The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “I fancy my friends have heard of our plight, Mr. Schmidt,” she said, quite composedly. “We will be released in a very few minutes.”

  He smiled complacently. He could afford to let her believe that her friends and not his were performing a miracle.

  “Your friends must be very powerful,” he said.

  “They are,” said she, with considerable directness.

  “Still, we are not out of the scrape yet, Miss Guile,” he remarked, shaking his head. “It may be a flash in the pan.”

  “Oh, please don’t say that,” she cried in quick alarm. “I—I should die if—if we were to be sent to—”

  “Listen to me,” he broke in eagerly, for an inspiration had come to him. “There’s no reason why you should suffer, in any event. Apparently I am a suspected person. I may just as well be a kidnapper as not. You must allow me to inform the Judge that I was abducting you, so that he—”

  “How absurd!”

  “I don’t in the least mind. Besides, I too have powerful friends who will see that I am released in a day or two. You—”

  “You cannot hope to convince the Judge that you were abducting me in my own automobile—or at least in one belonging to my friends, who are irreproachable. I am very much obliged to you for thinking of it, Mr. Schmidt, but it is out of the question. I couldn’t allow you to do it in the first place, and in the second I’m sure the court wouldn’t believe you.”

  “It was I who suggested running away from those detectives,” he protested.

  “But I jumped at the chance, didn’t I?” she whispered triumphantly. “I am even guiltier than thou. Can you ever forgive me for—”

  “Hush!” he said, in a very low voice. His hand fell upon hers as it rested on the arm of the chair. They were in the shadows. She looked up quickly and their eyes met. After a moment hers fell, and she gently withdrew her hand from its place of bondage. “We are pals, Bedelia,” he went on softly. “Pals never go back on each other. They sink or swim together, and they never stop to inquire the reason why. When it comes to a pinch, one or the other will sacrifice himself that his pal may be saved. I—”

  “Please do not say anything more,” she said, her eyes strangely serious and her voice vibrant with emotion. “Please!”

  “I have a confession to make to you,” he began, leaning still closer. “You have taken me on faith. You do not know who or what I am. I—”

  She held up her hand, an engaging frown in her eyes. “Stop! This is no place for confessions. I will not listen to you. Save your confessions for the magistrate. Tell him the truth, Mr. Schmidt. I am content to wait.”

  He stared for an instant, perplexed. “See here, Miss Guile,—Bedelia,—I’ve just got to tell you something that—”

  “You may tell me at Interlaken,” she interrupted, and she was now quite visibly agitated.

  “At Interlaken? Then you mean to carry out your plan to spend—”

  “Sh! Here they come. Now we shall see.”

  The magistrate and his companions re-entered the room at that instant, more noticeably excited than when they left it. The former, rubbing his hands together and smiling as he had never smiled before, approached the pair. It did not occur to him to resent the fact that they remained seated in his august presence.

  “A lamentable mistake has been made,” he said. “I regret that M’sieur and Mademoiselle have been subjected to so grave an indignity. Permit me to apologise for the misguided energy of our excellent sergents. They—”

  “But we were exceeding the speed limit,” said Robin comfortably, now that the danger was past. “The officers were acting within their rights.”

  “I know, I know,” exclaimed the magistrate. “They are splendid fellows, all of them, and I beg of you to overlook their unfortunate—er—zealousness. Permit me to add that you are not guilty—I should say, that you are honourably discharged by this humble court. But wait! The sergents shall also apologise. Here! Attend. It devolves upon you—”

  “Oh, I beg of you—” began Robin, but already the policemen, who had been listening open-mouthed to the agitated prosecutor, were bowing and scraping and muttering their apologies for enforcing a cruel and unjust law.

  “And we are not obliged to give our names, M’sieur le judge?” cried Miss Guile gladly.

  “Mademoiselle,” said he, with a profound bow, “it is not necessary to acquaint me with something I already know. Permit me to again express the most unbounded regret that—”

  “Oh, thank you,” she cried. “We have had a really delightful experience. You owe us no apology, M’sieur. And now, may we depart?”

