No. 13 Washington Square Part 36

"Besides," Mr. Pyecroft went on, with a sudden flash of wrathful contempt, "if there's anybody under G.o.d's sun I like to slip something over on it's those d.a.m.ned vermin of private detectives! And the swells that employ them! I hope that Mrs. Allistair gets stung good and plenty!"

"But Mrs. De Peyster!" wailed that lady--she couldn't help it, though she tried to keep inarticulate her sense of complete annihilation.

"When they publish that letter the damage will have been done. It's a forgery, but n.o.body will believe her when she says so, and she can't prove it! She'll be ruined!"

"Well," Mr. Pyecroft commented casually, "I don't see where that bothers us. She's pretty much of a stiff, too, and I wouldn't mind handing her one while we're at it. But, Lord, this won't hurt her a bit."

Mrs. De Peyster sat suddenly upright.

"Not hurt her?"

"Didn't I tell you?" chortled Mr. Pyecroft. "Why, when our excellent friend, Mr. Brown, presents the Duke's letter to-morrow morning to his chief, or to Mrs. Allistair's agent,--if he ever gets that far,--he will turn triumphantly over one sheet of Brentanos' very best notepaper--blank."

"Blank?" cried Mrs. De Peyster.

Mr. Pyecroft's right eyelid drooped in its remarkable wink; his mouth again tilted high to starboard in its impish smile.

"You see," he remarked, "the Duke's letter was written in an ink of my own invention. One trifling idiosyncracy of that ink is that it fades completely and permanently in exactly twelve hours."

CHAPTER XVII

A QUESTION OF IDENt.i.tY

Mr. Pyecroft's grin grew by degrees more delighted: became the smile of a whimsical genius of devil-may-care, of an exultantly mischievous Pan. But he offered not a word of comment upon his work. He was an artist who was, in the main, content to achieve his masterpieces and leave comment and blame and praise to his public and his critics.

He stood up.

"I believe I promised to peel the potatoes and put on the roast," he remarked, and went out.

"Matilda," breathed Mrs. De Peyster, numbed and awed, still aghast, "did you ever dream there could be such a man?"

"Oh, ma'am,--never!"--tragically, wildly.

"Whatever _is_ he going to do next?"

"I'm sure I don't know, ma'am. Almost anything."

"And whatever is going to happen to us next?"

"Oh, ma'am, it's terrible to think about! I'm sure I can't even guess!

Mr. Pyecroft, and all the others, and all these things happening--I'm sure they'll be the death of me, ma'am!"

Mrs. De Peyster sprang from her bed. Despite Matilda's cheap dressing-gown which she wore as appropriate to her station, she made a splendid figure of raging majesty, hands clenched, eyes blazing, furiously erect.

"That man is outrageous!" she stormed. "I cannot, and shall not, stand him any longer! We must, and shall, get rid of him!" Her voice rang with its accustomed tone of all-conquering determination. "Matilda, we are going to do it! I say we are going to do it!"

Matilda gazed admiringly at her magnificently aroused mistress. "Of course, you'll do it, ma'am," she said with conviction.

"I cannot endure him another minute!" Mrs. De Peyster raged on. "At once, he goes out of this house! Or we do!"

"Of course, ma'am," repeated Matilda in her adoring voice. And then after a moment, she added quaveringly: "But please, ma'am,--how are we going to do it?"

The outraged and annihilatory Mrs. De Peyster gazed at Matilda, utterer of practical common-places. As she gazed the splendid flames within her seemed slowly to flicker out, and she sank back upon her bed. Yes, how were they going to do it?

In cooler mood they discussed that question, without discovering a solution; discussed it until it was time for Matilda to go downstairs to perform her share of the preparation of the communal dinner. Left alone, her fury now sunk to sober ashes, Mrs. De Peyster continued the exploration of possibilities, with the same negative result.

