Chapter 1 A Red-Haired Girl
　　The residence of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, onRiverside Drive is one of the leading eyesores of that breezy andexpensive boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or whileenjoying ten cents worth of fresh air on top of a green omnibus,it jumps out and bites at you. Architects, confronted with it,reel and throw up their hands defensively, and even the layobserver has a sense of shock. The place resembles in almostequal proportions a cathedral, a suburban villa, a hotel and aChinese pagoda. Many of its windows are of stained glass, andabove the porch stand two terra-cotta lions, considerably morerepulsive even than the complacent animals which guard New York'sPublic Library. It is a house which is impossible to overlook:
　　and it was probably for this reason that Mrs. Pett insisted onher husband buying it, for she was a woman who liked to benoticed.
　　Through the rich interior of this mansion Mr. Pett, its nominalproprietor, was wandering like a lost spirit. The hour was aboutten of a fine Sunday morning, but the Sabbath calm which was uponthe house had not communicated itself to him. There was a look ofexasperation on his usually patient face, and a muttered oath,picked up no doubt on the godless Stock Exchange, escaped hislips.
　　"Darn it!"He was afflicted by a sense of the pathos of his position. It wasnot as if he demanded much from life. He asked but little herebelow. At that moment all that he wanted was a quiet spot wherehe might read his Sunday paper in solitary peace, and he couldnot find one. Intruders lurked behind every door. The place wascongested.
　　This sort of thing had been growing worse and worse ever sincehis marriage two years previously. There was a strong literaryvirus in Mrs. Pett's system. She not only wrote voluminouslyherself--the name Nesta Ford Pett is familiar to all lovers ofsensational fiction--but aimed at maintaining a salon. Starting,in pursuance of this aim, with a single specimen,--her nephew,Willie Partridge, who was working on a new explosive which wouldeventually revolutionise war--she had gradually added to hercollections, until now she gave shelter beneath her terra-cottaroof to no fewer than six young and unrecognised geniuses. Sixbrilliant youths, mostly novelists who had not yet started andpoets who were about to begin, cluttered up Mr. Pett's rooms onthis fair June morning, while he, clutching his Sunday paper,wandered about, finding, like the dove in Genesis, no rest. Itwas at such times that he was almost inclined to envy his wife'sfirst husband, a business friend of his named Elmer Ford, who hadperished suddenly of an apoplectic seizure: and the pity which hegenerally felt for the deceased tended to shift its focus.
　　Marriage had certainly complicated life for Mr. Pett, as itfrequently does for the man who waits fifty years before tryingit. In addition to the geniuses, Mrs. Pett had brought with herto her new home her only son, Ogden, a fourteen-year-old boy of asingularly unloveable type. Years of grown-up society and theabsence of anything approaching discipline had given him aprecocity on which the earnest efforts of a series of privatetutors had expended themselves in vain. They came, full ofoptimism and self-confidence, to retire after a brief interval,shattered by the boy's stodgy resistance to education in any formor shape. To Mr. Pett, never at his ease with boys, Ogden Fordwas a constant irritant. He disliked his stepson's personality,and he more than suspected him of stealing his cigarettes. Itwas an additional annoyance that he was fully aware of theimpossibility of ever catching him at it.
　　Mr. Pett resumed his journey. He had interrupted it for a momentto listen at the door of the morning-room, but, a remark in ahigh tenor voice about the essential Christianity of the poetShelley filtering through the oak, he had moved on.
　　Silence from behind another door farther down the passageencouraged him to place his fingers on the handle, but a crashingchord from an unseen piano made him remove them swiftly. Heroamed on, and a few minutes later the process of elimination hadbrought him to what was technically his own private library--alarge, soothing room full of old books, of which his father hadbeen a great collector. Mr. Pett did not read old books himself,but he liked to be among them, and it is proof of his pessimismthat he had not tried the library first. To his depressed mind ithad seemed hardly possible that there could be nobody there.
　　He stood outside the door, listening tensely. He could hearnothing. He went in, and for an instant experienced that ecstaticthrill which only comes to elderly gentlemen of solitary habitwho in a house full of their juniors find themselves alone atlast. Then a voice spoke, shattering his dream of solitude.
　　"Hello, pop!"Ogden Ford was sprawling in a deep chair in the shadows.
