McCall's magazine/First Person Plural

by Louis Joseph Vance

A Complete Novelette In Which An Amateur Detective From New York's '400' Tries To Solve a Famous Jewel Mystery

 

Mrs. MacShane continued to cling to him and yelp for help. Mrs. Claridge sat frozen in disdain

 

First Person Plural

By Louis Joseph Vance

Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy

WE are looking for a young friend,” the not-old man in the wing-collar confided to Mrs. Hollingshead, when his precisely right bow had formally acknowledged her blinking start of surprise and uncertain recognition. “But somehow we don't seem to see the animal anywhere about...”

Maintaining his attitude of agreeable deference, he permitted his attention to stray back to the far from crowded floor of the Club de Danse, as if he still hoped to discover the defaulter in the broken chain of couples which was drifting past on tides of melody ever and again flawed by playful squalls of jazz.

And Mrs. Hollingshead—“hostess” of the club—took advantage of this preoccupation to cast glances of mild bewilderment first to his right, then to his left, and finally behind the young man in the wing-collar; thus confirming a suspicion that there wasn't at that moment a soul other than their two selves in the small foyer, and arriving at the conclusion that the, presumably, fair excuse for the first personal pronoun plural must be waiting outside for its user, very likely in a taxi. Unless, of course, she had slipped in and taken cover in the ladies' dressing-room as mysteriously as her escort had effected his own entrance. For—it was truly puzzling—Mrs. Hollingshead hadn't seen the tenant of the wing-collar come in; one minute the foyer had been bare of patrons, and the next this engaging presence had, in a manner of speaking, materialized at her very elbow.

Mrs. Hollingshead could account for this phenomenon only on the assumption that she had been nodding; which was quite likely. She had been feeling drowsy all afternoon thanks both to its inclement heat and to premonitory symptoms of the nervous let-down that was with her an annual event. For this very night the Club de Danse would close its doors for the season, and leave its hostess at liberty to lay away in lavender the really charming vocational smile which she was accustomed to wear daily, from three in the afternoon till seven and from ten again on until three in the morning, nine months out of every year, and of which today her facial muscles were no more weary than her soul. The gracious smile flashed again, however, and with good show of spontaniety, as the young man in the wing-collar looked back to her.

“We are wondering,” he resumed in the same confidential vein, “if it's possible the little beast has taken low advantage of our trustfulness and gone elsewhere to indulge his weird addiction to tea-dancing.”

Mrs. Hollingshead opined that this was, of course, possible; but her manner remained a shade unsure. Not only did this young man in a wing-collar persist in implying the company of some unseen familiar, but his tone likewise alleged an acquaintance with Mrs. Hollingshead sufficiently well-established to warrant his claiming her sympathy.

And Mrs. Hollingshead was by no means sure that it wasn't. Only, memory stubbornly declined to place him. He looked like somebody she ought to know, whose business it was to know everybody who was anybody in New York as well as most bodies who were nobodies. Did not all New York rendezvous at the Club de Danse in the season, and pay tribute to her smile according to the tariff ordained? It would be strange if one so distinctively mondain had been missing from those multitudes—stranger still if, having met him once, one should have forgotten him. In neither habit nor habiliments was he to be classed with those who are readily forgotten.

DECIDEDLY personable and mannerly, he had an air which caste-marked him as one with whom the floor privilege of the club would be safe, even though he were lacking the insulation, ordinarily held indispensable, of feminine companionship. And lacking such companionship he appeared to be in spite of his use of the first person plural.

“We are really at a loss, you know,” he mused. “Our young friend unquestionably told us to meet him at the Club de Danse and no other where, at four o'clock and no later hour.”

“It's only a few minutes past four now,” Mrs. Hollingshead submitted. “No doubt your friend will be along presently, if you care to wait.”

“Thank you,” the wearer of the wing-collar said gratefully. “There's an admission charge, we believe?”

“Not unless you take tea, or wish to dance.”

“But we will take tea, if you don't mind. As for dancing, there's nothing we so dote upon... Unhappily, as you see, we are all alone.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Hollingshead—“I was wondering.” Then she laughed, she didn't quite know why, and added: “If you would like to dance, I might find you somebody.”

Mrs. Hollingshead meant, of course, a young woman of that class of good dancers, by no means exclusively feminine, which frequented the club and plied its best steps for hire, holding itself ever ready amiably to dance with the dance mad, the dance-shy, and the wholly dance-hopeless; always provided that decorous introductions had duly been effected. A class known to other habitués as “professionals,” and which Mrs. Hollingshead was known to cull from with uncommon care.

“Emil,” she said: “Be good enough to find a table for Mr....”

The young man in the wing-collar rose to the hint, and with a small bow pronounced clearly: “Mr. Smith.” And Mrs. Hollingshead, watching him move away, somewhat blankly said to herself. “Oh! yes...”

II

FOR several minutes Mr. Smith quite beautifully behaved all by himself, sitting at his little table, contentedly munching his nice cinnamon toast, sipping his tea without spilling it, and with wide eyes watching the fluent traffic of the waltz.

Most of the dancers were young professionals. Aware though he was that his fate of the hour was numbered among these, according to the whim of Mrs. Hollingshead, Mr. Smith deliberately refrained from choosing; a circumstance which argued maturity of mind inconsistent with his apparent tale of years.

The non-professional element was easier to take account of, anyway, being so poorly represented. For unless one's livelihood depends upon it, one needs to be in love to dance on an afternoon when the thermometer in the airy eyrie of the Weather Bureau teases ninety in the shade; in love with dancing or in love with reducing, one or the other.

Notwithstanding, there were enough plain citizens present to keep Mr. Smith's attention constant till the music stopped. And when that happened he looked, and in fact felt, some what aggrieved, seeing that it removed from his field of vision a lady upon whose opulence of charm, his raptest wonder had just fastened. A spirited lady, this, well on her way through the roaring Forties, acutely self-conscious in a costume designed for the flapping 'Teens, and so liberally bediamonded that the innocent onlooker could only think of one of Tiffany's showcases on the loose.

This rewarding spectacle had been perspiring profusely in the unimpassioned embrace of a partner patently conscripted from professional ranks. (Or what right had he to wear that smile of patient anguish which goes as a rule with swollen feet?) But now she shaped a course for a distant corner, with her cavalier in tow and was at the same time blotted out to Mr. Smith's bereaved eyes by a growing effulgence—the smile of Mr. Hollingshead forerunning her approach as the headlight of a motor-car foreruns it in the dark.

Mr Hollingshead lead him to a nearby table, at which two people had just resumed their seats. A Miss Hewlett and a Mr. Mortimore. The latter, a long, low, rakish craftsman with a modish mustache, glittering teeth, and curly-lashed eyes both bold and languishing, by every sign a professional privateer and doing well, was quick to excuse himself. If Miss Hewlett was not quite the prettiest girl in the room, she was pleasantly piquant in type and deportment; rather a smallish person neatly fashioned, nicely poised. She had a pretty complexion almost all her own, an amusing nose, amused brown eyes, and hair-colored hair that wasn't for a wonder, bobbed. A daintily critical spirit perked her head to one side as she took stock of Mr. Smith, and there was provocative mischief in the smile which accompanied the inquiry in a volce of boyish register “Smith?”

“With an i and without an e,” was the modest reply. “We're sorry but plain Smith is the best we can do. An hereditary failing, if you must know.”

“Oh!” Miss Hewlett commented thoughtfully. “Like the 'we' thing, I suppose?”

“No That's a purely individual affliction, the hateful work of our veracity complex.”

“Beyond my depth,” the girl confessed with entire candor. “How come?

