jennie raised her eyes and looked at him--an unreadable glance.

"Pretty sick," she said, almost indifferently.

Merriam paused a moment before the portieres, looking back, still

meeting her eyes.

Then he turned his own away and pushed the portieres aside. He found

himself in a dining room, done entirely in blue, as the sitting room was

in yellow. Rockwell was already opening a door on the further side.

Merriam quickened his steps and was close behind the older man in

entering a small white bedroom.

On a single bed therein lay Senator George Norman. Evidently he had

heard their voices in the sitting room, for he had raised himself on his

elbow.

He and Merriam stared at each other in the amazement that is inevitable

to two men who find themselves really bearing a striking physical

resemblance to each other, however much they may have been forewarned.

We are so accustomed to the idea that each of us has a sort of exclusive

copyright on his own particular exterior that we cannot seriously

believe in anything approaching a replica unless actually confronted

with it.

The Senator did not look especially "boyish" as he lay there. His

ruffled hair was indeed practically untouched with gray, but his cheeks

were haggard and feverish, and there were many little wrinkles about his

mouth and eyes. For all that Merriam could hardly believe he was not

looking into a mirror. The experience was hardly pleasant for either

man. "This is what I shall be like some time when I am old and ill,"

Merriam thought; and the Senator can hardly have escaped the bitter

reflection of the man who has left many years behind him: "That is what

I was once." Looking closer, Merriam could detect slight differences.

The lips and nostrils of his distinguished relative were undoubtedly a

little fuller than his own, and--yes, he surely was not flattering

himself in thinking that the chin was rounder and weaker. But above all

such trivial points the likeness rose overwhelmingly, incredibly

complete. Merriam even recognised a similarity of movement as the sick

man impatiently twisted himself on the bed.

Rockwell was standing silent, also no doubt inspecting the resemblance

of which he had made such remarkable use.

The Senator was the first to find his tongue.

"So you're my virtuous double," he said, with a sort of petulant scorn.

"The voice, too!" Rockwell thought. He almost dreaded to hear Merriam's

reply, which would echo the very quality and timbre of the other's

speech, as if he were mocking him. But Merriam did not seem to notice.

The fact is one cannot judge the sound of one's own voice nor appreciate

the similarity in another's tones or in an imitation.

"I'm the double," Merriam was saying.

For a moment longer the Senator stared. Then he laughed. He evidently

laughed more easily than Merriam, and somewhat differently. Merriam

made a mental note that if he should be involved in any further

impersonation he must be careful of his laugh.

"Well, it's rather convenient just this minute," said Norman, none too

courteously, "though it may be damned inconvenient in the end."

"We'll help you dress," said Rockwell. "We've come to take you to the

hotel, you know."

"Yes, I know that all right," said Norman. "If I'm to be a damned

reformer, I must get out of this." He laughed again. "Hand me those

trousers, will you?"

He put his legs out of the bed. He had already dressed himself as far

as his shirt. Then he had apparently given the job up and got back into

bed.

"I'm weak as a kitten," he continued, "and I've the deuce of a fever,

but I guess I can make it. You've a taxi, of course?"

"Yes," said Rockwell.

He did not tell Norman that the road to the taxi lay through two

trapdoors and across a roof. Neither did he mention the fact that

Merriam was to stay at Jennie's or allude to Thompson's coming. Perhaps

he feared that if Norman knew of Thompson's approach he would prefer to

stay where he was and join forces with him again.

In a very few minutes Norman was fully dressed--in the evening clothes

in which he had left the hotel the night before, on his way, as he

supposed, to Mayor Black's. Rockwell tied his white bow for him.

During the process of dressing he and Merriam were continually glancing

at each other. Neither could resist the attraction. Several times they

caught each other at it.

At about their third mutual detection, which happened during the tying

of the bow, Norman laughed again.

"We're certainly a pair," he said. "Whether aces or deuces remains to

be seen, eh?

"Gad, but I'm weak," he added, sinking on to the bed as Rockwell

finished his job. "You may have to carry me downstairs."

"We'll carry you all right," said Rockwell. "We're all ready, aren't

we?"

"I suppose so," said Norman.

Rockwell stooped and picked him up in his arms, exerting himself only

moderately, apparently, in so doing. The Senator was light on account

of his carefully preserved slenderness, and Rockwell was really very

strong.

"Bring his hat, Merriam," said the latter.

Rockwell carried him through the blue dining room into the sitting room,

Merriam following with the silk hat. Both Jennie and Margery were

standing.

Norman waved his hand limply to Jennie over Rockwell's shoulder.

"Bye-bye, pet," he said. "I'm all in, you see. Sorry to have bothered

you like this when I wasn't fit."

"Georgie boy!" cried Jennie.

With a little run she came up behind Rockwell, caught Norman's hand, and

kissed it.

"You'll let me know how you are? You'll come back?"

"Course I will," said Norman, though he had promised Aunt Mary that

afternoon that he would "cut out" Jennie and the whole of that part of

his life to which she belonged.

It may be that Jennie suspected something of the sort. There were tears

in her bright, soft eyes, and her cheeks were pale enough to make her

slight rouging obvious.

"You will, won't you?" she said. "Come soon, Georgie boy!"

Norman only smiled at her and feebly waved again. Rockwell meanwhile

was moving towards the hallway. Jennie followed closely, though Margery

tried to prevent her.

"Let them go, Jen!" whispered Margery.

"Shut up, Marge!" said Jennie almost fiercely.

And then the catastrophe which Margery had been trying to forestall, and

which Rockwell had not sufficiently foreseen or else had not cared to

prevent, occurred: Jennie came face to face with Simpson in the little

hallway. She stopped short.

"You!" she said.

"Yes, Miss Jennie," said Simpson, looking at her steadily. "I didn't

mean you should see me. I came to help take Mr. Norman away. It was me

that discovered the plan to catch him here."

Jennie knew from Rockwell's earlier explanation that this was true. She

tried to give Simpson what she herself would probably have called the

"once-over"--a scornful survey from head to foot. But her histrionic

purpose failed her. Her eyes fell too quickly.

"Well, be quick about it," she said. For the first time her voice was

harsh.

Rockwell meanwhile had carried Norman on into the outer hall--for

Simpson had already opened the door--and set him down leaning against

the banister.

"Margery!" he called sharply.

Margery, glad of any diversion, advanced quickly:

"What do you want?"

"A stepladder. Got one?"

"Why--yes!"

"Go with her, Simpson, and get it," Rockwell commanded.

"Yes, Mr. Rockwell."

"This way," said Margery, and she and Simpson passed by Jennie and

Merriam, who stood a little behind Jennie, and disappeared into the

flat.

Jennie gave one quick look at Norman, who was leaning weakly against the

railing staring in front of him, turned away with eyes that were very

bright and a little hard, brushed past Merriam, and went back into the

sitting room and sat down.

Almost at the same moment Simpson returned, carrying a rather tall

stepladder and followed by Margery.

Norman came out of his apathy and stared. Simpson set the ladder up in

the center of the hall, mounted it, and climbed through the trap, which

they had left open when they descended.

"Here. Catch!" said Rockwell. He tossed Norman's silk hat up through

the trap, and Simpson caught it.

Then he stooped, picked Norman up again, and began to mount the ladder

with him.

"What in hell!" said the sick man.

Rockwell did not reply but continued to mount and then hoisted the

Senator up so that Simpson could catch him under the arms and draw him

through the trap.

Finally he spoke to Merriam:

"Take this ladder inside. Then you must go straight to bed. He'll be

here any time now. I'll 'phone from the hotel when we get there."

He swung himself up on to the roof. The trap closed.

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Margery Milton.

Merriam did not like profanity in women, even in Margeries.

"Very likely you will," he said.

Margery looked at him sharply:

"You think you're smart, don't you? Are you going to bring that ladder

in?"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*A NEW ANTAGONIST*

Merriam shut the stepladder together, lifted it into an oblique

position, and carried it through the inner hallway into the sitting

room, where he stopped, not knowing where to go with it.

Jennie was still sitting. She looked up at him. The same expression of

interest which had showed in her eyes once before returned to them. She

smiled and shifted her position, crossing her knees. But she volunteered

no information as to what he should do with the stepladder which he was

awkwardly holding.

Meanwhile Margery had followed him into the inner hall, closed the door,

and put up the chain. She now came past him and pushed aside the

portieres into the dining room.

"Bring it this way, please," she said, quite politely.

He carried the ladder through the blue dining room into a kitchenette,

and thence through a door which Margery held open on to a narrow back

porch, from which he had a glimpse of a sort of orderly labyrinth of

steep wooden stairs and narrow back porches around the four sides of an

inner court.

He returned into the kitchenette, which was almost entirely filled up

with a gas stove. Margery shut the door.

"Go into the sitting room and talk to Jen," she said. "I want her to

forget about Simpson. I'll change the bed for you."

"Thank you," said Merriam, who began to perceive that Miss Milton, in

spite of her profanity, had certain admirable qualities.

He went through the dining room, hesitated for a moment before the

portieres--he could not have said why--and then pushed them open.

Jennie had risen and was standing beside a table between the windows.

The table held a parchment-shaded lamp, a newspaper, a small camera, and

a bowl of violets. Merriam had not noticed the flowers before. He

remembered the violets worn by the floor clerk at the hotel, and

wondered whether George Norman had saved himself trouble at the

florist's by ordering two bunches from the same lot, to be sent to

different addresses.

Jennie was looking down at the flowers. She must have been aware of his

presence. If so, she was apparently content that he should have the

benefit of a good look at her trim figure and at her face in profile,

which was its best view. She had a pretty nose; the artificially

heightened colour of her cheeks was charming in this light; and the

bright knob of her fair hair over her ear was a most alluring ornament.