  “Instantly! LaChance, conduct M’sieur and Mademoiselle into the fresh, sweet, open air and discover their car for them without delay. Sergents, remain behind. Let there be nothing to indicate that there has been detention. Mademoiselle, you have been merely making a philanthropic visit to our prison. There has been no arrest.”

  Robin and Miss Guile emerged from the low, forbidding door and stood side by side on the pavement looking up and down the street in search of the car. It was nowhere in sight. The chauffeur gasped with amazement—and alarm. He had left it standing directly in front of the door, and now it was gone.

  “It is suggested, M’sieur,” said the polite LaChance, “that you walk to the corner beyond, turn to the left and there you will find the car in plain view. It was removed by two gentlemen soon after you condescended to honour us with a visit of inspection, and thereby you have escaped much unnecessary attention from the curious who always infest the vicinity of police offices.” He saluted them gravely and returned at once to the corridor.

  Following leisurely in the wake of the hurrying servants, Robin and Bedelia proceeded down the narrow street to the corner indicated. They were silent and preoccupied. After all, who was to be thanked for the timely escape, his god or hers?

  And here it may be said that neither of them was ever to know who sent that brief effective message to the magistrate, nor were they ever to know the nature of its contents.

  The men were examining the car when they came up. No one was near. There was no one to tell how it came to be there nor whither its unknown driver had gone. It stood close to the curb and the engine was throbbing, proof in itself that some one had but recently deserted his post as guardian.

  “The obliging man-hunters,” suggested Robin in reply to a low-voiced question.

  “Or your guardian angel, the great Gourou!” she said, frowning slightly. “By the way, Mr. Schmidt, do you expect to be under surveillance during your stay at Interlaken?”

  There was irony in her voice. “Not if I can help it,” he said. “And you, Miss Guile? Is it possible that two of the best detectives in Paris are to continue treading on your heels all the time you are in Europe? Must we go about with the uncomfortable feeling that some one is staring at us from behind, no matter where we are? Are we to be perpetually attended by the invisible? If so, I am afraid we will find it very embarrassing.”

  They were in the car now and proceeding at a snail’s pace toward the Arc de Triomphe. Her eyes narrowed. He was sure that she clutched her slim fingers tightly although, for an excellent reason, he was not by way of knowing. He was rapturously watching those expressive eyes.

  “I shall put a stop to this ridiculous espionage at once, Mr. Schmidt. These men shall be sent kiting—I mean, about their business before this day is over. I do not intend to be spied upon an instant longer.”

  “Still they may have been instruments of providence today,” he reminded her. “Without them, we might now be languishing in jail and our spotless names posted in the Place de l’Opera. Bedelia Guile and Rex Schmidt, malefactors. What would your father say to that?”

  She smiled—a ravishing smile, it was. His heart gave a stupendous jump. “He would say that it served me right,” said she, and then: “But what difference can it possibly make to you, Mr. Schmidt, if the detectives continue to watch over me?”

  “None,�
�� said he promptly. “I suppose they are used to almost anything in the way of human nature, so if they don’t mind, I’m sure I sha’n’t. I haven’t the slightest objection to being watched by detectives, if we can only keep other people from seeing us.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she cried. “And let me remind you while I think of it: You are not to call me Bedelia.”

  “Bedelia,” he said deliberately.

  She sighed. “I am afraid I have been mistaken in you,” she said. He recalled Gourou’s advice. Had he failed in the test? “But don’t do it again.”

  “Now that I think of it,” he said soberly, “you are not to call me Mr. Schmidt. Please bear that in mind, Bedelia.”

  “Thank you. I don’t like the name. I’ll call you—”

  Just then the footman turned on the seat and excitedly pointed to a car that had swung into the boulevard from a side street.

  “The man-hunters!” exclaimed Robin. “By jove, we didn’t lose them after all.”

  “To the Ritz, Pierre,” she cried out sharply. Once more she seemed perturbed and anxious.

  “What are you going to call me?” he demanded, insistently.