　　"Come in, pop, come in. Lots of room."Mr. Pett stood in the doorway, regarding his step-son with asombre eye. He resented the boy's tone of easy patronage, all theharder to endure with philosophic calm at the present moment fromthe fact that the latter was lounging in his favourite chair.
　　Even from an aesthetic point of view the sight of the bulgingchild offended him. Ogden Ford was round and blobby and lookedoverfed. He had the plethoric habit of one to whom wholesomeexercise is a stranger and the sallow complexion of the confirmedcandy-fiend. Even now, a bare half hour after breakfast, his jawswere moving with a rhythmical, champing motion.
　　"What are you eating, boy?" demanded Mr. Pett, his disappointmentturning to irritability.
　　"Candy.""I wish you would not eat candy all day.""Mother gave it to me," said Ogden simply. As he had anticipated,the shot silenced the enemy's battery. Mr. Pett grunted, but madeno verbal comment. Ogden celebrated his victory by puttinganother piece of candy in his mouth.
　　"Got a grouch this morning, haven't you, pop?""I will not be spoken to like that!""I thought you had," said his step-son complacently. "I canalways tell. I don't see why you want to come picking on me,though. I've done nothing."Mr. Pett was sniffing suspiciously.
　　"You've been smoking.""Me!!""Smoking cigarettes.""No, sir!""There are two butts in the ash-tray.""I didn't put them there.""One of them is warm.""It's a warm day.""You dropped it there when you heard me come in.""No, sir! I've only been here a few minutes. I guess one of thefellows was in here before me. They're always swiping yourcoffin-nails. You ought to do something about it, pop. You oughtto assert yourself."A sense of helplessness came upon Mr. Pett. For the thousandthtime he felt himself baffled by this calm, goggle-eyed boy whotreated him with such supercilious coolness.
　　"You ought to be out in the open air this lovely morning," hesaid feebly.
　　"All right. Let's go for a walk. I will if you will.""I--I have other things to do," said Mr. Pett, recoiling from theprospect.
　　"Well, this fresh-air stuff is overrated anyway. Where's thesense of having a home if you don't stop in it?""When I was your age, I would have been out on a morning likethis--er--bowling my hoop.""And look at you now!""What do you mean?""Martyr to lumbago.""I am not a martyr to lumbago," said Mr. Pett, who was touchy onthe subject.
　　"Have it your own way. All I know is--""Never mind!""I'm only saying what mother . . .""Be quiet!"Ogden made further researches in the candy box.
　　"Have some, pop?""No.""Quite right. Got to be careful at your age.""What do you mean?""Getting on, you know. Not so young as you used to be. Come in,pop, if you're coming in. There's a draft from that door."Mr. Pett retired, fermenting. He wondered how another man wouldhave handled this situation. The ridiculous inconsistency of thehuman character infuriated him. Why should he be a totallydifferent man on Riverside Drive from the person he was in PineStreet? Why should he be able to hold his own in Pine Street withgrown men--whiskered, square-jawed financiers--and yet be unableon Riverside Drive to eject a fourteen-year-old boy from an easychair? It seemed to him sometimes that a curious paralysis of thewill came over him out of business hours.
　　Meanwhile, he had still to find a place where he could read hisSunday paper.
　　He stood for a while in thought. Then his brow cleared, and hebegan to mount the stairs. Reaching the top floor, he walkedalong the passage and knocked on a door at the end of it. Frombehind this door, as from behind those below, sounds proceeded,but this time they did not seem to discourage Mr. Pett. It wasthe tapping of a typewriter that he heard, and he listened to itwith an air of benevolent approval. He loved to hear the sound ofa typewriter: it made home so like the office.
　　"Come in," called a girl's voice.
　　The room in which Mr. Pett found himself was small but cosy, andits cosiness--oddly, considering the sex of its owner--had thatpeculiar quality which belongs as a rule to the dens of men. Alarge bookcase almost covered one side of it, its reds and bluesand browns smiling cheerfully at whoever entered. The walls werehung with prints, judiciously chosen and arranged. Through awindow to the left, healthfully open at the bottom, the sunstreamed in, bringing with it the pleasantly subdued whirring ofautomobiles out on the Drive. At a desk at right angles to thiswindow, her vivid red-gold hair rippling in the breeze from theriver, sat the girl who had been working at the typewriter. Sheturned as Mr. Pett entered, and smiled over her shoulder.