“Meaning to say, a habit of veracity we've never been able to outgrow dictates our use of the first personal pronoun plural, because—we don't tell everybody, but we don't mind telling you, you've got such honest eyes—because we're leading a double life.”

Miss Hewlett wrinkled her nose ridiculously. “I see,” she drawled: “married.”

“The Saints forbid!” Mr. Smith protested. “Nobody takes us seriously enough for that.”

“You better look out,” Miss Hewlett uttered darkly. “You're rather nice. Go on about your double life.”

“We believe it's by way of being rather a useful life, or lives,” Mr. Smith explained; “but its, or their, usefulness would end if ever All were known.”

“I guess you're the best judge of that.” The girl briefly reconsidered him. “But now you make one think of it, one is tempted to try referring to oneself as one—just like this. The work of one's discontent complex, because—one doesn't mind telling you—because one is leading a single life and fed up on it.”

“It doesn't sound reasonable. Is the young man blind or merely afflicted with bashfulness?”

“Neither. He simply hasn't happened yet, that's the whole sad story of Peggy Hewlett. One doesn't much care about marrying a professional stepper, like oneself, they take life so seriously. And all the others get too darn' frivolous when they stoop to make love to a respectable working-girl.”

“You never know your luck,” Mr. Smith ventured diffidently. “For example, you might take a whim to us.”

“It listens a lot like bigamy. But I don't know... I'm 'most desperate enough even for that.”

At this juncture the music interrupted, and the girl cocked an ear to it and an eye to her companion. “Do you tango?”

“In moderation,” Mr. Smith professed.

SO they tangoed. With the upshot that Miss Peggy Hewlett presently lifted reproachful eyes to her partner's face. “One knows about that double life now,” she announced. “About half of it, anyway. You're a professional.”

Doggone the luck!” Mr. Smith complained missing a step. “We simply can't keep anything from you.”

“Then it's no good thinking about our getting married any more, is it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Bang! goes another hope,” Peggy Hewlett commented, philosophic.

“But how did you guess?”

“You'll never keep that secret from anybody you dance with,” the girl asserted. “'Most every body can fox-trot, some can even waltz; but when they tango like you, one knows they've seen life.”

“We are sorry. We wanted to live it down and be loved for ourself alone.”

“One is dreadfully disappointed. But at least it's something to have found a man who tangoes so divinely. It makes me mad not to be able to think where I've seen you before.”

“Don't put too much trust in appearances: they may be against us. Our own opinion is, we look like almost anybody.”

“Not at all. You look an awful lot like somebody.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Don't like to hurt your feelings. Besides, never having seen you off the stage, I can't be sure. But one thing I do know”—the small, the small well-modeled head became emphatically affirmative—“I have seen you some place sometime.”

And there, Mr. Smith offering no encouragement, the topic would have died had not Miss Hewlett proved of a pertinacious turn.

“You won't tell, Mr. Mysterious Smith?”

“And spoil all my fun? When you've no more need to guess, you'll no longer find me interesting.”

“You know a heap about women, don't you?”

“Unfortunately no. Some things about some women only.”

“But tell me one thing, be a sport... I'm dying know why you're wasting your time here, today, on me.”

“I hate tell you, but...” Mr. Smith had a look of sincere hesitation. “The truth is... I count on you to keep my secret... I was a little in hope I might persuade Mrs. Hollingshead to make me an offer.”

“To dance here?” You don't mean like me, as a professional? What for?”

“Well... I'm in a sort of a hole...”

“And you didn't know this was the last day of the season? Poor dear!... Well!” Miss Hewlett sighed—“now I know why I was so glad to meet you. Misery loves company.”

“Good news,” Mr. Smith considered—“if a bit sudden.”

“Don't be a goose.” And then, as the orchestra rested, Miss Hewlett led the way back to their table. “It is funny, you know, she said, twinkling—“our meeting like this: both in the same boat and headed for the falls.”

“You, too, Miss Hewlett? Not really?”

BUT the girl compressed her lips and nodded ruefully, looking at once exquisitely helpless and full of the devil. From the moment of Mr. Smith's confession she had abandoned all pretense of reserve, and was dealing with him frankly, as with a brother in art and precarious fortunes. “I'm playing in perfectly poisonous luck,” she confessed. “When the club shuts up tonight, it will leave me flat, barring a few dollars Mrs. Hollingshead owes me.”

“As bad as all that?” Mr. Smith asked with a face of deep concern.

“You don't know the half of it, dearie.” Here Peggy Hewlett indulged a moment of honest gloom. “I've been hanging on for weeks, filling in here while waiting for a chance I was promised in a summer show. Now that's gone blooey, I heard only this morning the manager's broke, and I'm wondering...”

“Nothing else in sight?”

Illustration: When he was gone, she sat for several minutes blinking at the card with eyes that couldn't see

“Not a blessed view but the river ... O yes! and Silly MacShane. But I'm not so awfully keen about Silly MacShane.” Mr. Smith echoed this intriguing name with an accent that won a look of incredulity. “Why, I thought everybody knew or knew about Mrs. Silliman MacShane. Where've you been all this while? She's here now, over there in the corner with her gang. But—don't say I didn't warn you—it isn't safe to look without smoked glasses.”

“Oh! the lady with the diamonds.”

“Well!” Miss Hewlett commented: “you're perfectly right about the diamonds but, if you don't mind my saying so, the rest of your sketch is punk. Still, there's this much excuse for you, all you've got to judge her by is the modest little confection she's sporting this afternoon. You just ought to see Silly by night. Then she looks like one of—what am I saying?—a number of those animated sky-signs over on Broadway.”

“Tell us more ...”

“Why, Silly MacShane is the disconsolate relict of a flock of munitions contracts. When her income tax is paid she's practically a pauper, with nothing left but a beggarly three millions or so to run wild on from one year's end to the other. She owns most of the Russian crown jewels, the swellest estate on the North Shore, and the worst temper this side of the footlights; and her table-manners are so original, Society has quit trying to live up to 'em. So Silly has to hire guests to keep the dear old Long Island homestead from resembling a morgue.”

“You're joking, Miss Hewlett.”

“Ask anybody. Read the papers. See for yourself. Silly will pay you a hundred and fifty a week-end if you'll rope in a friend who's listed in the Social Register. Anyhow, that's the proposition she's just made me through Bob Mortimore. Bob calls himself her social secretary, now He's working that gold mine for all it's worth.”

“And money won't tempt you? Your scruples do you credit.”

The girl chuckled. “There are only two things I can think of that stop me from taking Silly MacShane at her word. One is, I'm afraid, I simply dassen't trust myself from Friday night till Monday morning within snatching distance of all that plunder.”

“Don't talk rot.”

“It isn't rot,” Peggy Hewlett protested with eyes of infantile naïveté. “Anybody would be a fool to trust me with a chance to get away with anything worth while, after the time I've had trying to make an honest living!”

MR. SMITH coolly brushed all that aside as too absurd... “And the real reason!” he persisted.

“Why I'm not figuring on roping in somebody to spend this week-end as Silly's guest?... I just wish I knew a soul I could put such a low-down proposition over on!”

“All your Social Register friends being out of town, we gather.”

“Something like that...”

“Why not find an understudy?”

“There!” Peggy Hewlett exclaimed in disgust. “I knew the old bean was going back on me. I never thought of that.” But her animation soon failed. “It's no use, I don't know anybody who could look the part and get away with acting it.”

“Wel-l,” Mr. Smith suggested with deliberation, “why wouldn't we do?”

Peggy gave an unaffected start and blinked furiously for an instant; then seeing that he persisted in presenting a countenance of unblemished blandness, knitted her brows over serious eyes. In the end, however, she waggled an impatient head and pouted: “It isn't pretty of you to trifle like that with a young girl's innocent social aspirations.”

