The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  He went into a long tirade against the unfortunate Seattle-ites, as he called them. “Understand me, Agatha, I don’t blame Mrs. Medcroft. If she’s having an affair with this chap and can pull the wool—”

  “But she isn’t having an affair with this chap,” cried Mrs. Odell-Carney, her patience exhausted. “She’s having an affair with a chap in London—the one who writes—Good gracious! Of course! Why, what fools we are. The real Medcroft is in London, and it is he who is writing the letters. How stupid of me!”

  “Aha!” exclaimed he triumphantly. “Of course, she’s getting letters from her husband. Why not? That’s to be expected. But, by the everlasting shagpat, do you suppose that her husband knows she’s off here with another fellow who masquerades as her husband? No!” He almost shouted it. “I’ve never heard of anything so brazen. ‘Gad, what nerve these Americans have. Just to think of it!”

  “I don’t believe she is anything of the sort,” declared his wife. “She’s as good as gold. You can’t fool me, Carney. I know women.”

  “Deuce take it, Agatha, so do I. And wot’s more, I know men.”

  “They’re a poor lot, the kind you know. This pseudo Medcroft is not your kind. He’s a very clever chap and a gentleman.”

  “Now, look here, Agatha, don’t imagine that I’m going to be such a cad as to turn against ’em in their hour of trial. Not I. I’m more their friend than ever. I’ll help ’em to get away from here, and I’ll bulldose these Rodneys into holding their peace forever after. It’s the Rodney duplicity that I can’t stand.”

  “Shall we stay here or shall we find an excuse to leave?” she asked pointedly.

  “We’ll stay long enough for me to tell the Rodneys wot I think of ’em, I’ll have an answer to my despatch by night. Then, I should advise you to have a talk with Mrs. Medcroft. You’ve invited her to the house, you know. Tell her there can’t be two Medcrofts. See wot I mean? We’ll see ’em through this, but—well, you understand.”

  Meantime a telegram had preceded a lengthy letter into the department of the police, both directed to Herr Bauer, who in reality was James Githens, of Scotland Yard. The telegram had said: “Why do you say M. is there? He is in London. Explain. Letter tomorrow.” The letter had come, and Mr. Githens, as well as the local police office, was “bowled over,” to express it in Scotland Yard English. He had wired his employers that “M. is still in Innsbruck. Cannot be in London.” It was very clearly set forth in the letter that Roxbury Medcroft was in London, and that Mr. Githens, of Scotland Yard, had betrayed his trust. He was virtually charged with playing into the hands of the enemy,—”selling out,” as it were. It readily may be expected that Mr. Githens was accused of being in the employ of the “opposition.” Moreover, it is but reasonable to assume that he took vigorous steps at once to vindicate himself: which accounts for the woe that lurked close behind the heels of a man named Brock.

  Brock and Constance had ridden off that afternoon to visit the historic Schloss Ambras. The great castle had been saved for the very last of their explorations; he had just been able to secure permission to visit that part of the Duke’s residence open on certain occasions to the curious public. Edith had declined to accompany them. In the first place, she was expecting the all-important message from her husband—she was “on nettles,” to quote her plaintive eagerness; in the second place, she realised that as the crisis was at hand in the affairs of Brock and Constance, her presence was not a necessary adjunct. Not only was she expecting a message from Roxbury, but eagerly anticipating an outburst of joyous news from the two who had, it seemed, very gladly left her behind.

  The young couple, returning by the lower road from the Schloss, came to a resting place at a little eating-house and garden on the hillside overlooking the river Inn. It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs. It was to this charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous inamorata. She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart. And she knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a few hours hence. The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown; they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak and foreboding as they always had been before.

  A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them. Swift, cool breezes were scurrying down the valley, bearing in their wake the soft rain clouds that were soon to drench the earth and then radiantly pass on. They were quite alone, seated in the shelter of a wide, overhanging portico. A soft, green darkness was creeping over the mountainside, pregnant with smell of the shower.