Matilda brought up her dinner on a tray, then returned to the kitchen; for though the others were all doing fair tasks, to Matilda of twenty years' experience fell the oversight of the thousand details of the house. Presently Mary appeared, on one of her visits of mercy--full of relief that the cabinet-maker had ended his work so soon, thus setting Jack free.

But before beginning the anodynous "Wormwood," she launched into another high-voltage eulogy of Angelica's brother. Even more than they had at first thought was he willing and competent and agreeable in the matter of their common household labor; he was not intrusive; he was rich with clever and well-informed talk when they all laid aside work to be sociable. In fact, as she had said before, he was simply splendid!

"Now, I do hope, Angelica, that you are going to forgive your brother," Mary insisted. "He really means well. I think he's what he is because he has never had a fair chance." And then more boldly: "I think the fault is largely yours and Matilda's. Matilda says your parents died when you were all young; and he admitted that he does not even remember them. And he also admitted, when I pressed him, that you and Matilda had not given him very much attention during his boyhood.

You and Matilda are older; you should have brought him up more carefully; you are both seriously to blame for what he is. So I hope,"

she concluded, "that both of you will forgive him and help him."

Once more Mrs. De Peyster did not feel called upon to make response.

"I have noted particularly that Matilda does not seem cordial and forgiving," Mary was continuing, when the prodigal brother himself dropped in. With her pretty, determined manner, Mary renewed her efforts at reconciliation in the estranged family. Mr. Pyecroft was penitent without being humble, and whenever a question was put directly to Mrs. De Peyster his was the tongue that answered; he was quite certain his sister Angelica would relent and receive him back into her respect and love once he had fully proved his worthiness.

"I must say, Mr. Simpson, that I think you have an admirably forgiving nature," declared Mary. It was clear, though she was silent on the matter, that she considered his sisters to have cold, hard, New England hearts.

Mr. Pyecroft withdrew; and Mary, in the high-pitched voice required by the invalid's misfortune, read "Wormwood" for an hour--until Jack came to the door and announced that Judge Harvey had again called on them.

Alone, Mrs. De Peyster pondered her poignant problem, What should she do?--wishful that Matilda were present to talk the affair over with her. But Matilda was still busy in the kitchen with the odd jobs of night-end.

Toward ten o'clock Mr. Pyecroft came in again. He stood and gazed silently down upon her. The one electric light showed her an odd, dry smile on Mr. Pyecroft's face.

"What is it?" Mrs. De Peyster asked in fear.

"Really, Angelica, you're not half so clever as I believed you."

"What is it?" she repeated huskily.

"This pearl." And from a pocket he drew out the pendant he had appropriated the night before in Mrs. Gilbert's boarding-house.

"I thought we ought to be prepared with more cash in hand for our get-away when we decide to make it. So an hour ago I slipped out the back way, and made for a safe p.a.w.nbroker I know of. Angelica, you're easy. This pearl is nothing but imitation. And you fell for it!" He shook his head sorrowingly, chidingly. "Here's one case where remorse might be highly proper--and safest; better just mail it back to the party you lifted it from."

With good-humored contempt he tossed the pendant upon the bed. Mrs. De Peyster clutched it and thrust it beneath her pillow.

"I believe, Angelica, my dear," he commented, "that in view of the capacity this pearl incident has revealed, it is strictly up to me to a.s.sume charge of every detail of our plan."

He sat down and in his fluent manner discussed the day's developments and their preparations for the future; and he was still talking when, fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Matilda entered. Her face, of late so often ashen, was ashen as though almost from habit.

"Oh, oh," she quavered, "the servants' bell rang--and I answered it, like I'd been told to do--and in stepped four men--two of them the policemen we let in last night, and two men I never saw before--and they asked if they might speak to my brother who was visiting me. And I--I promised to call him down. Oh, ma'--Angelica--"

"Mr. Pyecroft, what does this mean?" cried Mrs. De Peyster.

Mr. Pyecroft's usual perfect composure was gone. His face was gleamingly alert; sharp as a razor's edge.