In a moment she bent gracefully down to smell the violets. As she

straightened up she turned to look at him--a serious, appraising look

that was somehow intimate. Then she smiled brightly.

"Come in, Mr.----" (she seemed to forget his name and let it go) "and

sit down."

She tripped across the room to the davenport and sat, indicating that he

was to sit beside her.

Merriam wanted both to take that seat and not to take it. He took it.

She crossed one leg over the other and looked at him, smiling. One

small, squarish, plump hand lay on her knee, ready, Merriam half

divined, to be taken if any one should desire to take it. He wondered

if it were true that she had "never had any one but George."

"I forget your name," she said confidentially.

"Merriam." It was not said stiffly. He was too much attracted to be

stiff. He realised that he was answering her smile.

"What's your first name?"

"John."

"Then I shall call you 'John.' I don't like last names--and 'Mister'

and 'Miss.'"

"They're stiff," he said, "playing up" alarmingly as on a former

occasion.

She scrutinised his face, growing grave.

"You're awfully like George," she said, "except here."

She raised her hand, and with the tip of her forefinger touched his

chin.

"You're sterner," she added.

It was the very point Merriam himself had noted. He admired her

acuteness of observation. And of course he was flattered. But he

realised that he was not being particularly stern at that moment.

"I expect I am," he said, trying to look, if not to be, more so.

Jennie moved an inch or two farther away from him, as if a little

frightened by the iron qualities of this male.

"Where's Margery?" she asked.

"Here," said Margery's voice, with disconcerting patness.

She came through the portieres and surveyed the two of them with an

ironical look that was by no means lost on Merriam. He felt ashamed of

himself.

But Jennie gave him a quick glance with a little pout in it, as if to

say, "What a nuisance! When we were just beginning to get acquainted!"

And straightway his shame fled and he smiled at her.

Margery, however, was speaking in her most businesslike tones:

"I've changed your bed, and you'd better get into it as quick as you

can. It's late now."

"Yes," said Merriam, rising. "What time is it?"

Before he could get out his own timepiece Jennie raised her arm and

glanced at a small gold wrist watch.

"Oh! Five minutes after ten!" she cried. She rose too. "You must

hurry."

"Yes," said Merriam.

He moved to the portieres--hesitated. He did not know how to take leave

under these novel circumstances.

"Good night, ladies," he ventured in rather ceremonious tones.

To his chagrin both girls burst out laughing.

"Good night, gentleman!" Jennie called merrily after him, and their

renewed giggling pursued him as, in painful confusion, he crossed to the

door of the bedroom.

He shut that door behind him and rapidly undressed, stimulated to speed

in his operations by a vigorous mental kicking of himself as an ass and

a "boob." A suit of pajamas, apparently quite new; was laid out on a

chair. He got into these and slipped into bed.

The moment he was recumbent he realised that he had forgotten to turn

out his light. No matter. He had no idea of sleeping. Besides Thompson

would be there any minute.

Ah, Thompson! With relief his mind seized upon this topic. It was

sufficiently absorbing. Any minute now Thompson would burst in,

demanding Senator Norman. He, Merriam, would pretend he had never seen

Thompson before, never even heard of him. "My name is not Norman," he

would say. "My name is Merriam. Who are you? And what do you want?"

Thompson would stare, falter, begin to apologise and explain. It was

pleasingly dramatic. He pursued the interview. His own conduct therein

displayed the quintessence of composure and _savoir faire_. Jennie and

Margery--yes, both of them were present--would be impressed; they would

laugh at him no longer. Thompson was sacrificed mercilessly.

But the minutes passed and nothing happened. There was no sign of the

real Thompson. What was wrong? The silence of the small, lighted

bedroom began to get on Merriam's excited nerves. Had Thompson somehow,

in spite of Rockwell's elaborate precautions, got wind of the real

situation, discovered their trick before it was played? Had he remained

at the hotel, seen the real Norman return, and perceived the whole

imposition?

A light knock sounded on his door. Merriam jumped and then lay still.

"Can I come in?"

It was Jennie's voice.

"Yes," he said, embarrassed; but what other reply could be made?

Jennie opened the door and came to his bedside. She had changed her

attire completely. She now wore the costume of a _ballerina_--a tight

pink corsage, very low and sleeveless, with the slightest of pink loops

over her shoulders, a short, fluffy pink skirt barely to her knees, pink

tights, and pink dancing slippers. Over one of the bright knobs of her

hair was a pink rose. She was much more brilliantly rouged than before,

and he was conscious of a warm scent of powder and perfume.

Merriam lay staring at her without speaking, subconsciously shocked

perhaps, but openly bewildered and fascinated.

She smiled at him and seemed to be inspecting him in return. Her left

hand hung at her side, holding something heavy, but she put out her

right and touched his hair--with a single little movement ruffled it.

"You look very nice lying there," she said in the most natural tones in

the world. "How do I look?"

She stepped back and pirouetted, turning completely around on her toes.

The fluffy pink skirts swung out and circled with her in a most

entrancing manner. Merriam was quite dazzled. The white gleam of her

back as she turned, the slender white arms, held gracefully away from

her sides, in spite of that heavy something in one hand, the tight

slimness of the waist, the glimpse of pink legs beneath the circling

skirt--he had seen the like only on the stage. It was rather

overpowering so close at hand.

But in a single rosy moment her revolution was completed. She was

facing him again and relaxing down off her toes.

"How do I look?" she repeated, smiling, with the slightest natural

augmentation of her artificial flush.

Merriam swallowed. "Stunning!" he ejaculated.

She beamed. "Of course I do," she said.

Then her face seemed to harden. She stepped closer to the bed so that

she was almost bending over him.

"I've got a part to play," she said. "Well, I'm going to play it."

There was a touch of something like defiance in her voice now. "I've

cooked up a plot for Mister Thompson. Marge don't like it, but she'll

help. I'll show him! You've got to help too."

She raised her left hand, displaying the heavy object held therein,

which he had not yet identified. He was somewhat startled to see that it

was a small revolver.

"Take it," she said.

As he did not instantly put out his arm she tossed it across so that it

fell on the bed on the other side of him.

"It's loaded," she said, "with blanks. Mister Thompson shall see you

first. But afterwards Marge and I will see what we can do with him.

We'll get him to stay for a little supper, and I'm going to play up to

him. I'll do a dance on the table. But when he tries to catch me I'll

scream. That's where you come in. You rush out with your revolver and

drive him out of the house. Won't it be fun?" she demanded, glowing with

excitement. "We'll have the goods on him. He'll keep his face shut

after that. Whatever he knows or thinks about George! We'll have a

fine story for Mrs. Thompson, if he don't. Oh!"

A doorbell had rung loudly in the kitchenette.

"There he is now. Remember! When I scream!"

She was gone from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Merriam lay as if dazed. This "high life" was proving almost too fast

for his bucolic and pedagogical wits. He jumped when the bell rang

again more violently. Then he heard the sound of the hall door being

opened and a loud masculine voice. Was it Thompson's? A moment or two

later the voice became more distinct, and he could hear the girls'

voices too. He could not be sure it was Thompson. Was it some one of

his "henchmen" instead? Whoever he was, he was in the sitting room. In

a moment or two he would almost certainly be coming out to the bedroom.

Merriam suddenly remembered the revolver and reached for it and slipped

it under the bedclothes. He had several minutes more to wait. The

voices became lower. Then they were raised again. Suddenly he heard the

rings of the portieres clash--the curtains had been sharply flung aside.

Margery's thin voice came to him.

"See for yourself, then!" it said.

"That's better," said the masculine voice in tones half amused, half

irritated. Was it Thompson?

Light footsteps and heavy footsteps crossed the dining room together.

The bedroom door was opened.

"Sir," said Margery to Merriam, in tones a little shrill with

excitement, "this is a Mr. Crockett. He has some crazy notion about your

being Senator Norman. See for yourself, Mr.--Crockett!" She spoke his

name as though it were an insult. "Remember, he's sick," she added

warningly. Margery was not a bad actress.

Crockett! Crockett himself! So much the better! With an effort

Merriam steadied his nerves. Mr. Crockett advanced to the bedside--a

tall, imposing gentleman in evening clothes with keen blue eyes and a

thin remnant of lightish hair.

"Well, George," he said blandly, "glad to see you. Your little friends

are very loyal. But they couldn't keep me away from you."

Merriam instantly disliked Mr. Crockett. He plunged with zest into his

part.

"George?" he inquired coldly. "My name's not George!"

"Oh, come, come, Norman! You're caught. Fess up."

But he looked closer. At the same moment Margery lifted a silk shade

off the electric bulb by the bureau, and the cold hard light fell full

on the younger man's face.

"Who do you think I am?" said Merriam. "And who are you?" he added in

an insolent tone.

The impressive financier stared. He bent down and stared harder.

"Well?" Merriam demanded with all the hauteur he could muster. And

then: "Got an eye-ful?"

He had preconceived this colloquy in much more dignified phrases, but

the insulting tag of boyish slang popped out of him unawares. However,

he could not have done better. Probably he could never, by taking

thought, have done as well. Senator Norman would assuredly not have used

that expression; it had been coined long since his day in Boyville.

Mr. Crockett was convinced. But he was a gentleman of considerable

imperturbability. He merely straightened up and asked:

"Who are you?"

The younger man suddenly decided not to give his name. There was that

in Mr. Crockett's blue eyes that suggested an uncomfortable pertinacity

and ruthlessness in following up any clue he might get hold of.

"What business is that of yours?" said Merriam.

Mr. Crockett blinked. He was doubtless unaccustomed to such replies.

But he merely asked another question:

"Where are you from?"

"Down State," said Merriam. That was both insolent and safe: Illinois

is tolerably sizable.

"How old are you?"