　　Ann Chester, Mr. Pett's niece, looked her best when she smiled.
　　Although her hair was the most obviously striking feature of herappearance, her mouth was really the most individual thing abouther. It was a mouth that suggested adventurous possibilities. Inrepose, it had a look of having just finished saying somethinghumorous, a kind of demure appreciation of itself. When itsmiled, a row of white teeth flashed out: or, if the lips did notpart, a dimple appeared on the right cheek, giving the whole facean air of mischievous geniality. It was an enterprising,swashbuckling sort of mouth, the mouth of one who would leadforlorn hopes with a jest or plot whimsically lawlessconspiracies against convention. In its corners and in the firmline of the chin beneath it there lurked, too, more than a hintof imperiousness. A physiognomist would have gathered, correctly,that Ann Chester liked having her own way and was accustomed toget it.
　　"Hello, uncle Peter," she said. "What's the trouble?""Am I interrupting you, Ann?""Not a bit. I'm only copying out a story for aunt Nesta. Ipromised her I would. Would you like to hear some of it?"Mr. Pett said he would not.
　　"You're missing a good thing," said Ann, turning the pages. "I'mall worked up over it. It's called 'At Dead of Night,' and it'sfull of crime and everything. You would never think aunt Nestahad such a feverish imagination. There are detectives andkidnappers in it and all sorts of luxuries. I suppose it's theeffect of reading it, but you look to me as if you were trailingsomething. You've got a sort of purposeful air."Mr. Pett's amiable face writhed into what was intended to be abitter smile.
　　"I'm only trailing a quiet place to read in. I never saw such aplace as this house. It looks big enough outside for a regiment.
　　Yet, when you're inside, there's a poet or something in everyroom.""What about the library? Isn't that sacred to you?""The boy Ogden's there.""What a shame!""Wallowing in my best chair," said Mr. Pett morosely. "Smokingcigarettes.""Smoking? I thought he had promised aunt Nesta he wouldn't smoke.""Well, he said he wasn't, of course, but I know he had been. Idon't know what to do with that boy. It's no good my talking tohim. He--he patronises me!" concluded Mr. Pett indignantly.
　　"Sits there on his shoulder blades with his feet on the tableand talks to me with his mouth full of candy as if I were hisgrandson.""Little brute."Ann was sorry for Mr. Pett. For many years now, ever since thedeath of her mother, they had been inseparable. Her father, whowas a traveller, explorer, big-game hunter, and general sojournerin the lonelier and wilder spots of the world and paid onlyinfrequent visits to New York, had left her almost entirely inMr. Pett's care, and all her pleasantest memories were associatedwith him. Mr. Chester's was in many ways an admirable character,but not a domestic one; and his relations with his daughter wereconfined for the most part to letters and presents. In the pastfew years she had come almost to regard Mr. Pett in the light ofa father. Hers was a nature swiftly responsive to kindness; andbecause Mr. Pett besides being kind was also pathetic she pitiedas well as loved him. There was a lingering boyishness in thefinancier, the boyishness of the boy who muddles along in anunsympathetic world and can never do anything right: and thisquality called aloud to the youth in her. She was at the valiantage when we burn to right wrongs and succour the oppressed, andwild rebel schemes for the reformation of her small world camereadily to her. From the first she had been a smoulderingspectator of the trials of her uncle's married life, and if Mr.
　　Pett had ever asked her advice and bound himself to act on it hewould have solved his domestic troubles in explosive fashion. ForAnn in her moments of maiden meditation had frequently devisedschemes to that end which would have made his grey hair standerect with horror.
　　"I've seen a good many boys," she said, "but Ogden is in a classby himself. He ought to be sent to a strict boarding-school, ofcourse.""He ought to be sent to Sing-Sing," amended Mr. Pett.
　　"Why don't you send him to school?""Your aunt wouldn't hear of it. She's afraid of his beingkidnapped. It happened last time he went to school. You can'tblame her for wanting to keep her eye on him after that."Ann ran her fingers meditatively over the keys.