  Constance ordered tea and a bite of something to eat for both. Brock’s gaze never left her exquisite face while she was engaged in the pretty but rather self-conscious occupation of instructing the waitress. After the girl had departed, he leaned forward across the little table and said, a trifle hoarsely and disjointedly,—

  “It was most appetising to watch you do that. I could live forever on nothing but tea and sandwiches if you were to order them.”

  “You’ve said a great many silly things to me this afternoon.”

  “I wonder—” he stopped and lowered his voice—”I wonder if you would call it silly if I were to tell you that I love you, very, very much.” His gloved hand dropped upon hers as she fumbled aimlessly with the menu card; something in the very helplessness of that long slim hand drew the strength of all his love toward it—all of this confident, arrogant love that had come to be so sure of itself in these last days. His grey eyes, dark with the purpose of his passion, took on a new and impelling glow; she looked into them for an instant, the wavering smile of last resort on her parted lips; then her lids dropped quickly and her lip trembled.

  “I should still think you very silly,” she said in a very low voice, “unless—unless you do love me.”

  His fingers closed so tightly upon hers that she looked up, her eyes swimming with tenderness. Neither spoke for a long minute, but words were not needed to tell what the soul was saying through the eyes.

  “I do love you—you know I do, Connie. I’ve loved you from the first day. I cannot live without you, Connie, darling, you won’t keep me waiting? You will be my wife—you will marry me at once? You do love me, I know—I’ve known it for days and days—”

  She whimsically broke in upon his passionate declaration, saying with a pretty petulance: “Oh, you have? What insufferable conceit! I—”

  He laughed joyously. “I never was so sure of anything in my life,” he said. “You couldn’t help loving me, Constance; I’ve loved you so. You don’t have to tell me, dear; I know. Still, I’d like to hear you say, with those dear lips as well as with your eyes, that you love me.”

  She put her hand upon the back of the broad one which held the other imprisoned; there was a proud, earnest light in her eyes. “I do love you,” she said simply.

  “God, but I’m a happy man,” he exulted. Forgetful of the time and the place, he half arose and, leaning forward, kissed her full upon the upturned lips.

  There was a rattling of chinaware behind them. In no little confusion both came tumbling down from Paradise, and found themselves under the abashed scrutiny of a very red-faced young serving-woman.

  “Oh, never mind,” stammered Gretchen quite amiably. “I am used to that, madame. A great many ladies and gentlemen come here to—to—what you call it?” She placed the tea and sandwiches before them, her fingers all thumbs, her cheeks aglow.

  Brock pulled himself together. Very sternly he said: “This young lady is to be my wife.”

  “Ach,” said Gretchen, with a friendly smile and the utmost deference, “that is what they all say, mein Herr.” Then, giggling approvingly, she bustled away.

  Brock waited until she was out of sight. “She seems to be onto us, as Freddie would say. But what do we care? I’d like to stand on top of the Ban
djoch and shout the news to the world. Wouldn’t you, dearest?”

  “The world wouldn’t hear us, dear,” she said coolly. “Besides, it’s raining up there. Just look at it sweeping down upon us! Goodness!”

  He laughed hilariously, amused by her attempt to be casual and indifferent. “You can’t turn it off so easily as that, dearest,” he cried. “Come! While it rains we may plan. You will marry me—tomorrow?”

  “No!” she cried, aghast. “How utterly ridiculous!”

  “Well, then, day after tomorrow?”

  “No, no—nor week after next. I—”

  “See here, Connie, we’ve got some one else to consider as well as ourselves. In order to square it all up for Edith, we must be able to say to these people that we haven’t been frivolling—that we are going to be married at once. That will let Edith out of the difficulty, and everything will look rosy at the outset. If we put it off, the world will have said things in its ignorance that she can never refute, simply because the world doesn’t stop long enough to hear two sides of a story unless they are given pretty closely together. Now Edith is counting on us to put the peeping-Tom Rodneys and the charitable Carneys to rout with our own little bombshell. They’re saying nasty things about all of us. They’re calling you a vile thing for stealing your sister’s husband, and they’re calling me a dog for what I’m doing. No telling what they’ll be saying if we don’t step into the breach as soon as it is opened. We can’t afford to wait, no matter what Roxbury says when he comes. We’ve just got to be able to forestall even dear old Roxbury. Come! Don’t you see? We must be married at once.”