Merriam saw an advantage in answering this query truthfully.

"Twenty-eight," he said. "What of it?"

"You don't happen to be a young nephew or cousin of Senator Norman's, do

you?" asked Mr. Crockett, hitting the bull's-eye with his first arrow.

Merriam, somewhat startled, countered with a flat denial:

"No, I'm not. I've been told I look like him," he added. "Somebody

took me for him last night. But I'm only related to him through Adam and

Eve--so far as I know."

Mr. Crockett scanned him narrowly:

"Somebody took you for Norman last night?"

"They sure did." Having struck the slangy note by accident, Merriam was

enough of an actor to keep it up.

"I should be much obliged if you will tell me about that."

Merriam's self-confidence returned. He had been realising how little

this dialogue was developing in accordance with his pleasing

anticipations. Instead of the role of a polished man of the world,

delivering brilliant thrusts of irony and reducing his interlocutor to

apologetic confusion, he had stumbled inadvertently on that of a slangy

youth, submitting to be catechised by an individual who remained

singularly composed and had proved dangerously shrewd. But at last he

had led up adroitly enough to the story which Rockwell had charged him

to tell. He set himself to tell it in character:

"Well, if you want to know, I came up to the City on

business--yesterday. When I got my work done I thought I'd have a

little fun--see the sights, you know. I don't know this town much, but

I got hold of a taxi man who took me around. I looked in at several

places. I guess I had a pretty good time. I don't remember much. I

had more highballs than I'm used to. We ended up at a dance hall

somewhere. There were some pretty girls there. Somebody said, 'You're

Senator Norman, aren't you?' That struck me as funny. 'Sure, I am,' I

said, and I kept it up. Soon everybody in the place was calling me

'Senator.' I treated the gang. Then I got into a fight. I don't

remember how. Somebody knocked me down, I think. But I wasn't hurt

any. After that I picked up this little girl that lives here--the one

in pink,--and she brought me home with her. I had a bad head on this

morning and a bad cold besides. The little girl is a good sport. She

let me stay here all day. I'm going down home in the morning."

"I see," said Mr. Crockett slowly.

Merriam had need of all his self-command to conceal his elation as he

perceived that his formidable antagonist had swallowed bait, hook, and

sinker, as the idiom goes. He was obviously piecing Merriam's narrative

together in his mind with the _Tidbits_ story about Norman. Margery,

who had remained standing unobtrusive and silent by the bureau, flashed

Merriam a commendatory glance.

Stimulated thereby, he pertly followed up his advantage:

"Care for any more of my personal memoirs?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Crockett with a rather sour smile. "Good

night, Mr.--Mr.----"

He was angling for the name again, but with a feebleness unworthy of a

great financier.

"Mr. Blank," said Merriam. "I've a bit of a reputation to keep up in my

own home town."

"I see," said Mr. Crockett again. "Well, I'm sorry to have intruded.

Take care of your reputation!"

He turned away towards the door.

In that open door Jennie had stood listening. Now her cue had come. She

took it promptly. She advanced into the bedroom, stepping lightly on her

toes, her pink skirt waving prettily. She smiled her brightest smile at

Mr. Crockett.

"He isn't Senator Norman, is he?" she cried gaily.

"He certainly isn't," said Mr. Crockett, looking at her. No man could

have helped looking at her.

"You were awfully rude about it," said Jennie, pouting. She had stopped

about two feet in front of him.

"Was I?"

"I should say you were. Awfully! You ought to do something to make up

for it."

"What ought I to do?" asked Mr. Crockett.

"You might stay for a little supper with Margery and me."

"Might I?"

Unexpectedly Mr. Crockett looked away from Jennie. He looked at

Merriam, thoughtfully--a disconcerting thoughtfulness. Then he turned

back to Jennie.

"Perhaps I might," he said, with a faint smile.

Merriam read his mind. He was sure he did. The man might or might not

be slightly attracted by Jennie's prettiness, but what he was thinking

was that he would be able to get more out of her than he had been able

to get from Merriam. The latter at once perceived that Jennie's

melodramatic scheme was dangerous and silly. It might have been all

right with Thompson, but not with this man. She hadn't sense enough to

see the difference. But he could do nothing to stop her.

Already she had cried, "Oh, goody!" like a little girl.

She stepped past Mr. Crockett, brushing him with her skirts, put her

hands on his shoulders and began playfully to push him towards the

dining room.

"It's all ready," she was saying. "We got it for the man inside, but he

says he isn't hungry. We have sandwiches and olives and cheese and

beer--and there's whiskey, if you like."

"I'll take beer," said Mr. Crockett, mustering a certain lightness and

allowing himself to be pushed.

Merriam looked at Margery, still standing by the bureau. She too had

changed her costume. She now wore an evening dress of black and gold,

in which she looked very well, rather brilliant, in fact. But what

Merriam noticed was the understanding look in her eyes. She had read

Mr. Crockett's purpose as clearly as he had.

"We'll be careful," she said. "You did fine. Shall I turn out the

light?"

"No," said Merriam. "Leave it, please."

She walked out of the room and closed the door.

*CHAPTER XX*

*AN EVENTFUL SUPPER PARTY*

Though Margery had closed the door Merriam could hear practically

everything that went on in the adjoining room--as one commonly can in an

apartment.

"Get the food from the ice chest, will you, Marge?" cried Jennie, in

tones whose gaiety sounded genuine. "I'll set out the drinks. Let's

have a cocktail to start with, Mr.----"

She interrupted herself:

"What's your first name?"

"Well," said Crockett, "one of my first names is Henry."

"Then I'll call you 'Harry.' I hate last names--and 'Mister' and

'Miss'!"

Merriam in his recumbent solitude made a cynically humorous grimace.

She had used those very words with him--had begun the same way. Her

regular formula doubtless.

"I'm 'Jennie,' you know," she continued. "Now, what kind of cocktail?"

"I'll stick to beer, please."

"But I want to start with a cocktail! Have one with me! Please!"

The tone was that of a teasing child. In his mind's eye Merriam could

see vividly the trim pink figure (as it had pirouetted before him) and

the pretty pouting face. But Crockett was apparently unmoved.

"Bye and bye," he said suavely. "Go ahead with your cocktail. We don't

all have to drink the same things, do we? I'll start with beer and work

up to cocktails."

"Well, then," said Jennie, with a swift return to unpetulant gaiety,

"Marge is bringing your old beer. Oh, goody! See! Cheese sandwiches

and chicken sandwiches and lettuce-and-mayonnaise sandwiches!"

Evidently Margery had returned well laden from the ice chest.

"Which kind will you have, Harry?"

"Cheese, thank you," said "Harry."

"There! With my own fingers!"

Jennie spoke with some confidence that the touch of her fingers would

render bread and cheese ambrosial.

"Thank you," said "Harry" again, with the barest nuance of dryness in

his tone. "I'll open the beer. What will you drink, Miss Milton?"

Undoubtedly he was snubbing Jennie! Those blue eyes of his might

perhaps be attentive enough to white arms and tight waists and pink legs

when he himself had sought them out, but they were not to be distracted

by any such frivolous phenomena when serious business was afoot. Jennie

would fail! Merriam was sure of it.

But at any rate she was not easily snubbed.

"Her name's Margery," she cried, consistent in her antipathy to

surnames.

"Well, Margery?" said Crockett, complaisantly.

"Beer," said Margery.

It was the first word Merriam had heard her speak. Her taciturnity

comforted him. Jennie was a little fool, but Margery would keep her

head. They would waste their time and their sandwiches and beer on

Crockett, but perhaps she would foil any inquiries he might presently

attempt.

"Don't set things in the middle of the table, Marge," cried. Jennie.

"Set 'em around the edge. I'm going to do a dance for you, Harry.

Wouldn't you like to see me dancing on the table?"

"It would be very charming," said "Harry." But the tone was merely

gallant; it betokened no quickening of pulse.

"I must have a sandwich first, though," said Jennie quickly. Even she

perceived that she was not making progress.

There followed eating and drinking, accompanied by a patter of gay,

disconnected sallies from Jennie, relating chiefly to the eatables and

drinkables. "Harry," continually appealed to by that name, remained

calmly polite. Margery, when addressed, responded in monosyllables.

Ripe olives and cold tongue and mustard were produced. Jennie had her

cocktail, and then another. She needed stimulant, poor girl, to keep up

the gay vivacity which was meeting with so little encouragement. A

second bottle of beer was opened for "Harry" and Margery.

Meanwhile Merriam, still listening, was engaged also in active

cogitation. He saw well enough into Crockett's thought. The latter had

been momentarily convinced by his, Merriam's, well-told tale. (Margery

had said he had "done fine.") But the keen, realistic mind behind those

blue eyes had almost immediately rebounded and seized upon the

overwhelming inherent improbability of that yarn. That there should be a

man without close relationship to Norman who resembled him so strongly

was in itself decidedly remarkable. That this man should encounter

Norman's mistress, by pure chance, at a public dance and go home with

her was even more curious. And that all this should happen, merely

fortuitously, on the very night on which Senator Norman had

unaccountably broken, before nine o'clock, solemn promises given with

every appearance of sincerity and willingness shortly before eight, and

suddenly gone over to a party for which throughout a score of years he

had expressed nothing but dislike and contempt--the mathematical chances

against such a series of coincidences were simply incalculable.

It was a quick, clear perception of this abstract, apriori incredibility

that Merriam had read in Crockett's final glance before Jennie playfully

pushed him out of the bedroom. Doubtless he was still revolving it in

his mind as he sat at Jennie's table, responding with merely mechanical

politeness to her rather pitiful attempts to pique his interest and

desire. Well, let him revolve it. The story all hung together. What

could he make of it? Little enough, probably, with the data he had now.