“Not trifling,” Mr. Smith stated, sententious. “Why won't we do for one week-end?”

Peggy pondered him again, this time with a shadow of perplexity in the shrewd, good-natured eyes. For all of a sudden she was aware of a new Mr. Smith, a noteworthy one, glimpsing through that mask of airy insouciance, the spirit of a keen adventurer peering out through those urbane features and calling, as deep calls unto deep, to the spirit of the arrant little adventuress that life had made of Peggy Hewlett. And she caught her her breath sharply as she began to perceive that, with such spirit animating the two of them, almost any feat of impudence were feasible ...

“Oh, you'd do all right!” she admitted. “You've got the looks and the clothes and the cheek and the... O I don't know! As far as the front goes, my dear, you're all there. But would you?”

“Haven't we volunteered? Just say the word and—let's see: this is Thursday—we are yours from tomorrow noon till Monday.”

“But what about the Blue Book?”

“There must be a lot of names between its covers. Daresay you'll find it recognizes quite a mess of Smiths.”

“That's so!” Miss Hewlett agreed with animation. “Some of the swellest people in society are named Smith, come to think of it. Why couldn't you let on you were Van Suydam Smith, for instance?”

“Why not?”

“What a lark!” The young woman pondered it momentarily but with lively anticipations of good fun. “It would be too easy to put it over on Silly. And, anyhow, she ought to be grateful to get people as nice as you and me!”

“She undoubtedly ought.”

“And we'll go fifty-fifty. That'll mean seventy-five apiece—”

“Easy!” Mr. Smith interposed firmly. “If you're going to start that sort of thing, we won't play!”

“But, my dear boy! be sensible, remember you're up against it, too.”

“Not quite so bad as all that. I may be in a bit of a hole, as I said, but it'll be some time yet before my back's against the wall.”

Peggy Hewlett made a mutinous face, but with characteristic impulsiveness was quick to erase it. “Fight that out when the time comes,” she declared, jumping up “Come along: I want you to meet Silly MacShane before the next dance, Van ... I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Suydam Smith!”

And with the utmost docility Mr. Smith permitted himself to be led up to slaughter. Apparently he had forgotten all about the young friend who had so unfeelingly neglected their appointment.

III

THE private-wire telephone in the sanctum of Timothy B. Crabb, sounding a muffled summons, interrupted a consultation; but the surly grunt which was the first response of the world's best-advertised private detective was followed by a note of flattering cordiality.

“Why, hello, V-9! Been wondering when I'd hear from you. What devilment you been up to all this time, keeping so quiet?... Oh, y'are, are you? Well, glad you're back on the job... Sure, sure! any time you want I'll have the dope ready for you.. Twelve o'clock tomorra? Right. Shoot.”

He took up a pencil and prepared to jot down memoranda. “How d'you spell it?... 'S-I-double-L-I-M-A-N. Yop: got the rest of it awright. What's the other bird's name?”

His pencil was busy for an instant, then he added: “Nope: never heard the name before, have to have him looked up. What's'at?... Oh, awright, 'fyou think best. I'll just ask around among the boys, and if none of them's got anything on your friend we'll lay off him, just like you say... Right. Goo'bye.”

AND hanging up, Mr. Crabb slewed his swivel-chair round till he again commanded a view of the face of his most considerable client.

“'Sfunny,” he observed genially, in reference to the inquisitive cast of that intelligent countenance. “I could spin you yarns till tomorra morning about funny angles of this detective game; but the queerest of the lot, or I miss my guess, would be a story I don't know and can't find out, the story of the proposition that just had me on the wire. I don't know his name or his telephone number or where he lives or anything about him, never even seen him; and yet he's the slickest, brainiest operator I ever had anything to do with, bar none. I've wasted a heap of time trying to figure him out, but he's got me licked before I get started. He hadn't any more'n begun to work in with me when he served notice, any time I tried to find out anything about him he'd quit on me cold. So all I know about him is his telephone voice and a number he give me so's I could let him know any time I want to get in touch with him. All I do then is put an ad in the pers'nal column, just that number, V-9, that's all; and when he sees it he gives me a ring.”

“But,” the distinguished customer objected, “I hardly see...”

“Well, it's like this: this bird's worked out a theory, a dick—detective, you know—don't get a fair show for his white alley so long's anybody on earth knows he's a dick. He claims the only way is for a dick to flock by himself and say nothing to nobody. Then nobody's going to be on the lookout for him, and he's got some chanst. He claims this business of going after lawbreakers with a brass band—meaning newspaper publicity—is all the bunk.”

“How very odd! How do you remunerate the man, if you have no means of communication except through the newspapers and by telephone?”

“I don't,” Mr. Crabb admitted. “He says he don't want any pay, but maybe some day he'll ask me to do something for him personal'.”

“Evidently a man of some means...”

“And time,” Mr. Crabb amended. “Sometimes he'll put in weeks working up a case. The way I figure him, he's some one of these society guys, got nothing to keep him from passing away with ennui except this detective stunt he's doped out for himself.”

“He must have some strong motive.... And what is your opinion of his theory in practical application?”

“I think it's a peach. Only wish I had a hundred like him, doing my work for nothing and letting me cop all the credit.”

“I mean, do you think a detective can do more efficient work anonymously?”

“Sure: it's the only way. Those saps on the other side of the fence have got us dicks all spotted, same as we've got them all spotted. We don't make many moves they ain't wise to, unless we're lucky. And the same with them. The only guy who can get away with anything big is the guy who works in the dark and has no friends to squeal on him.”

“Then one would think you yourself...”

The great detective grinned and laid a knowing finger to his nose. “Too late,” he explained. “My number's been up too long. Anyway, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 'Specially if he don't care a whole lot about learning 'em. I like my job the way it is, I like the brass bands and everything, and having people point me out and say, 'There goes Timothy B. Crabb, the greatest living detective.' Now that wouldn't make Mister V-9 a bit happy. What he likes is snooping round in the dark and putting a permanent crimp in the plans of some crook that never even heard his name. And all that proves is, we ain't all alike... Now to get back to what we was talking about...”

IV

IN the not negligible opinion of the guest whom it knew as Mr. Van Suydam Smith, Silliman House was very much what one might have expected of its chatelaine. A sturdy pile of middle-aged architecture, mainly pressed-brick with marble facings and excrescence, porte-cochères, cupolas, terraces, and such like, planted four-square on the brow of a bluff and looking out westward over a lovely arm of Long Island Sound. Beyond reasonable doubt in its heyday the show-place of the countryside, its rooms like chambers of state, its woodwork laboriously lathe-tortured, its immense expanses of lurid stained-glass, had played the very deuce with the art, erudition and good-intent of interior decorators turned loose upon the property with carte-blanche to do their damnedest. And these having duly done so and departed, the personal taste of Mrs. Silliman, or misguided reverence for what she took to be genuine antiques, had done the rest; resurrecting, doubtless from its attics, pristine glories of bric-à-brac, Grecian urns and Rogers groups, prism candelabra, and no end of massive cut-glass pieces, to fill in the aching emptiness of spaces left, in the fond design of the decorators, to rest the eye.