  “I haven’t quite decided,” she replied, and lapsed into moody silence.

  Her nervousness increased as they sped down the Champs Elysees and across the Place de la Concorde. He thought that he understood the cause and presently sought to relieve her anxiety by suggesting that she set him down somewhere along the Rue de Rivoli. She flushed painfully.

  “Thank you, Mr. Schmidt, I—are you sure you will not mind?”

  “May I ask what it is that you are afraid of, Miss Guile?” he inquired seriously.

  She was lowering her veil. “I am not afraid, Mr. Schmidt,” she said. “I am a very, very guilty person, that’s all. I’ve done something I ought not to have done, and I’m—I’m ashamed. You don’t consider me a bold, silly—”

  “Good Lord, no!” he cried fervently.

  “Then why do you call me Bedelia?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “If you feel that way about it, I—I humbly implore you to overlook my freshness,” he cried in despair.

  “Will you get out here, Mr. Schmidt?” She pressed a button and the car swung alongside the curb.

  “When am I to see you again?” he asked, holding out his hand. She gave it a firm, friendly grip and said:

  “I am going to Switzerland the day after tomorrow. Good-bye.”

  In a sort of daze, he walked up the Rue Castiliogne to the Place Vendome. His heart was light and his eyes were shining with a flame that could have but one origin. He was no longer in doubt. He was in love. He had found the Golden Girl almost at the end of his journey, and what cared he if she did turn out to be the daughter of old man Blithers? What cared he for anything but Bedelia? There would be a pretty howdy-do when he announced to his people that their Princess had been selected for them, whether or no, and there might be such a thing as banishment for himself. Even at that, he would be content, for Bedelia was proof against titles. If she loved him, it would be for himself. She would scorn the crown and mock the throne, and they would go away together and live happily ever afterward, as provided by the most exacting form of romance. And Blithers? What a joke it would be on Blithers if he gave up the throne!

  As he approached the Ritz, a tall young man emerged from the entrance, stared at him for an instant, and then swung off at a rapid pace in the direction of the Rue de la Paix. The look he gave Robin was one of combined amazement and concern, and the tail end of it betrayed unmistakable annoyance,—or it might have been hatred. He looked over his shoulder once and found Robin staring after him. This time there could be no mistake. He was furious, but whether with Robin or himself there was no means of deciding from the standpoint of an observer. At any rate, he quickened his pace and soon disappeared.

  He was the good-looking young fellow who had met her at the steamship landing, and it was quite obvious that he had been making investigations on his own account.

  Robin permitted himself a sly grin as he sauntered into the hotel. He had given that fellow something to worry about, if he had accomplished nothing else. Then he found himself wondering if, by any chance, it could be the Scoville fellow. That would be a facer!

  He found Quinnox and Dank awaiting him in the lobby. They were visibly excited.

  “Did you observe the fellow who just went out?” inquired Robin, assuming a most casual manner.

  “Yes,” said both men in unison.

  “I think we’ve got some interesting news concerning that very chap,” added the Count, glancing around uneasily.

  “Perhaps I may be able to anticipate it, Count,” ventured Robin. “I’ve an idea he is young Scoville, the chap who is supposed to be in love with Miss Blithers—and vice versa,” he concluded, with a chuckle.

  “What have you heard?” demanded the Count in astonishment.

  “Let’s sit down,” said Robin, at once convinced that he had stumbled upon an unwelcome truth.

  They repaired to the garden and were lucky enough to find a table somewhat removed from the crowd of tea-drinkers. Robin began fanning himself with his broad straw-hat. He felt uncomfortably warm. Quinnox gravely extracted two or three bits of paper from his pocket, and spread them out in order before his sovereign.

  “Read this one first,” said he grimly.

  It was a cablegram from their financial agents in New York City, and it said: “Mr. B. making a hurried trip to Paris. Just learned Scoville preceded Miss B. to Europe by fast steamer and has been seen with her in Paris. B. fears an elopement. Make sure papers are signed at once as such contingency might cause B. to change mind and withdraw if possible.”