But that was why he was lingering here at Jennie's--in the hope of

getting more data. After another cocktail or two Jennie would not know

what she was saying. Then he would begin to hint, to ask questions.

Could Margery keep her quiet? A single word might give him a clue.

Merriam became conscious of a wish that Rockwell were at hand to help.

But that wish instantly gave birth to further fears. Rockwell had said

he would telephone from the hotel as soon as they arrived. That message

might come any minute now--with Crockett there! Whereabouts in the flat

was the telephone? He had not noticed it anywhere. He looked about the

bedroom. But it was not there, of course.

Ought not that message to have come already? Surely they should be at

the hotel by now unless something had gone wrong. He suddenly envisaged

all the perils of discovery, which he had hitherto been too much

occupied to realise, involved in the transportation of the sick Senator

across the roof--down through the other trapdoor into the other

hall--down three flights of stairs--along two blocks of city street to

the taxi. They might so easily have been noted by some of Thompson's,

or Crockett's, watchers, and followed to the hotel. Then they would be

caught indeed--in the very fact. Verily, the paths of the impostor are

perilous!

Then Merriam's mind was brought sharply back from these alarming

excursions to his own scarcely less dangerous situation. Crockett had

for the first time volunteered a remark. It was just such a remark as

Merriam had anticipated.

"Nice boy you have in there."

His voice was slightly lowered but only slightly. Perhaps he did not

realise the perfection of the acoustic properties of flats.

"Very nice boy!" agreed Jennie cordially.

Merriam noticed with alarm just the faintest touch of the effect of

cocktails in her accent. How many had the girl had by now?

"So you met him at Reiberg's, did you?" Crockett pursued.

"Reiberg's?" said Jennie doubtfully, "Reiberg's?"

"Yes," Margery cut in. "Picked him up there and brought him home. I

call it a shame. Jen's never done that sort of thing before."

"I expect you took to him because he looks so much like Senator Norman,"

suggested Crockett, rather skillfully persistent.

"Yes," said Jennie, "looks very like George. But he's _not_ George.

He's John!"

"John what?" asked Crockett mildly.

"John Blank!" said Margery sharply. "He told you he didn't want to give

his name. Jen, keep your face shut!"

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Crockett.

"Have a cocktail now!" said Jennie, quite unabashed.

Crockett at last agreed to a cocktail, and it was fixed for him, and the

conversation, if such it could be called, again concerned itself with

incidents to the consumption of food and drink.

Thank God for Margery! She had won the first trick. But Crockett would

try again. And Jennie would grow more and more difficult to handle.

Aside from the danger, Merriam hated to think of Jennie's getting really

drunk. Could not Margery get rid of the man? The trouble was he had

stayed at Jennie's invitation. Could not he, Merriam, do something?

He felt under the bedclothes until he found the revolver. He drew it

out and looked at it. But of what use was it, really? Would Crockett

blench at the mere pointing of a pistol? He doubted it. It was loaded

only with blanks, Jennie had said. And he dared not fire it anyway. The

occupants of a dozen adjoining flats would hear the report. People would

come bursting in. The police would be called. Well, was not that the

solution? To have Crockett caught in that flat by the police in

connection with a shooting? Perhaps, but not a nice one for himself.

Not to be tried except as the very last resort. Besides, would it serve

their purpose? A public exposure of Crockett would do no good. What

they needed was a threat of possible exposure to hold over him--not the

exposure itself.

If only Jennie could succeed in her purpose of enticing him into some

display of amorousness, of which he and Margery might be witnesses. It

would be pleasant to "have the goods on him," to use Jennie's phrase.

Why did she not dance for him? But Crockett would not be enticed. He

might, however, pretend to be. He might decide to "play up" in that way

if through Margery's watchfulness he could get nothing out of Jennie

without doing so.

But now there flashed into Merriam's mind a doubt of the efficacy of

Jennie's scheme even if they should succeed in carrying it out. Suppose

Crockett should catch hold of her after her dance and try to kiss her,

and she should scream, and he should rush out with his revolver, and

Crockett should be intimidated thereby into ignominious exit? That

would be very good fun, but would it give them any hold over him in case

of need? He could deny it. Against his word the only witnesses would be

Jennie and Margery, whose testimony would not be taken very seriously,

and himself--a nobody and an impostor. No wonder Margery, the

clear-headed, had disapproved. They ought to get more tangible

evidence--something in writing or a photograph.

He suddenly remembered the camera on the table in the living room, and

recalled also a certain college episode, a rather lurid incident of his

fraternity days, in which a camera and a girl and a priggish freshman

had figured. It suggested to him a decidedly picturesque and

venturesome procedure against Crockett. But he shook his head. It was

too violent, too rough. All very well for a parcel of boys with a

freshman. But with Mr. Crockett, the mighty capitalist! No! Hardly!

Just then he heard Jennie say:

"Get your mandolin, Marge. I'm going to dance now."

"Fine!" said Crockett. But he was still cool, amused.

Margery made no reply, but she evidently complied. In a moment there

came a preliminary strumming on the mandolin.

"Help me up, Harry," said Jennie.

"With pleasure," said "Harry."

He was helping her to mount on to the table.

"Move that siphon off," Jennie said. "I might kick it over."

There was gay excitement in her voice. Cocktails had made her

indifferent to appreciation. As for Merriam, the conscience of a

realist compels me to report a sense of disappointment: he wanted to see

the dance.

"Now sit down again," cried Jennie. "You can see better."

At this frankness Crockett laughed. There was the sound of his dropping

into a chair.

"Now, Marge!" Jennie commanded.

But Margery did not strike into her tune and the dance did not begin,

for at that instant the telephone rang.

It was in the dining room, then!

There was a quick movement of chairs and feet. Then Crockett's voice

said, "Hello!"

He was answering it!

"That's not fair!" cried Margery. "It's not for you!"

"Keep off!" said Crockett in a quick, stern whisper, and then, evidently

into the telephone, "Yes! Yes!"

Merriam leapt out of bed, revolver in hand, in his pajamas and flung

open the door.

Crockett was standing by the wall at the telephone. Jennie, in her

ballet costume, stood transfixed in the center of the table. Margery

was rushing at Crockett.

"You--you spy!" she screamed.

Merriam, in the door, pointed his revolver.

"Drop it!" he cried, meaning the telephone receiver. "Hands up!"

But Crockett, catching Margery by the shoulder with his free hand, held

her powerfully at arm's length and only smiled at Merriam's revolver.

"Why?" he asked into the telephone, and added quickly, "Nothing! These

girls are romping so!"

But his words could hardly be heard for Margery's screaming. He dropped

the receiver and put the hand thus freed over the mouthpiece.

"Shut up!" he said fiercely to Margery, and gave her shoulder a violent

wrench.

"O--oh!" she groaned.

Something had to be done instantly, for Crockett was turning back to the

telephone. With a sort of impulsive desperation Merriam threw the

revolver at Crockett's head. The man dodged, and the revolver struck

the opposite wall and fell to the floor. But the movement took him away

from the telephone, and Merriam, rushing forward, added the impetus of a

straight-arm thrust, which sent him staggering against the table.

Then Merriam caught up the receiver.

"Hello! Hello!" he cried into the mouthpiece.

For an instant no reply. Then Central's voice said sweetly:

"Your party's hung up." And added, in tones of unwonted interest:

"What's the row there? Shall I send the police?"

"No, no!" said Merriam. "There's nothing wrong here."

He hung up and turned to face the room.

Crockett was still leaning against the table. Margery was clutching the

arm which a moment before had gripped her, and Jennie had jumped down

from the table and caught hold of his other arm. But the financier

appeared very little ruffled. He even smiled at Merriam, not

unpleasantly.

"Well, Mr. Merriam," he said, "suppose we sit down and talk it over--if

these ladies will release me, that is."

"Mr. Merriam!" Then the message _had_ been from Rockwell, and Crockett

had got the name after all. How much more had he learned? Merriam was

quite willing to talk in the hope of finding that out.

"Very well," he said. "Let him go, Margery,--Jennie."

"I'll dance for both of you!" cried Jennie, whose cheeks were decidedly

flushed.

"No!" said Merriam. "Sit down, please."

"Sit down, Jen!" seconded Margery, viciously.

"Oh, well!" Jennie plopped petulantly into a chair.

The others sat, Merriam and Crockett across from each other. The

financier looked steadily at the younger man.

"Miss Milton was right," he began quietly. "The message was not for me.

It was for you, Mr. Merriam. I think I ought to give it to you."

"If you please," said Merriam.

"It was that you should 'come at once to the hotel.'"

Merriam managed not to blink.

"What hotel?" he asked.

For an instant Crockett weighed his answer. Then:

"The De Soto," he said.

But Merriam had read the meaning of the momentary pause: Rockwell had

not named the hotel--he wouldn't, of course--Crockett was guessing.

"De Soto?" he asked, looking as puzzled as he could. "I thought it

might be from the Nestor House." (He was using the first name that

popped into his head.)

"Oh," said Crockett lightly, "Mr. Rockwell would be much more likely to

telephone from the De Soto."

Merriam was startled, but he could only go on as he had begun.

"Rockwell?" he echoed, as if still further mystified.

"Come, come," said Crockett, "I recognised his voice. I know it

perfectly."

"No friend of mine," Merriam persisted. There might be no advantage in

continued denial, but certainly there could be none in admission.

"Really, Mr. Merriam, hadn't you better tell me the whole story? You'll

not find me ungenerous. I'll let you down easy."

"The whole story?" said Merriam. "Thought I told you my whole story in

the bedroom a while back. What more do you want?"

Crockett shrugged his shoulders. He smiled blandly:

"What I want is another cocktail, I guess. You'll join me, Mr. Merriam?