From its dining-room like a hotel banquet-hall, into its drawing-room at least no larger than the grand salon of the Homeric, on that Saturday night trooped a company of nine souls singularly assorted. Silly MacShane herself, fair, fat and forty-odd—“with,” as Peggy Hewlett had pointed out to her accomplice, “the accent on the odd”—brimming over at several critical points the cubic capacity of an evening-gown which Paquin had fabricated for svelte two-and-twenty, the desert wastes of flesh too firm and far too pink tricked out with jewels worth a czar's ransom. Mr. Van Suydam Smith, lately risen from the place of honor on the lady's right, with occasionally a rather hunted gleam of eyes when the assiduity of her attentions grew cloying. Miss Hewlett, trim, demure, more entertained than she dared to show. Mr. Robert Mortimore, sleek and slinky, with his beautiful bold eyes and sly, secret smile. A Mrs. Claridge, who looked it, and her spouse who didn't but was making a brave effort to with the help of the MacShane cellar. Miss Gloria Glory, late of Hollywood, now “resting” but restless; blond, under-dressed, and past-mistress of a wicked baby-lisp; but when all was said and done, of an age to vote. A certain Mr. Fernald, with white hair, ruddy cheeks, a roving eye, a military carriage, and a mean memory for Al Jolson's jokes. An uncertain Mr. Sidney, modest and amiable, physically unimposing, and a little perplexed.

The warm spell held unbroken, there was no stir of air at all through the long French windows wide to the night. Silly MacShane, slowly turning purple as her digestion undertook to cope with a little home dinner of eleven courses and three wines, unanimously voted against dancing, as a diversion calculated to prove overheating. In its stead she dictated bridge at a quarter a point. She believed with all her great heart in giving her guests a good time whether they wanted it or not. In resignation these settled down at two card-tables which overtrained footmen conjured into position before the windows. Mr. Van Suydam Smith promptly lost whatever foothold an unpretending personality may theretofore have won him in the esteem of his company by cutting out of the first rubber; and with a somewhat hangdog mien took his sense of happy infamy out to air upon the paved terrace which the drawing-room windows overlooked.

Illustration: “Come on down to the lawn, I want to talk secrets, and it's much more romantic out there”

It was a rather narrow terrace, for the ground fell away sharply from the house to the water, and its marble balustrade was broken at two points, where stone steps led down to the lawn. Between these Mr. Smith perched himself and lighted a cigarette. The flare of the match betrayed an unregenerate grin. Twenty-four hours of Silliman House had only served to confirm him in his contention that human life is the most amusing kind to live.

THE night seemed strangely dense; for directly overhead its stars were myriad. Looking down, however, one could see the riding-lights of pleasure craft fringing the unseen shore with only their still reflections to tell of the tide that buoyed them up. Beyond them not one ray of starshine silvered the bosom of the bay, only a gulf of utter blackness yawned, pin-pricked by lights on the farther headland. And never a star relieved the dark vague of the heavens in the west.

The fiery nose of the cigarette was bright enough to show that the slender column of its fumes was rising almost without a waver.

Instantaneously the world was illumined by a ghastly, bluish sheen, in which the burnished face of the bay took on the likeness of a vast mirror, framed in hills whose profile was stark against a vault of sky piled nearly to its zenith with silhouetted thunderheads.

Fully a minute after this had been all blacked out a muted growl rolled through the breathless void.

And at Mr. Smith's elbow a friendly voice fluted: “My goodness! was that thunder?”

“Well,” Mr. Smith said curiously—“now, what did you think?”

“Thought it was thunder,” Peggy Hewlett retorted with spirit. “And what's more, I hope it's going to be the daddy of all thunderstorms. Then things'll be cooler. I'm 'most cooked. Besides, the lights will go out; these small-town power-houses always shut off the juice and call it a night whenever lightning happens. Don't blame 'em: scared to death of it myself. So I won't have to play any more bridge.”

“How does it happen you're not playing now?”

“Dummy, old dear. Mr. Sidney's my partner. He doesn't believe in gambling, so whenever he gets a dummy to play he treats it like a chess problem, counts all the spots in the deck every time it's his turn to part with a card. So I'm figuring on a nice long vacation out here with you, just us two all alone in the dark. Aren't you thrilled, Van?”

“Don't ask me. I might tell you.”

The girl chuckled and moved toward the nearer flight of steps. “Come on down to the lawn, it's much more romantic.”

“Better stop here. If I lose my head tonight, I'll deny everything tomorrow, and you may want a witness. Up here you've got more chance...”

“Witnesses cramp my style. Besides, if I can't land you without a net, don't want you. Come on where nobody can hear: I want to talk secrets.”

The slender figure flitted through the haft of light cast by one of the windows and began slowly to descend the steps Mr. Smith followed, with a parting glance, casual but appreciative, toward a window that framed a brilliantly chromatic pose of their abundant hostess pitilessly pinning down a puny chair.

The flesh of Mrs. MacShane had taken on a pronounced shade of lilac, she was breathing hard, her prominent eyes were set and glassy. As she bent forward to play a card the jewels that crusted plump hands and arms, her short, thick neck and more than generous bosom, shimmered with goblin incandescence.

With dazzled vision Mr. Smith picked a gingerly way down the steps. Halfway, however, another glare in the west gave him his bearings together with a flash-light impression of Peggy waiting, a wraith-like shape with hand on the stone newel-post, her face of pretty impudence upturned.

“I do believe you are scared,” she said complacently.

“My dear, the only thing I'm afraid of tonight is ... myself.”

“That's rather sweet...”

“It isn't you, Peg, it's this night. Something in the air, the storm, I dare say. So behave yourself and don't lead me on.”

“Why not, if it's nice?”

“Business before pleasure. Must I keep reminding you I'm leading a double life?”

The girl found his arm, slipped a hand under it, drew him away down the lawn. “You are funny, you know,” she mused. “I'd give something to know what you think you mean by that wheeze.”

“You won't ever. Not if I can help it.”

“Oh! that reminds me. How is it you've quit calling yourselves 'we'?”

“Upon mature deliberation concluded it was inappropriate to the operations of a single-track intelligence.”

“I don't get you at all. Know what I think—?”

“Now God forbid I should seek to pry into the processes of a young girl's mind!”

“I think you're a great fraud.” Peggy gave his arm a playfully impatient shake. “I more than half believe you're not what you seem.”

“I've been telling you that...”

“I'm tempted to believe you're ... Van Suydam Smith himself!”

In a play of lightning more fierce and prolonged her face had a cast of impish mockery. This time the thunder followed swiftly. When he could be heard, Mr. Smith observed. “I gather my acting's more natural than life. But do I gather you think I'm getting away with it?”

“Don't ask stupid questions. You know darn well you're getting away with it. Why, you've got even me guessing! What more can you ask?”

“Well: can't let you say all the kind words. You're doing pretty well yourself, Peg.”

“Like my make-up as a lady?”

• Tremendously.”

“I don't overdo it?”

“Not a mite.”

“You're a dear.” Peggy squeezed his arm, then suddenly released it. “There! that'll do. Don't say any more. I like you too much as it is. If you go on making me think you admire me, I won't answer for consequences.”

A series of blinding flashes disclosed the dainty shape of her poised at a little distance, with a pouting face of irresistible seduction. Mr. Smith felt his pulses leap and without volition moved a pace toward her. Then the light was blacked out and the very earth quaked with shattering shocks of sound. Half-stunned, momentarily thrown out of contact with his sense of direction, he faltered; and while he waited, the lessening reverberations of the salvo were pierced by a blood-curdling shriek from above, a woman's cry of rage and fear.

“What's that?” Smith gasped.

The girl's voice, as bewildered as his own answered from out the darkness: “Silly MacShane!”

A second shriek. Immediately the girl exclaimed: “The lights are out!” and glancing up at the black loom of the house, Mr. Smith saw that this was so.

A third shriek resolved into inarticulate sounds. “Thief! Help! My di'monds! Thief! Stop thief!”

Through the murk Mr. Smith stumbled to the steps. He had mounted but a few, however, when he heard the girl behind him give a startled cry, and paused, involuntarily looking back, though able to see positively nothing.

“Something the matter?” he called

Lightning and thunder breaking in the same breath drowned out her answer, if she made any. But the flash showed her on her knees, several paces away from the foot of the steps.