　　"I've sometimes thought . . .""Yes?""Oh, nothing. I must get on with this thing for aunt Nesta."Mr. Pett placed the bulk of the Sunday paper on the floor besidehim, and began to run an appreciative eye over the comicsupplement. That lingering boyishness in him which endeared himto Ann always led him to open his Sabbath reading in thisfashion. Grey-headed though he was, he still retained both in artand in real life a taste for the slapstick. No one had ever knownthe pure pleasure it had given him when Raymond Green, his wife'snovelist protege, had tripped over a loose stair-rod one morningand fallen an entire flight.
　　From some point farther down the corridor came a muffledthudding. Ann stopped her work to listen.
　　"There's Jerry Mitchell punching the bag.""Eh?" said Mr. Pett.
　　"I only said I could hear Jerry Mitchell in the gymnasium.""Yes, he's there."Ann looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. Then sheswung round in her swivel-chair.
　　"Uncle Peter."Mr. Pett emerged slowly from the comic supplement.
　　"Eh?""Did Jerry Mitchell ever tell you about that friend of his whokeeps a dogs' hospital down on Long Island somewhere? I forgethis name. Smithers or Smethurst or something. People--old ladies,you know, and people--bring him their dogs to be cured when theyget sick. He has an infallible remedy, Jerry tells me. He makes alot of money at it.""Money?" Pett, the student, became Pett, the financier, at themagic word. "There might be something in that if one got behindit. Dogs are fashionable. There would be a market for a reallygood medicine.""I'm afraid you couldn't put Mr. Smethurst's remedy on themarket. It only works when the dog has been overeating himselfand not taking any exercise.""Well, that's all these fancy dogs ever have the matter withthem. It looks to me as if I might do business with this man.
　　I'll get his address from Mitchell.""It's no use thinking of it, uncle Peter. You couldn't dobusiness with him--in that way. All Mr. Smethurst does when anyone brings him a fat, unhealthy dog is to feed it next tonothing--just the simplest kind of food, you know--and make itrun about a lot. And in about a week the dog's as well and happyand nice as he can possibly be.""Oh," said Mr. Pett, disappointed.
　　Ann touched the keys of her machine softly.
　　"Why I mentioned Mr. Smethurst," she said, "it was because we hadbeen talking of Ogden. Don't you think his treatment would bejust what Ogden needs?"Mr. Pett's eyes gleamed.
　　"It's a shame he can't have a week or two of it!"Ann played a little tune with her finger-tips on the desk.
　　"It would do him good, wouldn't it?"Silence fell upon the room, broken only by the tapping of thetypewriter. Mr. Pett, having finished the comic supplement,turned to the sporting section, for he was a baseball fan of nolukewarm order. The claims of business did not permit him to seeas many games as he could wish, but he followed the nationalpastime closely on the printed page and had an admiration for theNapoleonic gifts of Mr. McGraw which would have gratified thatgentleman had he known of it.
　　"Uncle Peter," said Ann, turning round again.
　　"Eh?""It's funny you should have been talking about Ogden gettingkidnapped. This story of aunt Nesta's is all about anangel-child--I suppose it's meant to be Ogden--being stolen andhidden and all that. It's odd that she should write stories likethis. You wouldn't expect it of her.""Your aunt," said Mr. Pett, "lets her mind run on that sort ofthing a good deal. She tells me there was a time, not so longago, when half the kidnappers in America were after him. She senthim to school in England--or, rather, her husband did. They wereseparated then--and, as far as I can follow the story, they alltook the next boat and besieged the place.""It's a pity somebody doesn't smuggle him away now and keep himtill he's a better boy.""Ah!" said Mr. Pett wistfully.
　　Ann looked at him fixedly, but his eyes were once more on hispaper. She gave a little sigh, and turned to her work again.
　　"It's quite demoralising, typing aunt Nesta's stories," she said.
　　"They put ideas into one's head."Mr. Pett said nothing. He was reading an article of medicalinterest in the magazine section, for he was a man who ploughedsteadily through his Sunday paper, omitting nothing. Thetypewriter began tapping again.
　　"Great Godfrey!"Ann swung round, and gazed at her uncle in concern. He wasstaring blankly at the paper.