You've had nothing all evening. It must have been dull for you, lying

in there, while these pretty ladies have been entertaining me so

charmingly. I understood you were sick, you know," he added slyly, "or

I should have insisted on your coming out long ago." Then, quickly, so

as to give Merriam no chance to reply: "Jennie, my dear, let's have your

pretty dance now. We were interrupted."

"No," said Jennie, rather sleepily, "I'm tired."

"Have a cocktail," said Crockett promptly. "Then you'll be all right

again."

Jennie looked up with interest. "Well," she said.

Crockett rose to mix the drinks.

"You'll have one, too, Mr. Merriam?"

But during the brief interchange between Crockett and Jennie, Merriam

had been doing some quick thinking--wild thinking, perhaps. The plan

suggested by his college memory, which before he had rejected as too

violent, his mind now seized upon and was eagerly shaping to the present

situation.

When Crockett addressed him, he rose.

"No," he said. "I'm tired too. I _am_ sick." He simulated a slight

dizziness. "I'll go lie down again. If you'll excuse me."

He moved to the bedroom door, affecting uncertainty in his steps. As he

passed into the bedroom he called: "Margery!"

*CHAPTER XXI*

*FLASH LIGHTS*

In a moment Margery had followed him.

"Shut the door." He barely formed the words with his lips.

She obeyed.

"That camera--in the sitting room," he whispered. "Can you take a flash

light with it?"

"Sure," came the whispered answer. "That's what we use it for."

"Have you any rope?"

"Rope?" echoed Margery's whisper. "There's a clothesline on the back

porch."

"Bring it to me!"

Margery looked at him. But a high degree of mutual confidence had been

established between these two. She nodded.

"Right away?"

"Yes. _He_ mustn't see it."

"No."

She opened the door and closed it behind her. Merriam sat on the edge of

the bed, thinking hard.

"He wants a drink of water," he heard her say to the others in the

dining room.

With one ear, so to speak--that is to say, with so much of his mind as

could attend to one ear,--he listened to Crockett and Jennie, engaged

still in the business of mixing drinks. With the rest of his mind he

was making plans, with a rapidity and confident daring that astonished

himself.

In a moment Margery had returned. In her right hand she carried a glass

of water. Her left hand, hanging at her side, seemed to hold carelessly

only a newspaper, folded in two. But as soon as she had closed the door

she produced from between the folds a fairly stout clothesline, loosely

coiled.

Merriam tried its toughness and surveyed its length.

"All right," he whispered. "Now go back. Drink with them. Jennie must

dance. And have Crockett sit where he was before."

This was at the end of the table nearest the telephone and nearest also

to Merriam's door.

Again Margery looked at him. She glanced at the rope. But she asked no

questions. Without a word she went out and closed the door behind her.

Admirable girl!

Merriam's next actions were rather remarkable. He felt hastily in the

pockets of his trousers, which lay over a chair, and produced a

penknife. With this instrument he cut off four pieces of rope, each

about four feet long. This left about ten feet in the main piece. With

this main piece he proceeded to manufacture a slip noose, carefully

testing both the strength of the slipknot and the readiness of its

slipping. Then he gathered the noose and the four other pieces of rope

into his left hand and rose and stood before the door, drawing a deep

breath and listening.

He had, of course, kept track more or less of the happenings in the

other room. Margery, on returning, had demanded another glass of beer

and had yielded to insistence that she have a cocktail instead. Then

she had suggested that Jennie dance. Jennie had already been assisted

on to the table again, and Margery was picking tentatively at her

mandolin.

"R-ready!" cried Jennie, a little unsteadily.

Merriam stepped back and turned the button of his electric bulb, so as

to have no light behind him.

Then, as Margery struck into a bright quick tune, he softly opened the

door with his right hand, holding his left hand with the ropes behind

him, and stood looking at Jennie, whose pink toes had begun to patter

merrily on the polished table.

Jennie saw him and laughed to him, her eyes and her cheeks bright.

"Come in, Johnny," she cried, and for a second one pink leg pointed

straight at him as she turned.

"Couldn't resist, eh?" chuckled Crockett, who was leaning back in the

heavy chair Merriam had wished him to occupy. He was apparently really

pleased for the first time. "Don't blame you," he added. "Come on in."

His eyes, quite unsuspicious, returned to the circling skirts and the

flushed face bobbing above them.

This was Merriam's moment.

He stepped quickly behind Crockett's chair, dropped the short pieces of

rope on the floor, raised the noose with both hands, slipped it over the

man's head, and pulled it suddenly tight about his neck.

Crockett emitted a strangled oath and started to rise, but Merriam with

one hand on his shoulder thrust him down again, and with the other

tightened the noose about his throat.

"Sit still," he threatened, "or I'll choke you!"

Margery's tune had stopped abruptly, and Jennie stood still on the

table, staring down in frightened bewilderment.

"Margery!" Merriam commanded, "take one of these pieces of rope and tie

his arm to the arm of the chair."

The arm referred to was immediately raised away from the chair, but the

noose tightened with a further jerk, and the arm fell limply back. In

fact Crockett was gasping and choking so desperately that Merriam was

compelled to loosen the rope a little.

"Take it quietly," he cautioned, with perhaps a trifle more of youthful

ferocity and exultation than the romantic hero should exhibit, "or I'll

hang you sitting down!"

Margery, obedient as usual, had stepped quickly forward, picked up a

piece of rope, and begun to bind the arm nearest her to the chair.

Crockett, somewhat eased, though still gasping a little, turned his head

to look at Merriam. His first involuntary startled alarm was passing.

The blue eyes looked steadily at the young man. A trace of their

earlier cool amusement returned. He looked away again and sat perfectly

still, acquiescent.

Merriam, however, remained warily at his post in charge of the slip

noose while Margery tied both arms.

"Now tie his feet to the legs of the chair," said Merriam. "Jennie, you

can help. Jump down and tie his right foot while Margery ties the

left."

But Jennie, still on the table, shook her pretty head.

"I'd rather dance," she said, and regardless of the lack of music she

folded her arms and began to do the steps of the Highland Fling.

"Let her alone," said Margery, who had gone down on her knees and was at

work on the left foot.

Jennie tossed her head and quickened the tempo of her dance, keeping her

eyes on Crockett, who, though still swallowing with difficulty, affected

to regard her with interest.

Margery crossed to Crockett's other side and knelt again. In a moment

she completed her labours and rose, her cheeks a little reddened by her

posture and vigorous work.

"There!" she said, looking straight at Merriam, as if she were a soldier

reporting to his officer.

"Thank you very much," said the young man.

He loosened the noose, leaving it still in place, however, about

Crockett's neck. Then he stepped to the side of the table and held out

his arms to Jennie.

"Come!" he said, "I'll lift you down."

She stood still. "You don't like my dancing," she pouted. "_He_ likes

it!" She pointed at Crockett, who, twisting his eased neck about,

smiled.

"I'll like lifting you down," said Merriam.

Jennie smiled and approached the edge of the table. For a moment he

held a rosy, fragrant burden in his arms, and in that moment Jennie

raised her face to his as if to be kissed. She was really rather

incorrigible.

On a different occasion the young man might have been irresistibly

tempted (he had not thought of Mollie June for a long time), but just

now he was no more in a mood to be enticed than Crockett had been an

hour before.

He set her lightly and quickly on her feet.

"There!" he said.

She made a face at him and dropped petulantly into a chair.

Merriam turned to face his well-trussed victim.

The said victim was now sufficiently at ease to open the conversation.

"Well, Mr. Merriam," he said, "you've managed it rather cleverly. Very

neat, in fact. You have me a prisoner all right. But what's the big

idea? It seems to me you've only given yourself away. Before I only knew

your name and that you were in connection with Rockwell and that your

presence was desired at some hotel--the Nestor House, we'll say, to

avoid argument, Now it's very clear that you are deeply implicated in

the extraordinary events that have been happening. Otherwise you would

have had no sufficient motive for this rather violent, not to say

melodramatic, line of conduct." He glanced, with a smile, at his

pinioned arms.

This point of view, however, had already occurred to Merriam; and the

answer was that Crockett, knowing already of a direct, confidential

connection between Senator Norman's double and Senator Norman's new

manager, would in a few hours at most be able to work out the whole

truth of the situation.

So he only answered his victim's smile with another smile equally

good-humoured.

"I don't think I've given away anything much," he said. "And I felt it

was time to take out a bit of insurance."

"Insurance?" repeated Crockett.

"Yes. Insurance that you will treat me with that generosity which you

half promised a while ago."

"I promised nothing!" said Crockett, the smile fading out of his eyes.

"I refuse to give any promise whatever."

"That's all right," said Merriam, still good-humouredly. "In fact, I

shouldn't count much on promises anyway.

"You're married, I believe?" he continued to Crockett.

Crockett did not reply.

"And a church member, I presume? And a member of a number of highly

respectable clubs?"

He paused and waited, smiling.

The smile was too much for Crockett. After a moment of holding in, he

said sharply:

"Well?"

"Well, a gentleman who is all those things ought to be careful how he

accepts entertainment from unattached young ladies, like our pretty

Jennie here--in their flats at midnight." And then to Margery, "Go and

get your camera ready.

"When I was in college," Merriam continued, "the fraternity I belonged

to initiated a freshman who turned out to be goody-goody. He wouldn't

play cards, wouldn't dance, wouldn't go to the theater, wouldn't smoke.