“Hurt yourself?”

“No.” Her voice came clearly she was once again invisible. “No. Just stumbled. I'm all right. Go on!”

The clamor of Silly MacShane was now practically unintermittent, and called to mind a calliope mourning for its young. As Mr. Smith gained the terrace the wind fell upon him like a fury, the awed hush of the night cowering beneath the threat of storm was disturbed by a great rushing noise as of legions of black wings in panic flight, a single stab of lightning revealed tree-tops writhing in torment, and the pale façade of the house with its gaping black windows.

Into one of these Mr. Smith taken unawares by the wind, briskly scudded under bare poles, to be brought up all standing by a solidly planted mass of moist, warm flesh, which was not even budged by the collision, but which, incontinently throwing stout arms round him, pressed him passionately to its bosom.

Simultaneously the calliope shifted into another tune.

“I've got him! Help! I've caught him! Somebody make a light! Help!”

Mr. Smith submitted without a struggle

Illustration: “I'm playing in perfectly poisonous luck. When the club shuts up tonight it leaves me flat with nothing in view but the river”

V

A MATCH blazed out near ornamental candles in a cut-glass candelabrum that stood upon a console-table: the wind pounced upon it, and it was not. A voice, unidentified, exhorted all hands to shut the windows: this was attended to. Footmen appeared, bearing lighted candles, and having disposed of these, lighted others already placed about the room. Mrs. Silliman MacShane continued to cling to Mr. Van Suydam Smith and yelp for help, evidently infatuated with the belief that he was putting up a furious fight for freedom and on the verge of winning it. Mr. Smith, on his part, continued resignedly to suffer her and hope for the best; which, as he conceived it, was that his ear-drum might come through this ordeal unimpaired. But his eyes were alert.

He saw his fellow-guests scattered about in poses diversely eloquent: Mrs. Claridge frozen in disdain, still occupying the chair in which she had sat down to bridge at the second table, that is to say not at the table with her hostess; Miss Gloria Glory, likewise of the second table, standing near by with a hand stilling the tremors of a startled wishbone, and in other ways familiar to students of the dumb drama registering a state of girlish twitter; Messrs. Fernald and Mortimore making the windows fast; Messrs. Sidney and Claridge dancing warily about the striking tableau composed of Mrs. MacShane and Mr. Smith, ready to tackle the miscreant the very instant he showed fight.

Lastly, he saw, as she were a storm-harried moth blown flat against the nearest window, Peggy Hewlett in her pretty frock, drumming the glass with small fists, and demanding admittance. And, this stirring him, he profited by a lull in the din, due to temporary failure of Silly MacShane's breath, to enjoin Fernald, who was on the point of letting the girl in: “Hold on! don't open that window. Tell Miss Hewlett to go round to the door, and on no account to come into this room.”

Fernald held his hand and batted stupid eyes, while Mr. Mortimore stepped between, smirking down his nose at Smith

“And who are you,” he inquired silkily, “to give orders?”

“Don't talk like an ass,” Mr. Smith advised him with calculated inelegance. “If there's been a robbery here, as one gathers, that girl hadn't anything to do with it, any more than I had. So it's only fair to keep her out of this till we've found whatever it may be that's missing.”

“And quite right,” Fernald gallantly agreed; and with this began to shout through the window instructions which Peggy couldn't hear because of the raving of the wind. His efforts in the way of sign language, however, seemed to take; for presently, between two vast flames of lightning and coincidently with another earthquaking crash of thunder, the girl disappeared.

IN the meantime Mortimore had taken umbrage of Smith's disrespectful attitude, and was working up to do justice to it.

“And yet,” he persisted with devastating courtesy—“forgive me if I say I don't quite see where you—caught red-handed, as it were—get off with giving orders.”

“Just for that,” Mr. Smith sweetly advised him, “it's going to be my duty and pleasure to pull your nose till you apologize ... if ever somebody has a heart and pries this soprano loose.”

For Silly MacShane, her capacious lungs refilled, was beginning to tune up again. And Mr. Smith owed his release to a faulty ear for music; for the indignation stirred up by this misrepresentation of her sound but untrained contralto strangled a new series of shrieks in their thoracic cradle and started up such a fit of coughing that the vocalist simply couldn't struggle with it and her captive at one and the same time. And, her enfeebled embrace relaxing, he stepped free and briskly up to Mr. Mortimore, only to be promptly pinioned by Claridge and Sidney who, apparently expecting him to put his threat of violence into immediate effect, flung themselves upon him from either side.

“That's right,” Mortimore approved, stepping back and lowering the hand which he had instinctively lifted to guard his well-modeled nose. “Now hold him.”

This in the face of the lamblike passivity which Mr. Smith was manifesting.

“By the way,” the latter asked with interest—“since you raise the point—who are you to be giving orders?”

“I?” Mortimore loftily inquired, for rhetorical effect purely. “Who am I to be giving orders? Well, I don't mind telling you: I am a special agent of the Fidelity Assurance Corporation, with which this lady's jewels are insured!”

To this announcement, more startling than the thunderclaps it punctuated, the several intelligences of the company reacted variously. Mr. Smith alone took it like a man, that is to say with phlegm. Silly MacShane it cured of her throat trouble and struck dumb and goggling. Mr. Fernald, returning from the window, paused agape, with one foot in the air, and after a moment put it down carefully and remained at a respectful distance. Mrs. Claridge rose with a bright “Ah!” Miss Gloria Glory retreated a single, dramatic pace, her generously revealed lines flowing with rare artistry into a graceful pose entitled, “Maidenly Wonder,” though it was neither. Mr. Claridge hiccupped and sternly tightened his hold on the left shoulder and wrist of Mr. Smith. Mr. Sidney, on the other hand, seemed to take it for a signal to turn the prisoner loose, and, murmuring something which Mr. Smith didn't catch, did so. Whereupon Mr. Smith gave himself a vigorous shake and sent Mr. Claridge spinning.

“Interesting!” he declared. “And I'm sure we're all jolly glad you're here. Aren't we, Mrs. MacShane?”

“Why!” gasped the lady of the jewels—“I'm sure—I didn't know—”

“You didn't know your social secretary was an insurance detective, too?”

“No, but...” Mrs. MacShane rallied to the defense of her favorite. “But if Mr. Mortimore says so, I'm sure I'm satisfied!”

“Naturally, dear lady,” Mr. Mortimore explained with a gracious bow of gratification, “when the Fidelity undertook such a heavy risk, it thought it advisable to have a representative on the spot.”

“Shrewdly surmising a theft was sure to follow without delay!” Mr. Smith blandly inferred. “And right bright of the Fidelity, I do declare. But don't you start picking on me again. I was down on the lawn when the lights went out, innocently flirting with Miss Hewlett, as she'll tell you if you care to ask. But when I heard Mrs. MacShane call for help, could I hold aloof and still call myself a man? I ran into her in the dark—for which I beg her pardon very truly—and in her agitation she grabbed me. And that's all I know. Now if she'll be good enough to tell us what she has lost—?”

The tremulous hands of Silly MacShane designated a naked space just below her collar-bone. “My diamond necklace!” she quavered tearfully. “The minute the lights went out, somebody snitched it on me.”

There was a murmur in chorus, in part of sympathy, in part of horror excited by the crime, and perhaps in some part of admiration for the audacity displayed by the thief and for his skill as well, who had with such adroit address made instant use of the sudden darkness to select unerringly what was by far the most valuable piece of jewelry of the many with which the woman was bedizened: a string of diamonds perfectly matched, each blue-white and of uncommon bigness, which, linked by a fine chain of platinum, had rested upon those cushions of pink fat like drops of fire.

