The City of Masks Part 38

"Bless your heart, my dear, he wouldn't take it. Of course," she went on, after a moment, "it would please him beyond words if you were to suggest it to him."

"I shall do more," said Jane, resolutely. "I shall insist."

"It will tickle him almost to death," said the Marchioness, again raising the napkin to her lips.

At twelve o'clock the next day, Trotter's voice came blithely over the telephone.

"Are you there, darling? Lord, it seems like a century since I--"

"Listen, Eric," she broke in. "I have something very important to tell you. Now, _do_ listen--are you there?"

"Right-o! Whisper it, dear. The telephone has a million ears. I want to hear you say it,--oh, I've been wanting--"

"It isn't that," she said. "You know I do, Eric. But this is something perfectly terrible."

"Oh, I say, Jane, you haven't changed your mind about--about--"

"As if I _could_," she cried. "I love you more than ever, Eric. Oh, what a silly thing to say over the telephone. I am blushing,--I hope no one heard--"

"Listen!" said he promptly, music in his voice. "I'm just in from the country. I'll be down to see you about five this afternoon. Tell you all about the trip. Lived like a lord,--homelike sort of feeling, eh?--and--"

"I don't care to hear about it," said Jane stiffly. "Besides, you must not come here today, Eric. It is the very worst thing you could do. He would be sure to see you."

"He? What he?" he demanded quickly.

"I can't explain. Listen, dear. Mrs. Sparflight and I have talked it all over and we've decided on the best thing to do."

And she poured into the puzzled young man's ear the result of prolonged deliberations. He was to go to Bramble's Bookshop at half-past four, and proceed at once to the workshop of M. Mirabeau upstairs. She had explained the situation to Mr. Bramble in a letter. At five o'clock she would join him there. In the meantime, he was to keep off of the downtown streets as much as possible.

"In the name of heaven, what's up?" he cried for the third time,--with variations.

"A--a detective from Scotland Yard," she replied in a voice so low and cautious that he barely caught the words. "I--I can't say anything more now," she went on rapidly. "Something tells me he is just outside the door, listening to every word I utter."

"Wait!" he ordered. "A detective? Has that beastly Smith-Parvis crowd dared to insinuate that you--that you--Oh, Lord, I can't even say it!"

"I said 'Scotland Yard,' Eric," she said. "Don't you understand?"

"No, I'm hanged if I do. But don't worry, dear. I'll be at Bramble's and, by the lord Harry, if they're trying to put up any sort of a--h.e.l.lo! Are you there?"

There was no answer.

Needless to say, he was at Bramble's Bookshop on the minute, vastly perturbed and eager for enlightenment.

"Don't stop down here an instant," commanded Mr. Bramble, glancing warily at the front door. "Do as I tell you. Don't ask questions. Go upstairs and wait,--and don't show yourself under any circ.u.mstance. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of him anywhere outside?"

"The street is full of 'hims,'" retorted Mr. Trotter in exasperation.

"What the devil is all this about, Bramby?"

"She will be here at five. There's nothing suspicious in her coming in to buy a book. It's all been thought out. Most natural thing in the world that she should buy a book, don't you see? Only you must not be buying one at the same time. Now, run along,--lively. Prince de Bosky is with Mirabeau. And don't come down till I give you the word."

"See here, Bramble, if you let anything happen to her I'll--" Mr.

Bramble relentlessly urged him up the steps.

Long before Jane arrived, Trotter was in possession of the details. He was vastly perplexed.

"I daresay one of those beastly cousins of mine has trumped up some charge that he figures will put me out of the running for ever," he said gloomily. He sat, slack and dejected, in a corner of the shop farthest removed from the windows. "I shouldn't mind so much if it weren't for Lady Jane. She--you see, M'sieur, she has promised to be my wife. This will hurt her terribly. The beastly curs!"

"Sit down!" commanded M. Mirabeau. "You must not go raging up and down past those windows."

"Confound you, Mirabeau, he doesn't know this place exists. He never will know unless he follows Lady Jane. I'll do as I jolly well please."

De Bosky, inspired, produced a letter he had just received from his friend, the cracksman. He had read it to the bookseller and clockmaker, and now re-read it, with soulful fervour, for the benefit of the new arrival. He interrupted himself to beg M. Mirabeau to unlock the safe and bring forth the treasure.

"You see what he says?" cried he, shaking the letter in front of Trotter's eyes. "And here is the money! See! Touch it, my friend. It is real. I thought I was also dreaming. Count them. Begin with this one.

Now,--one hundred, two hundred--"

"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about," said Trotter, staring blankly at the money.

"What a fool I am!" cried de Bosky. "I begin at the back-end of the story. How could you know? Have you ever known such a fool as I, Mirabeau?"

"Never," said M. Mirabeau, who had his ear c.o.c.ked for sounds on the stairway.

"And so," said the Prince, at the end of the hastily told story of the banknotes and the man up the river, "you see how it is. He replies to my carefully worded letter. Shall I read it again? No? But, I ask you, my dear Trotter, how am I to carry out his instructions? Naturally he is vague. All letters are read at the prison, I am informed. He says: 'And anything you may have come acrosst among my effects is so piffling that I hereby instructs you to burn it up, sos I won't have to be bothered with it when I come out, which ain't fer some time yet, and when I do get out I certainly am not coming to New York, anyhow. I am going west and start all over again. A feller has got a better chance out there.'

That is all he has to say about this money, Trotter. I cannot burn it.

What am I to do?"

Trotter had an inspiration.

"Put it into American Tobacco," he said.

De Bosky stared. "Tobacco?"

"Simplest way in the world to obey instructions. The easiest way to burn money is to convert it into tobacco. Slip down to Wall Street tomorrow and invest every cent of this money in American Tobacco, register the stock in the name of Henry Loveless and put it away for him. Save out enough for a round-trip ticket to Sing Sing, and run up there some day and tell him what you've done."

"By Jove!" exclaimed de Bosky, his eyes dancing. "But," he added, doubtfully, "what am I to do if he doesn't approve?"

"Tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the resourceful Mr.

Trotter.

"You know," said the other admiringly, "I have never been one of those misguided persons who claim that the English have no sense of humour.

I--"

"Sh!" warned M. Mirabeau from the top of the steps. And then, like a true Frenchman, he bustled de Bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door, leaving Trotter alone among the ticking clocks.

Jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued. Mr. Bramble was pledging something, in a squeaky undertone, from the store below.

"He may not have followed me," Jane called back in guarded tones, "but if he has, Mr. Bramble, you must be sure to throw him off the trail."

"Trust me,--trust me implicitly," came in a strangled sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor.