The City of Masks Part 33

The listener blinked. His brain was foggy.

"What's that?" he mumbled, thickly.

"The girl you're lookin' for," said the man.

Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to clear.

"You mean--Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly.

The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the English girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation.

"Yes. Stand up and take a look. Keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there with the white-haired old lady. Am I right?

She's the one, ain't she?"

Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,--there's not the slightest doubt. How--how long has she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl. She--"

"What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once.

"I know you are," said the other soothingly.

"Darn the luck," growled Stuyvie, following a heroic effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "I wouldn't have had her see me here with this crowd for half the money in New York. She'll get a bad impression of me.

Look at 'em! My Lord, they're all stewed. I say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose at the head of my table that I've been suddenly called away, and--"

"Take my advice, and sit tight."

Stuyvie's mind wandered. "Say, do you know who that rippin' creature is over there with the fat Irishman? She's a dream."

The sallow man did not deign to look. He bent a little closer to Mr.

Smith-Parvis.

"Now, what is the next move, Mr. Smith-Parvis? I've located her right enough. Is this the end of the trail?"

"Sh!" cautioned Stuyvie, loudly. Then even more loudly: "Don't you know any better than to roar like that? There's a man sitting up there--"

"He can't understand a word of English. Wop. Just landed. That's the guy the papers have been--"

"I am not in the least interested in your conversation," said Stuyvie haughtily. "What were you saying?"

"Am I through? That's what I want to know."

"You have found out where she's stopping?"

"Yep. Stayin' with the white-haired old lady. Dressmaking establishment.

The office will make a full report to you tomorrow."

"Wait a minute. Let me think."

The sallow man waited for some time. Then he said: "Excuse me, Mr.

Smith-Parvis, but I've got a friend over here. Stranger in New York. I'm detailed to entertain him."

"You've got to shake him," said Stuyvie, arrogantly. "I want you to follow her home, and I'm going with you. As soon as I know positively where she lives, I'll decide on the next step we're to take. We'll have to work out some plan to get her away from that dressmakin'

'stablishment."

The other gave him a hard look. "Don't count our people in on any rough stuff," he said levelly. "We don't go in for that sort of thing."

Stuyvie winked. "We'll talk about that when the time comes."

"Well, what I said goes. We're the oldest and most reliable agency in--"

"I know all that," said Stuyvie, peevishly. "It is immaterial to me whether your agency or some other one does the job. Remember that, will you? I want that girl, and I don't give a--"

"Good night, Mr. Smith-Parvis."

"Wait a minute,--_wait_ a minute. Now, listen. When you see her getting ready to leave this place, rush out and get a taxi. I'll join you outside, and we'll--"

"Very well. That's part of my job, I suppose. I will have to explain to my friend. He will understand." He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "He's in the same business. Special from Scotland Yard. My G.o.d, what bulldogs these Britishers are. He's been clear around the world, lookin' for a young English swell who lit out a couple of years ago.

We've been taken in on the case,--and I'm on the job with him from now--"

"And say," broke in Stuyvie, irrelevantly, "before you leave find out who that girl is over there with the fat Irishman. Understand?"

Prince Waldemar de Bosky's thoughts and reflections, up to the beginning of this duologue, were of the rosiest and most cheerful nature. He was not proud to be playing the violin in Spangler's, but he was human. He was not above being gratified by the applause and enthusiasm of the people who came to see if not to hear a prince of the blood perform.

His friends were out there in front, and it was to them that he played.

He was very happy. And the five thousand dollars in the old steel safe at the shop of Mirabeau the clockmaker! He had been thinking of them and of the letter he had posted to the man "up the river,"--and of the interest he would take in the reply when it came. Abruptly, in the midst of these agreeable thoughts, came the unlovely interruption.

At first he was bewildered, uncertain as to the course he should pursue.

He never had seen young Smith-Parvis before, but he had no difficulty in identifying him as the disturber of Trotter's peace of mind. That there was something dark and sinister behind the plans and motives of the young man and his spy was not a matter for doubt. How was he to warn Lady Jane? He was in a fearful state of perturbation as he stepped to the front of the platform for the next number on the program.

As he played, he saw Smith-Parvis rejoin his party. He watched the sallow man weave his way among the diners to his own table. His anxious gaze sought out the Marchioness and Jane, and he was relieved to find that they were not preparing to depart. Also, he looked again at McFaddan and the dashing young woman at the foot of his table. He had recognized the man who once a week came under his critical observation as a proper footman. As a matter of fact, he had been a trifle flabbergasted by the intense stare with which McFaddan favoured him. Up to this hour he had not a.s.sociated McFaddan with opulence or a tailor-made dress suit.

After the encore, he descended from the platform and made his way, bowing right and left to the friendly throng, until he brought up at the Marchioness's table. There he paused and executed a profound bow.

The Marchioness proffered her hand, which he was careful not to see, and said something to him in English. He shook his head, expressive of despair, and replied in the Hungarian tongue.

"He does not understand English," said Jane, her eyes sparkling. Then she complimented him in French.

De Bosky affected a faint expression of hope. He managed a few halting words in French. Jane was delighted. This was rare good fun. The musician turned to the others at the table and gave utterance to the customary "Parle vouz Francais, madame--m'sieu?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Hendricks. "_He_ understands it but he can't hear it," she went on, and suddenly turned a fiery red. "How silly of me," she said to the Marchioness, giggling hysterically.

De Bosky's face cleared. He addressed himself to Jane; it was quite safe to speak to her in French. He forgot himself in his eagerness, however, and spoke with amazing fluency for one who but a moment before had been so at a loss. In a few quick, concise sentences he told her of Stuyvesant's presence, his condition and his immediate designs.

Both Jane and the Marchioness were equal to the occasion. Although filled with consternation, they succeeded admirably in concealing their dismay behind a mask of smiles and a gay sort of chatter. De Bosky beamed and smirked and gesticulated. One would have thought he was regaling them with an amusing story.

"He is capable of making a horrid scene," lamented Jane, through smiling lips. "He may come over to this table and--"