“So!” Mr. Smith commented cheerfully, the first to recover; “it appears, then, that one of us is a sneak-thief. And since another one of us admits he's a sleuth, one would think the necklace couldn't get far. Eh, Mr. Mortimore?”

“I'll make that my business, by your leave,” Mortimore replied with crushing hauteur; and called to the footmen, bidding them retire and close the doors. “And see that Miss Hewlett doesn't come in,” he added generously, as that young person hove into view in the entrance-hall. “Nobody's going to leave this room until he's been searched. That goes for all present, including Mrs. MacShane and even myself. Unless, of course”—his truculent eye rested on the face of rapt admiration with which Mr. Smith was attending—“the thief has common decency to spare us all this trouble by owning up at once. He might as well, he can't escape.”

He waited an instant, but got no response. “Very good,” he pronounced with authority. “Fernald: be good enough to help Sidney fix that screen over there in the corner. Mrs. MacShane and the ladies can search one another behind it, while we do the same for ourselves out here.”

As the gentlemen he named moved dutifully to do his bidding, he grew a bit restive under the unabated adoration of Mr. Smith's regard.

“Well, sir!” he sneered—“I trust you will know me when you see me again!”

“No fear,” the other negatived with a shade of regret. “Shan't ever see you again, socially.”

Mortimore colored darkly, but considered the presence of ladies, though they had by this time retreated behind the screen “That'll do,” he dictated. “I'll settle my score with you, sir, all in a lump.”

“I promise you that,” Smith nodded. “Come, now: get on with the farce.”

He raised both arms, exposing his person to investigation. And Mortimore, with malice, gave that business peculiar and painstaking attention, and seemed considerably put out when his prying fingers turned up nothing more incriminating than the ordinary pocket furniture of civilized man. Nor had he better luck with any of the others. And when he submitted to search in turn he, too, proved a clean bill of health.

Finally, the ladies, being duly apprized that they might do so without fear of outraged sensibilities, emerged from their retreat to declare one another guiltless.

“And that's that,” Mortimore volunteered brilliantly. “All the same, that necklace must be in this room.”

“Why not search it, then?” Smith suggested in helpful spirit.

“Precisely what I—O hold your tongue!” Mortimore snapped. “Fernald,” he said pointedly: “I can trust you and Claridge and Sidney. We've got to examine every inch of this room.” Surveying it with the eye of a general, he assigned to each subaltern a territory. “Fernald: you go over the floor; take a candle and look in every corner, shake out every rug, and don't neglect the fireplace. Sidney I'll be glad if you'll investigate the bric-à-brac on the right-hand half of the room. I'll attend to the left. Claridge: ask one of the footmen to bring you a step-ladder and examine those prism chandeliers. A clever crook might have tossed the necklace up to catch on one of them.”

At the end of half an hour Mortimore was constrained to own himself nonplussed.

VI

IN returning to his room, when in a common temper of indifferently dissembled mutual disesteem the guests of Silly MacShane parted for the night, Mr. Van Suydam Smith exchanged his tail coat for a light silk dressing-gown of—though it was little later than eleven—midnight blue, then filled a wooden pipe blew out his candle, drew an easy chair up to an open window, and sat him down to meditate, passing promptly into abstraction so complete that for upward of an hour he neglected even to put down the pipe that had gone cold between his teeth.

And when he did rouse, it was only to rest folded arms on the window-sill and sit gazing thoughtfully down at the lawn.”

On the stroke of one, Mr. Smith got up, relighted the candle, placed it on an escritoire, and set his hand and wits to the composition of a note; and a tedious labor he made of it, seeing that, when written to his satisfaction, it covered a bare half-sheet of Silliman House note-paper. Even then he found it necessary to copy it over again with meticulous attention to his penmanship.

Folding this final draft in the shape of a triangle, he again extinguished the candle, tiptoed to the door, opened it silently, and for several minutes stood peering out and intently listening. At length reassured, he went out and, his light dress shoes with flexible soles making no sound upon the pile of the hall carpet, moved toward the head of the main staircase, a point marked by a window pallid with weak moonlight, past which Mr. Smith progressed on hands and knees. Here the corridor had a right angle, and once round this he rose and proceeded as before, counting the doors till he came to one beneath which shone a tarnished line of candlelight. Under this Mr. Smith deftly flicked his three-cornered note, upon its satinwood panel he scratched just audibly. Then he beat a precipitate retreat.

Again drawing near the stairs, however, he checked and went warily, warned by subtle instinct more than by actual sense perception that he was no longer alone in the corridor, that another was approaching from the wing of the building in which he himself had been lodged; and at the corner he pulled up, made himself as flat to the wall as might be, and waited.

In another moment the second prowler, in his haste neglecting the precaution which Mr. Smith had observed in respect of the window, passed it, and slipped as quietly as any cat down into the dark well of the staircase; leaving the watcher, who even in that swift instant of its transit had identified unmistakably the profile of Mr. Sidney stenciled against the milky shimmer of the glass, a prey to astonishment unbounded.

Notwithstanding, he followed with such furtive speed that he stood in one of the two doorways between the entrance-hall and drawing-room before Mr. Sidney was half way across to the windows, through one of which his slight body flitted without the pause to unlatch it which Mr. Smith had looked for.

In turn, he gained the window soon enough to see, by the dim shine of the sky, the head and shoulders of Mr. Sidney vanish over the edge of the terrace as he descended to the lawn.

Crossing to the balustrade and stationing himself behind an evergreen in a marble urn, Mr. Smith spied round it to see what the dark would let him see, which, if it wasn't a great deal, was quite enough to prove thoroughly intriguing.

At some distance from the foot of the steps, in fact at the approximate point where he and Peggy had been standing when the lights had gone out in Silliman House, a tiny glow, like a weary will-o'-the-wisp but a methodical one, was sweeping the surface of the lawn in arcs not over two feet long.

Puzzling over this phenomenon, Mr. Smith had just made up his mind that the glow had its source in a pocket-size flash-lamp cupped in a man's palm, when abruptly it vanished to the sound of a heavy thud followed by a thick grunt of pain and rage, an oath, and a smothered cry at that distance inarticulate.

Forthwith Mr. Smith darted down the steps. As he took his first stride on the lawn something hard crunched underfoot. He stooped and picked it up: a tiny flash-lamp, wet from the grass but warm from recent contact with human flesh, and still in good working-order; manipulation of its switch loosed quite a decent beam of light. In the same breath a voice cried out, triumphant: “Got you now, my man! If you've got the sense God gave a goose, you'll quit struggling!” And the flash picked out a group of two figures: Mr. Sidney prone, Mr. Mortimore kneeling on his back and unfeelingly kneading his face into the sodden turf, from which muffled noises of remonstrance escaped.

Blinking at the light, Mortimore demanded sharply: “Who's that?” and without waiting for an answer added: “You're just in time. Stand by to lend a hand if this crook tries any more funny business.”

“Of course I will,” Mr. Smith promised heartily. “But if you ask me, old soul, you aren't going to need an awful lot of help, you seem to have the situation pretty well in hand.”

Recognizing the voice, “O hell!” Mortimore exclaimed in frank disgust. “It's you, is it?”

“I can't help that,” Mr. Smith protested. “But if I can help you any way, dear sir, command me.”

“Well!” Mortimore growled. “I suppose you'll have to do.”

He shifted to one side of his victim, and with considerable skill wrenched the wrists of the latter together behind his back, clamped them fast with one hand, twisted the other into Sidney's collar, and yanked him rudely to his feet.

“Now frisk the fool,” he ordered, gruffly. “See if he's got a gun or that necklace on him.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Smith replied in a meek voice. “Anything you say...”

Shifting the flash-lamp from one hand to the other as occasion required, he made quick work of the job. “No gun,” he reported, straightening up—“nary necklace.”