　　"What's the matter?"The page on which Mr. Pett's attention was concentrated wasdecorated with a fanciful picture in bold lines of a young man inevening dress pursuing a young woman similarly clad along whatappeared to be a restaurant supper-table. An enjoyable time wasapparently being had by both. Across the page this legend ran:
　　PICCADILLY JIM ONCE MOREThe Recent Adventures of Young Mr. Crockerof New York and LondonIt was not upon the title, however, nor upon the illustrationthat Mr. Pett's fascinated eye rested. What he was looking at wasa small reproduction of a photograph which had been inserted inthe body of the article. It was the photograph of a woman in theearly forties, rather formidably handsome, beneath which wereprinted the words:
　　Mrs. Nesta Ford PettWell-Known Society Leader and AuthoressAnn had risen and was peering over his shoulder. She frowned asshe caught sight of the heading of the page. Then her eye fellupon the photograph.
　　"Good gracious! Why have they got aunt Nesta's picture there?"Mr. Pett breathed a deep and gloomy breath.
　　"They've found out she's his aunt. I was afraid they would. Idon't know what she will say when she sees this.""Don't let her see it.""She has the paper downstairs. She's probably reading it now."Ann was glancing through the article.
　　"It seems to be much the same sort of thing that they havepublished before. I can't understand why the _Chronicle_ takes suchan interest in Jimmy Crocker.""Well, you see he used to be a newspaper man, and the _Chronicle_was the paper he worked for."Ann flushed.
　　"I know," she said shortly.
　　Something in her tone arrested Mr. Pett's attention.
　　"Yes, yes, of course," he said hastily. "I was forgetting."There was an awkward silence. Mr. Pett coughed. The matter ofyoung Mr. Crocker's erstwhile connection with the New York_Chronicle_ was one which they had tacitly decided to refrain frommentioning.
　　"I didn't know he was your nephew, uncle Peter.""Nephew by marriage," corrected Mr. Pett a little hurriedly.
　　"Nesta's sister Eugenia married his father.""I suppose that makes me a sort of cousin.""A distant cousin.""It can't be too distant for me."There was a sound of hurried footsteps outside the door. Mrs.
　　Pett entered, holding a paper in her hand. She waved it beforeMr. Pett's sympathetic face.
　　"I know, my dear," he said backing. "Ann and I were just talkingabout it."The little photograph had not done Mrs. Pett justice. Seenlife-size, she was both handsomer and more formidable than sheappeared in reproduction. She was a large woman, with a finefigure and bold and compelling eyes, and her personality crasheddisturbingly into the quiet atmosphere of the room. She was thetype of woman whom small, diffident men seem to marryinstinctively, as unable to help themselves as cockleshell boatssucked into a maelstrom.
　　"What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, sinkingheavily into the chair which her husband had vacated.
　　This was an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to Mr.
　　Pett. He had not contemplated the possibility of actually doinganything. Nature had made him out of office hours essentially apassive organism, and it was his tendency, when he found himselfin a sea of troubles, to float plaintively, not to take armsagainst it. To pick up the slings and arrows of outrageousfortune and fling them back was not a habit of his. He scratchedhis chin and said nothing. He went on saying nothing.
　　"If Eugenia had had any sense, she would have foreseen what wouldhappen if she took the boy away from New York where he wasworking too hard to get into mischief and let him run loose inLondon with too much money and nothing to do. But, if she had hadany sense, she would never have married that impossible Crockerman. As I told her."Mrs. Pett paused, and her eyes glowed with reminiscent fire. Shewas recalling the scene which had taken place three years agobetween her sister and herself, when Eugenia had told her of herintention to marry an obscure and middle-aged actor named BingleyCrocker. Mrs. Pett had never seen Bingley Crocker, but she hadcondemned the proposed match in terms which had ended definitelyand forever her relations with her sister. Eugenia was not awoman who welcomed criticism of her actions. She was cast in thesame formidable mould as Mrs. Pett and resembled her strikinglyboth in appearance and character.
　　Mrs. Pett returned to the present. The past could look afteritself. The present demanded surgery.
　　"One would have thought it would have been obvious even toEugenia that a boy of twenty-one needed regular work."Mr. Pett was glad to come out of his shell here. He was theApostle of Work, and this sentiment pleased him.
　　"That's right," he said. "Every boy ought to have work.""Look at this young Crocker's record since he went to live inLondon. He is always doing something to make himself notorious.