  “Dear me,” she murmured softly, “what will papa say?”

  “My dear Constance, I will explain it all to your father when he gets back from South America next winter.”

  It was now raining in torrents. They moved back into the darkest recess of their shelter, and blissfully looked out upon the drenched universe with eyes that saw nothing but sweet sunshine and fair weather.

  The clattering of horses’ hoofs upon the hard mountain road sounded suddenly above the hiss of the rain-storm. It was quite dark by this time, night having been hurried on by the lowering skies. A moment later, three horsemen, drenched to the skin, drew up in front of the inn, threw their reins over the posts, and dashed for shelter. They came noisily into the arbour, growling and stamping their soggy feet.

  “What, ho!” called one of the newcomers, sticking his head through a window of the house. Brock and Miss Fowler looked on, amused by the plight of the riders. Two of them were unquestionably officers of the police; the third seemed to be an Englishman. They were gruff, burly fellows, all of them. For a few minutes they stormed and growled about their miserable luck in being caught in the downpour, ordering schnapps and brandy in large and instant quantities. At last the Englishman, a heavy, sour-faced man, turned his gaze in the direction of the lovers, who sat quite close together in the dark corner. His gaze developed into a stare, then a look of triumph. A moment later he was pointing out the couple to his companions, all three peering at them with excited eyes.

  Brock’s face went red under the rude stare; he was on the point of resenting it when the Englishman stepped forward. The American arose at once.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Medcroft—if that is your name,” said the stranger, halting in front of the table. “My name is Githens, Scotland Yard. These men have an order for your arrest. I’d advise you to go with them peaceably. The young woman will not be bothered. She is free to go.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Brock angrily. Suddenly he felt a chill of misgiving. What had Roxbury Medcroft been doing that he should be subject to arrest?

  “You are masquerading here as Roxbury Medcroft the architect. You are not Medcroft. I have watched you for weeks. Today we have learned that Medcroft is in London. Your linen is marked with a letter B. You’ve drawn money on a letter of credit together with a woman who signs herself as Edith F. Medcroft. There is something wrong with you, Mr. B., and these officers, acting for the hotel and the State Bank, have been instructed to detain you pending an investigation.”

  Mr. Githens was vindicating himself. He may have been a trifle disconcerted by Miss Fowler’s musical laugh and Brock’s plain guffaw, but he managed to preserve a stiff dignity. “It’s no laughing matter. Officers, this is your man. Take him in charge. Madam, as I understand it, you are the alleged sister of the woman who is working herself off as Mrs. Medcroft. It may interest you to know that your sister—if she is your sister—has locked herself in her room and was in hysterics when I left the hotel. She will be carefully guarded, however. She cannot escape. As for you, madam, there is as yet no complaint against you, but I wish to notify you that you may consider yourself under surveillance until after your friends have had a hearing before the magistrate tomorrow. As soon as it has ceased raining we will ask you to ride with us to the city. As for Mr. B., he is in charge of these officers.”

  At eight o’clock that evening a solemn cavalcade rode into Innsbruck. There were tears of expostulation in the eyes of the lone young woman, flashes of indignation in those of the tall young man who rode beside her.

  The tall young man was going to gaol!

  CHAPTER VII

  THE THREE GUARDIANS.

  The anti-climax had struck the Hotel Tirol some hours before it came upon Brock and Miss Fowler. It seems that Githens had gone first to the big hostelry in quest of light on the very puzzling dilemma in which he found himself involved. Inquiries at the office only served to stir up a grave commotion among the clerks and managers, all of whom vociferously maintained that the hotel was entirely blameless if any deception had been practised. The Tirol did not tolerate anything that savoured of the scandalous; the Tirol was a respectable house; the Tirol was ever careful, always rigid in the protection of its good name; and so on and so forth at great length and with great precision. But Mr. Githens had two officers with him, and he demanded the person of the man calling himself Roxbury Medcroft. The principal bank in the city was also represented in the company of investigators. Likewise there was a laconic gentleman from the British office.