Even refused coffee and tea. Above all he simply wouldn't look at a

girl. All he would do was study and go to class--and to church and

Sunday School. To make it worse he was a handsome cuss with loads of

money and his own motor car. He got on the fellows' nerves. Then a show

came to town with a girl in the chorus that two of the fellows knew. So

a bunch of us went to the show, and afterwards the two fellows who knew

the girl brought her back to the chapter house in a taxi, with an opera

cloak over the black tights which she wore in the last act. We gave her

a little supper, and then four of us went upstairs to get the good

little boy. He hadn't gone to the show. He was studying his

trigonometry. We didn't have to lasso him, of course, because there

were four of us. When we brought him into the dining room, the girl

stood up and dropped off her cloak. It was worth something to see his

face. Then we tied him into a chair, just the same way you're tied now.

We set a beer bottle and half-emptied glass handy, and the girl sat on

his knees and cocked one black leg over the arm of the chair and put one

hand under his chin and put her lips to his cheek. And then we took the

flash."

"Oh, goody!" cried Jennie, ecstatically pleased by this climax. But

Crockett by this time was staring at the story-teller with really

venomous eyes.

Merriam avoided those eyes and addressed himself to Jennie, the

appreciative.

"That was all," he said. "We gave the girl a twenty-dollar bill and the

roses and sent her back to the hotel in the taxi. We could only show

the picture to a few chaps, of course. One of the fellows did finally

tell the story to one girl whom a lot of us knew and showed her the

picture. It worked fine. The good little boy's reputation was made,

and he had to live up to it, to the extent at least of becoming human.

He became one of the finest fellows we ever had. The year after he

graduated," Merriam finished reflectively, "he married the one girl who

had seen the picture, and the chapter gave it to her with their wedding

present."

During this sequel Margery had returned with the camera and with some

flash-light powder, for which she had had to search, in a dust pan.

"Damn you!" cried the great financier virulently, straining helplessly

at the ropes which confined his arms and legs. "If you think it will do

you any good to take an indecent picture of me----"

"Cut that!" said Merriam sharply. "Do you want me to tighten that noose

again?"

Crockett subsided with a snort that might have made whole boards of

directors tremble.

"Indecent!" said Merriam, enjoying himself hugely, as if he were still

in college. "Certainly not! Only pretty. Very pretty. Come, Jennie!

How about the pose?"

"I'll show you!" cried Jennie. Half dancing on her toes, with skirts

fluttering, and eyes sparkling the more, it seemed, because of

Crockett's bitterly hostile regard, she tripped around the table and

stood by his side, facing the same way he faced. She plucked the rose

from her hair and stuck it behind Crockett's ear. It drooped

grotesquely over his thin hair. Then, laughing at the rose, she put one

bare arm about his neck, her hand extending beyond his face on the other

side.

"Give me a cocktail glass in that hand!" she cried. "Never mind what's

in it. Anything!"

Merriam filled a glass from the siphon and put it into the hand referred

to.

Then Jennie raised a pink leg and put it on the table, stretching

straight in front of herself and Crockett towards the center of the

board, amid the plates and glasses and crumpled napkins. She put her

other hand under Crockett's chin as if about to tickle him, dropped her

face close to his, and looked at Merriam with eyes of laughing inquiry.

"Fine!" said Merriam. "Are you ready, Margery?"

Margery was already pointing the camera.

"Not yet," she said.

He addressed himself to the victim:

"Mr. Crockett, you can, of course, wink or twist your face to spoil the

picture. If you do, I'll simply have to choke you a little before we

try again. So you'd better look pleasant!"

"Ready!" said Margery.

Merriam set the dust pan, with the little heap of powder in the center

of it, on a plate on the sideboard beside Margery, lit a match, and,

with a last glance at Jennie's extraordinary pose and laughing face,

switched off the lights and touched the powder.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*VIRTUE TRIUMPHANT*

Immediately after the flash Merriam switched on the lights, and his eyes

sought Crockett. Apparently the man had faced the camera stolidly--a

grotesque figure surmounted by the dangling flower and enveloped as it

were in Jennie's acrobatic pose.

"All right!" said Merriam, coughing in the smoke which filled the small

room. "But we'll take one more. You never can be sure of a single

film. Got some more powder, Margery?"

"Yes," said Margery, who had set the camera down and stepped aside to

open a window. She passed into the sitting room.

Jennie gingerly removed her leg from the table and her arm from about

Crockett's neck. In the latter process she spilled a little of the

water from the cocktail glass--unintentionally, let us hope--on

Crockett's head.

"Damn!"

Jennie, quite regardless, eased herself on her two legs again.

"Gee!" she said. "I couldn't have held that pose much longer. In

another second I'd have split at the waist!"

Merriam laughed. "Look what you've done," he said.

Jennie caught up a napkin and mopped the face and head.

"Sorry!" she cried sympathetically. "I didn't mean to wet him! There!"

and she dropped a light kiss on the cleansed cheek and smiled her

rosiest smile at the trussed victim.

Crockett answered Jennie's smile with a glare that might have caused a

panic on the Stock Exchange.

It had no very serious effect, however, on Jennie. She shrugged her

pretty shoulders and daintily chucked him under the chin.

"That isn't a nice look!" she said.

At this point Margery returned with a package of flash-light powder and

began to pour a second little pile on the dust pan.

"Take your pose!" said Merriam to Jennie.

"Not that one," said Jennie. "It's too hard. Look!"

She picked the rose from above Crockett's ear and stepped behind his

chair. Then she stooped till her chin rested on the top of his head and

let her two bare arms drop past his cheeks till her hands came together

on his shirt front. In her hands she held the rose pointing upward so

that the blossom was just below his chin.

The effect was distinctly comical--Crockett's dour countenance, with its

angry eyes, framed above by Jennie's pretty laughing face, resting on

the very top of his head, at the sides by her round white arms, and

below by the rose under his chin.

"Fine!" Merriam laughed. "It's better than the other. Ready, Margery?"

"Yes."

A second time he switched off the lights and touched a match to the

powder.

Again Crockett had not even blinked so far as Merriam could judge. Well

satisfied, the latter spoke to Margery:

"Put that camera away, will you, please, where it could not be easily

found except by yourself."

Margery picked up the camera and departed into the kitchenette.

Then, "Let him alone, Jennie," he said. For Jennie had left the back of

Crockett's chair and perched herself on the edge of the table beside him

and was flicking him under the chin with the rose.

"All right," she said. "He's no fun. He's very cross!"

She slid off the table and dropped into a chair, transferring her

attention to Merriam, as though in the hope that he might be less

obdurately disposed.

But Merriam addressed himself to the other man.

"Now, Mr. Crockett," he said, "this little supper party and

entertainment are over, I believe. If you wish to leave, I shall be

glad to release you and permit you to do so."

Crockett's reply was a sound between a grunt and a growl.

Merriam walked around the table and picked up the revolver where it had

fallen by the wall.

"I don't believe," he continued, "that it will do you any good to start

any rough-house when I have freed you. If you do, Jennie and Margery

will scream, and I shall fire this revolver. That will bring in

neighbours and probably the police, whose testimony would thus be added

to that of the pictures we have taken as to your manner of spending your

evening. You will understand that while I shall have those pictures

developed the first thing in the morning I shall not show them to any

one except Mr. Rockwell unless you compel me to do so."

By this time Crockett had become articulate.

"Compel you to do so?" he repeated stiffly. "May I ask what you mean by

that?"

"Well," said Merriam, "you see I am an enthusiastic supporter of the

Reform League as led by Mr. Rockwell and Senator Norman and Mayor Black.

You, I understand, are opposed to the League and its policies. So long

as your opposition relates itself only to those policies and involves

only open public discussion of their merits, I shall, of course, have no

reason to interfere. But if your opposition should take the form of any

personal attack, on Senator Norman, let us say, I should feel compelled

to retaliate by a personal attack upon you, making use of these pictures

we have taken to-night and the story that will readily weave itself

about them. Do you see?"

"See!" Crockett cried. "Of course I see. Blackmail! How much do you

want for that camera? Name your price."

"It has no cash price," returned Merriam steadily. "Now if I release

you, will you leave quietly?"

For a long moment the financier stared at the younger man who had

worsted him. Then:

"At this moment," he said acridly, "I certainly have no other desire

than to get away from this place and to be rid of my present

companionship."

Merriam was tempted to laugh at the stilted dignity of this phraseology,

but he managed to keep a straight face.

"Very well," he said. "Margery,"--for Margery had just returned from

the kitchenette minus the camera,--"help me untie him, will you? Feet

first."

Margery and Merriam knelt for a moment at the two sides of Crockett's

chair and released his two legs. Then Merriam again put the table

between himself and Crockett and stood waiting, revolver in hand,

leaving to Margery the work of unbinding the arms. He was afraid that

his own near presence to Crockett when the latter found himself free

might tempt him irresistibly to personal assault.

In the moment during which he stood waiting he became conscious that

Jennie, half reclining in the chair into which she had dropped, was

smiling at him--a pretty, confidential smile which he did not

understand.

But he had no time to consider Jennie just then, for Margery had

completed her work. The last piece of rope fell on the floor, and she

lifted the slip noose from about Crockett's neck. He had been rather

tightly bound and did not instantly have the full use of his limbs.

Margery took his arm to assist him.

"My coat and hat!" he said, not looking at Merriam.

"In the sitting room," said Margery.

He turned himself in that direction and in a jerky walk, with some

support from Margery, moved towards and through the portieres. He had

disdained to cast so much as a glance at either Merriam or Jennie.

Jennie resented this. "Old crosspatch!" she cried.

Merriam stepped hastily to the portieres and peeped through. Crockett

had caught up his light overcoat and silk hat from a chair. He refused

Margery's offer to help him on with his coat and made, already moving

more naturally, for the hall door. Margery followed him. The door

opened--closed again. Margery returned from the hallway.

Merriam advanced through the portieres into the sitting room.

"Well!" he exclaimed.

"Well!" returned Margery, with a dry laugh--the first laugh Merriam had

heard from her during the whole evening.