Mortimore said something which was drowned out by a startled hail from one of the second story windows of Silliman House: “Who's that down there? What are you doing? Help! Police!”

“It's all right, Mrs. MacShane!” Mortimore found it necessary to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard between shrieks of the MacShane siren. “It's all ri-i-ight! It's me—I mean—it is I—Bob Mortimore—and I've caught your thief!”

“If that's so, bring him up this minute! I'll slip on something and come right down.”

“Right-o!” the social secretary sang out cheerily. “Keep your mouth shut!” he barked ferociously to his prisoner.

With this he began to march a now well cowed captive toward the steps.

“Much less messy to let him talk his fool head off, I should think,” Mr. Smith commented curiously, ranging alongside with his light.

“O shut up!” Mortimore retorted wittily; hustling Sidney up the steps.

“Ain't even the innocent permitted to talk either? You know what I think, Mr. Mortimore?”

“No, and I don't care.”

“I honestly believe you don't like me.”

“That's the first intelligent observation you've made tonight,” Mortimore snorted, propelling the unfortunate Sidney across the terrace at a quick-step.

“Well!” Smith made plaintive moan. “I just can't understand it. It isn't as if I didn't admire you, Mr. Mortimore; because I do, I admire you no end.”

“I'll give you something to admire me for when I get through with this bird!” Mortimore promised grimly.

They had arrived in the drawing-room, which was still without lights, but there was dim candle-glow steadily growing brighter in the entrance-hall, and against one of the doorways, vaguely revealed, the shape of a woman holding a pose of alarm.

“Mrs. MacShane?” Mortimore queried with a suggestion of uncertainty.

The reply was stammered: “No, it—it's I—it's Peggy Hewlett.”

“Oh!” Mortimore grunted ungraciously. “Where's your candle?”

“I—why, I couldn't find it. You see, I heard voices, and thought I'd better come down and find out—”

“Well, make a light, can't you? Can't somebody make a light?”

Feeling not altogether slighted, since he took “somebody” to mean himself, Mr. Smith moved quietly to the console-table, struck matches and applied them to the half-burned candles in the prism candelabrum.

Breathless and blowzy in a robe-de-chambre Du Barry would have envied, a lighted candle flaring gustily in either hand, Silly MacShane galloped into the room, followed by Fernald and the Claridges, all en déshabille and all bearing lights which, combined with the illumination which Mr. Smith was diligently effecting, furnished a striking moment for the entrance, exceedingly well-timed, of Miss Gloria Glory in a suit of pink silk pajamas elaborately ruffled and pleated under a negligée whose negligence was nothing short of cynical.

“And so that,” hissed Mrs. MacShane—“so that's the viper!”

“Caught him trying to make his getaway,” Mortimore affirmed. “Had a notion the guilty party would try to make a break for it before morning, so laid in wait and—Voilà!”

“Well: but where's my necklace?”

“Don't know yet,” Mortimore replied “But I'll make a shrewd guess we'll find it...” He held a dramatic wait, smiling proudly... “We'll find it outside, somewhere on the lawn!”

“On the lawn!” shrilled Silly MacShane.

“What do you think this sap was doing when I nabbed him? On his hands and knees, going over the lawn with a flash-lamp! That bears out my guess, my friends: when we didn't find the necklace in the room here, I made up my mind the thief must have had a moment of panic after snatching it and thrown it out of the window, trusting to make a chance to sneak out later and find it. Which was precisely what this fine fellow was trying to do when I caught him.”

He gave his captive another shake, by way of emphasis. And incontinently something most surprising happened. For Mr. Sidney abruptly wriggled free of the grasp of his captor, whirled about, and in the same heart beat whipped a pistol out of his hip-pocket and thrust it with great violence into the Mortimore midriff.

“Stick 'em up, you big crook!” he snarled vindictively—“and be quick about it. I'd liever put a pill into you than not, after all I've stood for from you. Stick 'em higher: I'll take no chances with you. Now keep 'em there.”

Mortimore's hands were well above his head. Keeping the pistol pressed against his body, and without removing his gaze from the social secretary, Mr. Sidney thrust his unemployed hand into a breast-pocket, extracted a slender wallet and handed it to Silly MacShane.

“Take a look at the papers in there, Mrs. MacShane—take a good look. And the next time somebody tries to tell you he's a Fidelity special agent, don't you believe him unless he can show you papers like mine.”

VII

SILLY MacSHANE lost a long minute out of her life, standing in a petrified stare, witlessly mute with her mouth ajar; then, as Sidney continued impatiently to shake the wallet under her nose and insist that she acquaint herself with its contents, she lifted a plump hand and took it mechanically, like a woman in hypnosis reacting to suggestion.

Murmuring, her guests crowded round her shoulders, eager for a glimpse of the detective's credentials. Only Peggy Hewlett and Van Suydam Smith seemed but little stirred by curiosity. And, of course, Sidney and his prisoner...

From the instant of their entrance Peg had scarcely stirred from the spot in which they had surprised her. Her eyes were wide and unusually dark, her lips delicately apart; her color was slightly faded, taken as a whole her look was one of semi-frightened wonder.

As for Mr. Smith he seemed to be interested only in Mr. Mortimore, and when that one rolled at him an anguished and reproachful eye he smiled broadly.

“Let this be a lesson to you, m'lad,” he mouthed, didactic. “It's all very well to kid others into thinking they're greater fools than you are, but it never does to kid yourself into believing it's so.”

Mortimore said something sotto voce, it may have been out of consideration for the presence of ladies. And Sidney, without ceasing to pay strict attention to business, contrived to convey to Mr. Smith a grateful grin of a grass-stained face.

“That was a good turn you did me,” he said, “not finding my gat when you frisked me. I'll tell the world your nose knows a crook.”

“You flatter the organ beyond its desserts,” Mr. Smith replied. “It's one real talent resides in some small ability at smelling out an honest man.”

Unceremoniously Mrs. MacShane broke in upon this interchange of civilities. “These papers look all right to me,” she informed Sidney. “But what I want to know is, why nobody ever told me you was a detective.”

“If you had known, madam, you would never have thought of asking me down here as your guest; and even if you had, the chances are you would innocently have tipped off our bright young friend here.”

“Bob Mortimore? That's something else I want to know. What right 've you got to insinuate—?”

“I'll leave it to you, Mrs. MacShane. If this gentleman isn't a crook, if he had nothing to do with the disappearance of your necklace, what was his object in claiming to be what he isn't, a Fidelity agent?”

Sidney nodded to Smith. “Do me a favor: give him the once over, like a good fellow, while I keep him covered.”

“Gladly,” said Smith; and performed as requested, relieving Mortimore of a .38 automatic pistol in an excellent state of repair, a superb emerald brooch, and a small but choice selection of rings.

Upon the pieces of jewelry the MacShane pounced with screams of joy and rage. “My rings! my brooch! my gawd! I only missed 'em yesterday and thought I'd mislaid 'em. You snake in the grass! Tell me now! where's my necklace?”

“I don't know,” Mortimore muttered uneasily, losing face and backing away till Sidney ordered a halt with a significant flourish of his pistol.

“You let me at him!” the woman stormed, wrestling with Sidney's arm. “I'll have my necklace out of him or I'll have his eyes!”

“I tell you I haven't got it,” Mortimore stammered. “I don't know where it is, unless it's somewhere out on the lawn.”

“On the lawn!” gasped Silly MacShane. “My necklace! How'd it get there?”

“I threw it there.”

“What for?”

“I had to do something with the silly thing, didn't I?”

“You threw it away?—a necklace 't cost three-hundred thousand!”

“Don't suppose I had any intention of leaving it there, do you?”