  Mr. Medcroft was out. Then, they agreed, it was necessary to see Mrs. Medcroft, or the lady representing herself to be such. Mr. Githens was permitted to go to her rooms in company with the manager of the hotel. What transpired in those rooms during the next fifteen minutes would be quite impossible to narrate short of an entire volume. Edith promptly collapsed. Subsequently she became hysterical. She begged for time, and, getting it, proceeded to threaten every one with prosecution.

  “I am Mrs. Medcroft!” she declared piteously. “Where is the American consul? I demand the American consul!”

  “What has the American government to do with it?” gruffly demanded Mr. Githens.

  “Mr.—Mr.—the gentleman whom you accuse is an American citizen!” she stammered.

  “Oho! Then he is not an Englishman?”

  “I refuse to answer your questions. You are impertinent. I ask you, sir, as the manager of this hotel, to eject this man from my rooms.” The manager smiled blandly and did not eject the man.

  “But, madam,” he said, “we have a right to know who and what you are. If Mr. Medcroft is in London, this gentleman surely cannot be he, the real Mr. Medcroft. We must have an explanation.”

  “I’ll—I will explain everything tomorrow. Oh, by the way, is there a telegram for me in the office? There must be. I’ve been expecting it all day. I telegraphed to London for it.”

  “There is no telegram down there, madam.”

  At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney appeared on the scene, uninvited but welcome.

  “Wot’s all this?” he demanded sternly. Everybody proceeded at once to tell him. Somehow he got the drift of the story. “Get out—all of you!” he said. “I stand sponsor for Mrs. Medcroft. She is Mrs. Medcroft, hang you, sir. If you come around here bothering her again, I’ll have the law upon you. The Medcrofts are Engli
sh citizens and—”

  “Oh, they are, are they?” sneered Mr. Githens, with a sinister chuckle.

  “Who the devil are you, sir?”

  “I’m from Scotland Yard.”

  “I thought so. You’ve proved it, ‘pon my soul. I am Odell-Carney. Daresay you’ve heard of me.”

  “I know you by sight, sir. But that—”

  “Clever chap, by Jove! And there’s no but about it. Mr.—Mr.—never mind what it is. I don’t want to know your name. Mrs. Medcroft, will you permit me to send my wife up to you? Mr. Manager, I insist that you take this c’nfended rabble down to the office and tell them to go to the devil? Don’t do it up here; do it down there.”

  After some further discussion and protest, the Scotland Yard man and his party left the room to its distracted mistress. It may be well to remark, for the sake of local colour, that Tootles was crying lustily, while Raggles barked in spite of all that O’Brien could do to stop him.

  Odell-Carney sent his wife to Edith. A few minutes later, as he was making his way to the office, he came upon Mrs. Rodney and Katherine, hurrying, white-faced, to their rooms.

  “Oh, isn’t it dreadful?” wailed the former, putting her clenched hands to her temples.

  “Isn’t wot dreadful?” demanded he brutally.

  “About Edith! They’re going to arrest her.”

  “Not if I can help it, madam. Where is Mr. Rodney?”

  “He hasn’t anything to do with it! We’re as innocent as children unborn. It’s all shocking to us. Mr. Rodney shouldn’t be arrested. His rectitude is without a flaw. For heaven’s sake, don’t implicate him. He’s—”

  “Madam, I am not a policeman,” said Odell-Carney with scathing dignity. “I want your husband to aid me in hushing this c’nfended thing.”

  “He shan’t do it! I won’t permit him to be mixed up in it,” almost screamed Mrs. Rodney. “I’ve just heard that he isn’t a husband at all. It’s atrocious!”