  Robin looked up. “I think this may account for the two man-hunters,” said he. His companions stared. “You will hear all about them from Gourou. We were followed this afternoon.”

  “Followed?” gasped Quinnox.

  “Beautifully,” said the Prince, with his brightest smile. “Detectives, you know. It was ripping.”

  “My God!” groaned the Count.

  “I fancy you’ll now agree with me that she is Miss Blithers,” said Dank forlornly.

  “Cheer up, Boske,” cried Robin, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll meet another fate before you’re a month older. The world is absolutely crowded with girls.”

  “You can’t crowd the world with one girl,” said Dank, and it was quite evident from his expression that he believed the world contained no more than one.

  “I had the feeling that evil would be the result of this foolish trip today,” groaned Quinnox. “I should not have permitted you to—”

  “The result is still in doubt,” said Robin enigmatically. “And now, what comes next?”

  “Read this one. It is from Mr. Blithers. I’ll guarantee that you do not take this one so complacently.”

  He was right in his surmise. Robin ran his eye swiftly over the cablegram and then started up from his chair with a muttered imprecation.

  “Sh!” cautioned the Count,—and just in time, for the young man was on the point of enlarging upon his original effort. “Calm yourself, Bobby, my lad. Try taking six or seven full, deep inhalations, and you’ll find that it helps wonderfully as a preventive. It saves many a harsh word. I’ve—”

  “You needn’t caution me,” murmured the Prince. “If I had the tongue of a pirate I couldn’t begin to do justice to this,” and he slapped his hand resoundingly upon the crumpled message from William W. Blithers.

  The message had been sent by Mr. Blithers that morning, evidently just before the sailing of the fast French steamer on which he and his wife were crossing to Havre. It was directed to August Totten and read as follows:

  “Tell our young friend to qualify statement to press at once. Announce reconsideration of hasty denial and admit engagement. This is imperative. I am not in mood for trifling. Have wired Paris papers that engagement is settled. Have also wired daughter. The sooner we get toge
ther on this the better. Wait for my arrival in Paris.”

  It was signed “W. B.”

  “There’s Blitherskite methods for you,” said Dank. “Speaking of pirates, he’s the king of them all. Did you ever hear of such confounded insolence? The damned—”

  “Wait a second, Dank,” interrupted the Count. “There is still another delectable communication for you, Robin. It was directed to R. Schmidt and I took the liberty of opening it, as authorised. Read it.”

  This was one of the ordinary “petits bleu,” dropped into the pneumatic tube letter-box at half-past two that afternoon, shortly before Robin ventured forth on his interesting expedition in quest of tea, and its contents were very crisp and to the point:

  “Pay no attention to any word you may have received from my father. He cables a ridiculous command to me which I shall ignore. If you have received a similar message I implore you to disregard it altogether. Let’s give each other a fighting chance.”

  It was signed “Maud Blithers.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

  Mr. Blithers received a marconigram from the Jupiter when the ship was three days out from New York. It was terse but sufficient.

  “Have just had a glimpse of Prince Charming. He is very good-looking. Love to mother. Maud.”

  He had barely settled into a state of complete satisfaction with himself over the successful inauguration of a shrewd campaign to get the better of the recalcitrant Maud and the incomprehensible Robin, when he was thrown into a panic by the discovery that young Chandler Scoville had sailed for Europe two days ahead of Maud and her elderly companion. The gratification of knowing that the two young people had sailed away on the same vessel was not in the least minimised by Maud’s declaration that she intended to remain in her cabin all the way across in order to avoid recognition, for he knew her too well to believe it possible that she could stay out of sight for any length of time, fair weather or foul. He even made a definite wager with his wife that the two would become acquainted before they were half-way across the Atlantic, and he made a bet with himself that nature would do the rest. And now here came the staggering suspicion that Scoville’s hasty departure was the result of a pre-arranged plan between him and Maud, and that, after all, the silly girl might spoil everything by marrying the confounded rascal before he could do anything to prevent the catastrophe.