“But why the devil did you accuse me of being such an ass?” Sidney complained. “I don't so much mind your trying to save yourself at my expense, that's all in the game—it's asking people to believe I'm so weak-minded, gets my goat.”

“Well!” Mortimore shrugged, “the goose was cooked, any fool could see that. I figured if I gave up the clue and the necklace was found, I might still make a getaway.”

“Fat chance,” Sidney grunted in contempt. “Fidelity's had an eye on you ever since you pulled that funny deal up at Newport last summer. When we heard you'd made a berth for yourself with Mrs. MacShane, we naturally laid for you.”

“You haven't forgotten, I trust,” Smith put in helpfully, “that Mr. Mortimore was at Palm Beach last February, giving Mrs Stuyvesant Ashe instruction in dancing at the time her jewels were stolen.”

“No,” Sidney admitted; “guess that's a bet we overlooked. Much obliged, all the same. Every little helps to send this bird up the river where he belongs.”

“Mrs. Stuyvesant Ashe?” a quiet voice queried at Smith's shoulder. He looked round to meet the intent eyes of Peggy Hewlett. “Isn't she a sister of Van Suydam Smith's?”

“Why, now you remind me,” he admitted, “I shouldn't be surprised...”

“But my necklace! my diamonds!” The voice of Silly MacShane hurdled an octave in a breath. “All this time out there on the grass! Everybody help me find 'em!”

She made straightway for a window but faltered upon being reminded by Mr. Smith that she could hardly hope to locate the lost treasure without a light.

“Better take a candle,” he advised. “There isn't too much wind. For that matter, we'll all of us bring candles.”

And with a vigorous gesture he caught up the prism candelabrum, in his enthusiasm apparently overlooking its proximity to a decanter of heavy old cut-glass.

The standard of the candelabrum clashed sharply with the neck of the decanter. The decanter toppled for an instant, as if uncertain what to do about it, then flopped over on its side, rolled briskly to the edge of the table and crashed to the floor like a bomb, its deeply incised bulk flying into a myriad flashing fragments.

In remorseful consternation Mr. Smith contemplated the ruin his unhandiness had wrought.

“Oh, Mrs. MacShane!” he lamented—“what have I done?”

“Ah, what's that old piece of glass matter?” the lady retorted with excusable asperity. “All I care about's my necklace.”

“But wait!” Smith begged in a tone of awe. “Half a minute. What do I see?”

Holding the candelabrum high, he bent over and delicately with thumb and forefinger plucked from among the glittering shards a string of stones coruscant with mocking fire.

In an astounded pause a single voice was heard, Mortimore's stoutly asseverating that he was damned.

VIII

THE Claridges had motored out from New York, and having two vacant places in their car offered them to Miss Hewlett and Mr. Smith for the return trip from Silliman House.

Thus chance ruled that the two should have no time alone together until the Claridges, at her request, set Peggy down in front of the Plaza Hotel, and Mr. Smith impulsively elected to be left there as well.

And there, upon the sidewalk, in the heat of that early Summer midmorning, the two stood momentarily tongue-tied, or wearing every evidence of that affliction.

“It was nice of you to get out with me,” Peggy ventured at length. “I knew you would, of course.”

“Did you?” Mr. Smith observed

“You knew it would make me unhappy to say good-by without a chance to have a little talk.”

“My dear Peggy!” Mr. Smith remonstrated—“you do me injustice if you credit me with an intuition anything like as highly organized as your own.”

“Don't be a fraud,” girl retorted “You know you knew... Be a dear, Van: come in and sit with me in the lounge for a few minutes. One can't very well talk confidentially out here...”

“No,” Mr. Smith agreed. “One can't very well, can one?”

“Or two either,” the girl amended. “Or, for the matter of that, the three of us.”

“Three?”

“Counting in your secondary personality.”

“Oh, yes!” Mr. Smith said brightly. “We'd forgotten all about that creature, hadn't we?”

There were but few people idling in the hotel lounge at that hour, which made it an easy matter to find a corner well out of range of other ears; and once they were settled the girl drove directly at her point.

“I wanted to tell you, Van, how much I appreciate what an awful lot I owe to you.”

“Owe to me?” Mr. Smith opened his eyes, first in wonder, then in indignation. “See here! you're not trying to rake up that stupid notion about splitting Mrs. MacShane's check? Because I won't have it. I give you my word I won't hear of it.”

“You know very well I'm not thinking of that,” Peggy told him. “What's more, you know what I'm trying to say has nothing whatever to do with anything but just this.”

She was offering a triangular fold of note-paper, at which the young man stared distrustfully and which he accepted with patent reluctance when she insisted on pressing it into his hand

“What's this?”

“Oh! ... read it, then!”

Unfolding the paper, Mr. Smith read aloud: “'If the necklace is found in the drawing-room tomorrow morning, in the cut-glass decanter on the console-table, no questions will be asked as to how it got there.'... How extremely odd!” he declared with a wondering smile. “Somebody slipped a note precisely like this under my door, too.”

“Yes, somebody did!”

“But see here ... if you don't believe me...”

And Mr. Smith produced from his wallet an identical duplicate of the note.

“Clever trick,” he mused while Peggy was examining it. “Daresay every member of the party got one; and whoever did have the necklace naturally assumed the jig was up, the only thing to do was to put the plunder in the decanter as requested.”

“Van!” Peggy interrupted with a quaver in her voice: “far be it from me to throw stones; but as a true friend it's my duty to tell you, you're one of the dearest but most transparent liars that ever breathed.”

“But—my dear Peg!—you don't mean to say you think I knew anything about that necklace?”

“I think you had a darn' good idea who had it all along; and I know you wrote that note.”

“Ridiculous!” Mr. Smith asserted, making a face of scorn at the note in question. “It's nothing like my handwriting.”

Mr. Smith took a card from his wallet and with his fountain-pen scribbled on it a message of several words in exquisitely minute but legible characters, and with such speed and freedom of penmanship as wholly discountenanced the suspicion that he wasn't writing his normal hand.

“There,” he said, handing over the exhibit: “you can see for yourself...”

The most critical comparison left Peggy's contention without a leg to stand on; while the purport of the message itself left her breathless.

Charles Allingham, Esq.—it ran—Dear Charley:—Miss Peggy Hewlett is an accomplished dancer and a great friend of mine besides. I'll be no end grateful if you'll make a place for her in the piece you're putting into rehearsal next week.

“Charley and I are old pals,” Mr. Smith explained. “If you'll call on him, I'm sure he'll do everything he can for you.”

“Van,” said Peggy, with a mist in her pretty eyes: “you're a perfect prince!”

“Don't say that!” Mr. Smith protested. “My dear Peg: don't you realize that since the war princes are no longer vogue?”

“I don't care. You've been a prince to me. And I want you to know I never meant to keep that wretched necklace. Of course I was tempted at first—when it came flying through the air and actually struck me—out there on the lawn—and I realized what had happened and if I kept quiet I could get away with it, maybe—and I so desperately needed the money—!”

“Forgive me, Peg,” Mr. Smith cut in, hastily inspecting the back of his wrist. “I know you'll excuse me if I run along now—shockingly late for an appointment as it is.”

“But Van! you've simply got to let me explain—”

“Be a good girl, let me off till another time. I haven't a minute, really.” Mr. Smith hopped up and bowed low over Peggy's hand. “Good-by, Peg, the best of luck! Let me know how you come out with Charley Allingham.”

“Oh, I will, Van dear! I will,” the girl assured him tearfully.

And when he was gone, she sat for several minutes blinking at the card with eyes that couldn't see. But presently she winked away the clouds and scanned the engraved script on its obverse:

MR. VAN SUYDAM SMITH

RACQUET CLUB