"See what he does in the street," she added. "Raise the shade about a

foot. I'll turn off the light."

Merriam acted promptly on this excellent hint. In a moment the room was

in darkness, and he was kneeling by the window watching the street

below, which was fairly well illuminated from arc lights at either

corner. Part way down the block on the other side of the roadway a car,

presumably a taxi, stood by the curb, with a man walking up and down

beside it. Jennie's flat was too high up for Merriam to be able to see

the sidewalk immediately below. If, therefore, Crockett on emerging

from the building merely walked away, he would see nothing. But this

was hardly likely.

Presently, sure enough, the taxi showed sudden signs of life. The man

hastily got in, and the car rolled forward, crossing the street

diagonally, and stopped directly below Merriam's window. Crockett had

come out and signalled it. A moment later it shot away down the block

and turned the corner.

Merriam still knelt by the window, peering into the street. He was

looking for signs of any remaining watchers, for he had his own exit to

think of: Rockwell had wanted him to "come at once to the hotel."

As he knelt there in the dark he suddenly sensed a warm fragrant body

close beside his own. A pair of soft bare arms slipped about his neck.

"It was fine!" Jennie's voice whispered in his ear. "You're a nice

boy!"

She had crept up behind him in the dark. Margery must have left the

room.

For a moment Merriam knelt in fascinated silent rigidity. When he moved

it was only to turn his head. And the turning of his head brought his

face close to Jennie's, which, with the dim light from the street upon

it, smiled at him with a kind of saucy tenderness. It was the face of a

pretty child, with the lure of womanhood added, but with nothing else of

maturity in it.

Her lips puckered. "Kiss me!" she whispered.

As he still only stared she quickly leaned forward a couple of inches

more--her lips rested on his.

I am very much afraid that for an instant Merriam's lips responded. He

half turned on one knee. His arms involuntarily closed about the

seductive little body. He felt the short silk skirts crush deliciously

against his legs.

And then a grotesque sort of composite picture of all the things he

ought to remember, including Rockwell, Norman, Mollie June, and the

members of the Riceville School Board, rushed across his mind. He

struggled to his feet, pushing Jennie not roughly--away.

"Margery!" he called.

"Yes?" came Margery's voice from the dining room.

"Turn on the lights!"

By the time Margery had stepped through the portieres and pushed the

switch Jennie had thrown herself face downward on the davenport, crying.

"Nobody loves me!" she sobbed.

Margery, standing by the switch, looked from Merriam at the window to

Jennie on the couch and back again. Her expression indicated no

bewilderment--rather a humorously cynical comprehension. She knew her

Jennie.

At any rate, that glance steadied the young man. After meeting it for a

moment he turned to Jennie. Poor little girl! He felt that he

understood her perfectly. There was a side of himself that was like

that. Only he had other sides powerfully developed, and Jennie had no

other sides. All his young chivalry rose up, in alliance with the

missionary spirit of the teacher. He desired greatly to help her.

After an instant's hesitation he crossed the room and drew up a chair

beside the davenport.

"Jennie," he said, "listen!"

"Go away!" said Jennie.

"I _am_ going away in a minute. But I want to tell you something

first."

Her sobbing ceased, but he waited till she asked:

"Well, what?"

"There _is_ somebody who loves you."

Hopefully Jennie raised her head and turned her face to him--still oddly

pretty in spite of the tear-streaked rouge. But after a moment's look

she said resentfully:

"It isn't you!"

"No," said Merriam, "it isn't I."

Even at this rate the discussion was apparently interesting enough to

rouse her. With a sudden movement she curled herself up, half sitting,

half reclining, in a corner of the davenport, and smoothed the crumpled

skirts over her knees.

"Do you mean George?" she asked.

"No," said Merriam, "I mean Mr. Simpson."

"_Mister_ Simpson!" She laughed derisively, not prettily at all. "A

waiter!"

"Listen, Jennie. Simpson is a fine fellow, with lots of brains and lots

of courage. He has shown both within the last twenty-four hours. He's

rendered a very important service to Mr. Rockwell and Senator Norman,

and they're going to give him a lot of money for a reward. I don't know

how much--maybe five thousand dollars. And he's crazy about you. He'll

marry you in a minute if you'll let him, in spite of--George. He'll

take you away on a fine trip--anywhere you want to go. And afterwards

he'll set up in a business of his own--a cafe or whatever he likes.

You'll have a real home and a husband and money enough and friends.

It'll be a lot better than this stuff--like to-night. It really would.

Think it over, Jennie!"

On the last words he rose.

"He's right!" cried Margery, who had drawn near.

"Shut up, Marge!" said Jennie.

But Merriam, looking closely at her with the sharp eye of a teacher to

see whether or not his point had gone home, was satisfied. He was sure

that she would think it over in spite of herself.

He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after one.

"I must telephone at once to Mr. Rockwell in Senator Norman's rooms at

the Hotel De Soto," he said to Margery.

"Yes," said Margery. "The hotel number is Madison 1-6-8-1."

"Thank you."

Without looking again at Jennie, he went to the telephone in the dining

room. In a moment he had the hotel and had asked to be connected with

Senator Norman's rooms. It was Rockwell's voice that answered, "Hello!"

"This is Merriam."

"Thank God! Where are you?"

"At Jennie's."

"Still? What the devil was the ruction there when I called up?"

"I'll tell you about that later. Do you still want me to come to the

hotel?"

"Certainly. As fast as you can."

"You got the Senator back all right?"

"Yes. But he's pretty sick. Caught more cold, I guess. Hobart's

worried about him. You'll have to stay over another day all right. And

make that speech."

Merriam groaned.

"Listen!" said Rockwell. "You'll have to be mighty careful about

getting into the hotel. You aren't Senator Norman just now, you know.

The Senator has already returned to the hotel, openly, with me, three

hours ago, and is sick in his rooms. We'll have to smuggle you in

without any one's seeing you. But I have a plan--or rather Simpson has.

You'd better come down on the Elevated. That'll be better than a taxi

this time. No chauffeur to tell on you. Be sure you get away from

there without being followed. Margery'll show you a way. Get off at

Madison and Wabash. Simpson will meet you there and smuggle you in the

back way. You can come right away?"

"Yes."

"Then for Heaven's sake come! We'll talk after you get here." He hung

up.

Merriam stared at the instrument as he slowly replaced his own receiver.

Another day. "And make that speech!" Would this kaleidoscopic, unreal

phantasm of adventures never end? When would he wake up? He perceived

suddenly that he was very tired. But he must brace up sufficiently to

get back to the hotel. There doubtless he would be permitted to go to

bed and snatch at least a few hours' sleep--before the speech!

He turned and found Margery standing between the portieres, watching

him.

"Well!" she said sharply.

"I must--must--get dressed," he finished, realising for the first time

since he had leapt out of bed with his revolver to divert Crockett from

the telephone that he was attired only in pajamas. "Rockwell says you

can tell me a way to get away from here without being seen by any

watchers."

"Yes," said Margery. "Go and dress. I'll attend to that."

He went into the bedroom and began to get into his clothes, working

mechanically.

Presently he was ready--though with such a loose and rakish bow as he

had never before disported--and emerged into the dining room.

There he encountered a cheering spectacle. Margery was seated at the

table between a coffee percolator, efficiently bubbling, and an electric

toaster. She was buttering hot toast. Jennie sat at one side of the

table. A pale blue kimono now covered her dancing costume, and she

looked quite demure. She raised her eyes almost shyly as Merriam

entered.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "This is grand. Margery, you certainly are a

trump!"

Margery's rather sallow cheeks flushed slightly. "You'll need it," was

all she said, and proceeded to fill a cup for him from the percolator.

"How do I get away?" Merriam asked as he sipped.

"Back stairs," said Margery succinctly. "I'll show you."

Munching toast, he enquired the whereabouts of the nearest Elevated

station and was duly instructed.

He had a second cup of the black coffee. Margery did not take any and

would not give Jennie any.

"We go straight to bed," she said decidedly.

From time to time Merriam cast an unwilling glance at Jennie, sitting

downcast and out of it on Margery's other side. About the third time

Jennie intercepted his glance and answered it with a small wistful

smile. After that he would not look again. In a few minutes, of course,

this very early breakfast--it was somewhere around two o'clock--was

over, and Merriam rose.

"I must be off," he said, and hesitated. "I am very much indebted to

both of you for--all the help you have given me this evening!" (Inwardly

he abused himself for his stiltedness; it was like his telling Mollie

June he was glad to have helped her in algebra.)

Jennie rose too and came around the table towards him. She had suddenly

summoned back a smile, and she moved daintily inside the blue kimono.

Above the stalk of that straight, demure, Japanesy blue, her head nodded

like a bright blossom--with its fair, wavy hair, blue eyes, and

childishly rounded cheeks, still gaudy with the remains of rouge.

She tripped forward till she was almost touching Merriam, stopped, and

suddenly raised her eyes to him.

"Kiss me good-bye!" she said.

We may suspect that it was a sort of point of honour with Jennie to

retrieve the rebuff she had received in the sitting room. As for

Merriam, in spite of the obvious deliberateness of this assault, I am

not perfectly sure I could answer for him if it had not been for

Margery. But Margery's presence saved him from serious temptation.

Instead of stooping to kiss the lifted lips he caught Jennie's hand that

hung at her side, and, stepping back half a step, raised the hand and

kissed it.

Sometimes the inspirations of youth are singularly happy. It seems to

me that this one was of that kind: it involved neither yielding nor

discourtesy.

Jennie was somewhat taken aback, yet she could not be hurt by a gesture

so gallant.

"Good-bye, Jennie," he said. "I hope to be the best man at your wedding

before long."

"Oh!" she said, and withdrew her hand. Then: "Good-bye!"

After a moment's hesitation and a last quite shy glance at Merriam she

suddenly gathered up the skirts of the kimono and ran into the sitting

room.

"Are you ready?" said Margery dryly.

"My coat. I haven't a hat," he added, remembering that under Rockwell's

instructions he had left this article in the taxi in which they had come

to the flat.

"Your coat's in the hall," said Margery. "I can get you a hat too."

The dining room was connected directly with the hallway, and in a moment

Margery had returned with Merriam's light overcoat and with a man's

derby--probably Norman's property.

"Thank you," said Merriam, taking them.

"This way," she replied, moving towards the kitchenette.

In the kitchenette he was momentarily surprised to see Margery opening a

tin box labeled "Bread." Was she going to equip him with a lunch? But

she drew out, not a loaf, but the camera.

"You'll want to take this along," she said.

"Indeed, yes."

Then he followed her out on to the back porch, where earlier--ages ago,

it seemed--he had deposited the stepladder.

"Now," said Margery, "you go down these stairs and diagonally across the

court to that archway. See?" She pointed. "That brings you out on the

other side of the block. Nobody will be looking for you there. And the

Elevated station is three and one-half blocks west. Put on your hat and

coat. I'll hold it."

"Thank you so much," said Merriam, as the coat slipped on.

Then he turned, took off his hat again, and held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Margery," he said, shaking hands heartily. "Thank you--for

everything."

For a moment they looked at each other with mutual respect.

Then Merriam said:

"I'm going to send Simpson around to see Jennie. Shan't I?"

"You can try it," said Margery. "Good-bye."

She went back into the kitchenette and closed the door.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*RETURN*

"Madison and Wabash!" shouted the guard.

Merriam started, picked up his camera, and made for the door. He had

scarcely heard the other stations called and thanked his stars that he

had waked up for this one.

He descended the stairs from the Elevated platform and found Simpson

waiting.

"Good morning, Simpson."

"Good morning."

"Mr. Rockwell says you can get me into the hotel unnoticed."

Simpson looked at him sideways, hesitated, then turned and started

slowly west.

Merriam fell into step beside him and for a moment wondered obtusely

what ailed the man. Then he understood. Of course! He wanted news of

Jennie. Perhaps he was suspicious as to how Merriam might have spent

his time in that apartment. Perhaps he, like Margery, knew his Jennie

only too well.

To set his mind at rest, Merriam plunged at once into a sketchy summary

of the events at the flat--Crockett's arrival--"almost as soon as you

had left," he placed it--his own telling of his story--Crockett's being

half convinced--Jennie's plan--the supper party (without reference to

Jennie's change of costume or the dancing on the table)--Rockwell's

telephone call--the tying up and the flash lights.

"I have the films here," he added, exhibiting the camera as tangible

evidence that he was not yarning. "Can you get them developed for me in

the morning?"

"Yes," said Simpson, in a much less frigid tone than before. He took

the camera.

"After Crockett had gone," Merriam continued smoothly, "I talked to

Jennie about you. I told her she ought to marry you, and how well

you've shown up in this affair, and that Senator Norman and Rockwell are

going to pay you a bit of money for it, which you've certainly earned,

and that you would take her away on a little trip anywhere she wanted to

go, and then set up in a business of your own somewhere, and that she

would be a lot happier that way than now."

An older man, more sensitive to the dynamite in the situation, would

probably have spoken less freely and less successfully. Whatever else

Simpson may have felt, he could not question his companion's youthful

candour and good will. After perhaps a dozen steps he spoke in a

carefully controlled voice:

"What did she say?"

"She didn't answer me," lied Merriam. "I told her to think it over.

She was impressed all right. And when I left I told Margery I was going

to send you around."

"What did Margery say?" asked Simpson quickly.

"She said yes, you should come."

Simpson drew a deep breath and stopped short at a corner.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said, looking quickly at Merriam

and quickly away again.

Merriam held out his hand.

"Good luck!" he said.

Simpson grasped the hand and shook it intensely. Then, resuming his

really admirable self-control, he said:

"We turn down here. I'm going to take you up a fire escape. It's the

only way. You can't go into a hotel in the regular way even at this

time of night without being seen."

They turned into an alley which ran behind the Hotel De Soto, and

presently came to a door--a servants' entrance--in the ugly blank wall

of yellow brick.

Simpson opened the door, and they passed into a bare hallway,

pine-floored, plaster-walled, lighted at intervals by unshaded,

low-powered incandescents.

Many doors of yellow pine opened on both sides of this hall, but

Simpson, walking rapidly and quietly, passed them all, turned into a

further stretch of hallway, narrower and still more dimly lighted, and

stopped before a door of iron--evidently a fire door. He got out a key

and unlocked this door, and they emerged into the air again in the inner

court of the hotel, a great dismal well, the depository of drifts of

soot, accentuated here and there by scraps of paper and other rubbish,

and the haunt, for reasons difficult to understand, of the indomitable,

grimy wild pigeons of the Loop.

Simpson closed the iron door behind them and began a searching scrutiny

of the rows of windows. All but half a dozen or so were dark. It looked

safe.

Satisfied, Simpson walked twenty feet or more along the side of the

court and stopped below a fire escape. The platform at the lower end of

the iron stairway was placed too high for a man to reach it from the

ground unaided.

"Give me a boost," said Simpson. He stooped and placed the camera on

the ground.

In a moment Merriam had hoisted him up, so that he could catch hold of

the end of the platform and pull himself on to it. Then Simpson lay

down on his stomach and dropped his arms over the edge of the platform.

Merriam first handed up the camera and then with a little jump caught

his hands and was drawn up until he in his turn could get hold of the

edge of the landing and scramble on to it.

A moment later they were erect and had begun stealthily to mount the

narrow stairs.

It seemed to Merriam that they went up interminably--a short flight--a

turn--another short flight--along a platform past sleeping

windows--another flight. He got out of breath, and began to feel very

tired. The effect of Margery's coffee was wearing off.

But at last Simpson stopped on one of the platforms and peered through a

window. It was one of which the shades were not drawn at all and was

open about two inches at the bottom.

"This is it," said Simpson, and he stooped, opened the window, and

climbed in.

As soon as Merriam had followed, Simpson closed the window and drew the

shade. Then he crossed the dark room and pushed a switch.

"Where are we?" asked Merriam.

"This room is next to Senator Norman's bedroom," said Simpson, "on the

other side from the sitting room. The couple who had it left this

evening, and Mr. Rockwell has taken it for you under the name of Wilson.

Mr. Rockwell will be expecting us."

He moved to a door at the side and knocked softly four times--once,

twice, and once again.

Almost immediately a key was turned on the other side, the door was

opened, and Rockwell stood surveying them.

There was only a dim light in the room behind him. With a glance over

his shoulder at the bed where the sick Senator lay--the same bed in

which Merriam had played at being sick on the previous afternoon,--he

entered the new room and closed the door.

"You've made it!" he said. "Thank Heaven! You weren't seen, Simpson?"

"I think not, sir."

He looked closely at Merriam. "You're tired," he said.

"I sure am."

"Well, so am I. What a day! And to-morrow will be as bad. Maybe

worse. Never again will I father an impostor. But we've got to see it

through this time. Sit down. Have a cigarette, and tell me what

happened at the flat. Then I'll let you go to bed and snatch a few

hours' sleep. You must be in fighting trim to-morrow, you know--for the

speech!"

Merriam took the proffered cigarette and dropped gratefully into a

chair. Rockwell and Simpson also sat down.

"How's Senator Norman?" Merriam asked.

"Sick. Hobart looks serious, but he says he'll pull around in a day or

two. He's dosing him heavily. You've simply got to stay by us and play

the game until he's on his feet again."

"I suppose so. Well----"

He was about to repeat the summary of the events of his evening which he

had already given Simpson, so as to get it over and get to bed. But

before he could begin a knock sounded at the side door through which

Rockwell had entered.

Simpson went to the door and opened it. It was Dr. Hobart.

"Miss Norman and Mrs. Norman want to come in," he said.

Rockwell hesitated. No doubt he would have preferred to hear Merriam's

story himself first, without even Aunt Mary present.

Merriam meanwhile sat up, suddenly forgetting his fatigue: he was to see

Mollie June still that night. He had not hoped for that.

"I supposed they would have gone to bed," he said, to cover his

involuntary show of interest.

"No," said Rockwell. "After the dinner party they waited for me to come

back with Norman, of course. Then he was so ill that Hobart kept us all

busy for a couple of hours doing things. We didn't want to get in a

nurse on account of--you, you know. And then they wanted to wait till

you came. We expected you a long time ago. Well," he added, turning to

the physician, "tell them to come along."

It was at least a minute before they arrived. Merriam was oddly nervous.

He had been through strange scenes since he had left Mollie June in the

Peacock Cabaret, and she must have divined as much.

They entered, Aunt Mary first with Mollie June behind her, and Merriam

and Rockwell rose. The two women were dressed just as they had been at

the dinner party--Aunt Mary in the black evening gown and Mollie June in

the filmy rose. Mollie June looked just a little pale and tired, but

Aunt Mary had not turned a hair.

"Well, young man," began the older woman briskly, "you've kept us up

till a pretty time of night. What was happening there where you were

when Mr. Rockwell telephoned? Sit down and tell us."

Evidently Aunt Mary, conscious of the ungodly hour, did not think it

necessary to allow Merriam time for even a formal greeting of her young

sister-in-law, who had stopped uncertainly in the doorway.

But Merriam was not to be hurried to quite that degree, whatever the

time of night or morning might be. He turned to Mollie June.

"You're coming in, aren't you? Take this chair."

He pushed a rocker towards her, concerned at her evident fatigue.

She came forward and sat down, then raised her eyes to him with a grave

"Thank you."