　　There was that breach-of-promise case, and that fight at thepolitical meeting, and his escapades at Monte Carlo, and--andeverything. And he must be drinking himself to death. I thinkEugenia's insane. She seems to have no influence over him atall."Mr. Pett moaned sympathetically.
　　"And now the papers have found out that I am his aunt, and Isuppose they will print my photograph whenever they publish anarticle about him."She ceased and sat rigid with just wrath. Mr. Pett, who alwaysfelt his responsibilities as chorus keenly during these wifelymonologues, surmised that a remark from him was indicated.
　　"It's tough," he said.
　　Mrs. Pett turned on him like a wounded tigress.
　　"What is the use of saying that? It's no use saying anything.""No, no," said Mr. Pett, prudently refraining from pointing outthat she had already said a good deal.
　　"You must do something."Ann entered the conversation for the first time. She was not veryfond of her aunt, and liked her least when she was bullying Mr.
　　Pett. There was something in Mrs. Pett's character with which theimperiousness which lay beneath Ann's cheerful attitude towardsthe world was ever at war.
　　"What can uncle Peter possibly do?" she inquired.
　　"Why, get the boy back to America and make him work. It's theonly possible thing.""But is it possible?""Of course it is.""Assuming that Jimmy Crocker would accept an invitation to comeover to America, what sort of work could he do here? He couldn'tget his place on the _Chronicle_ back again after dropping out forall these years and making a public pest of himself all thatwhile. And outside of newspaper work what is he fit for?""My dear child, don't make difficulties.""I'm not. These are ready-made."Mr. Pett interposed. He was always nervously apprehensive of aclash between these two. Ann had red hair and the nature whichgenerally goes with red hair. She was impulsive and quick oftongue, and--as he remembered her father had always been--alittle too ready for combat. She was usually as quicklyremorseful as she was quickly pugnacious, like most persons ofher colour. Her offer to type the story which now lay on her deskhad been the amende honourable following on just such a scenewith her aunt as this promised to be. Mr. Pett had no wish to seethe truce thus consummated broken almost before it had had timeto operate.
　　"I could give the boy a job in my office," he suggested.
　　Giving young men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doingbest. There were six brilliant youths living in his house andbursting with his food at that very moment whom he would havebeen delighted to start addressing envelopes down-town.
　　Notably his wife's nephew, Willie Partridge, whom he looked on asa specious loafer. He had a stubborn disbelief in the explosivethat was to revolutionise war. He knew, as all the world did,that Willie's late father had been a great inventor, but he didnot accept the fact that Willie had inherited the dead man'sgenius. He regarded the experiments on Partridgite, as it was tobe called, with the profoundest scepticism, and considered thatthe only thing Willie had ever invented or was likely to inventwas a series of ingenious schemes for living in fatted idlenesson other people's money.
　　"Exactly," said Mrs. Pett, delighted at the suggestion. "The verything.""Will you write and suggest it?" said Mr. Pett, basking in thesunshine of unwonted commendation.
　　"What would be the use of writing? Eugenia would pay noattention. Besides, I could not say all I wished to in a letter.
　　No, the only thing is to go over to England and see her. I shallspeak very plainly to her. I shall point out what an advantage itwill be to the boy to be in your office and to live here. . . ."Ann started.
　　"You don't mean live here--in this house?""Of course. There would be no sense in bringing the boy all theway over from England if he was to be allowed to run loose whenhe got here."Mr. Pett coughed deprecatingly.
　　"I don't think that would he very pleasant for Ann, dear.""Why in the name of goodness should Ann object?"Ann moved towards the door.
　　"Thank you for thinking of it, uncle Peter. You're always a dear.
　　But don't worry about me. Do just as you want to. In any case I'mquite certain that you won't be able to get him to come overhere. You can see by the paper he's having far too good a time inLondon. You can call Jimmy Crockers from the vasty deep, but willthey come when you call for them?"Mrs. Pett looked at the door as it closed behind her, then at herhusband.
　　"What do you mean, Peter, about Ann? Why wouldn't it be pleasantfor her if this Crocker boy came to live with us?"Mr. Pett hesitated.
　　"Well, it's like this, Nesta. I hope you won't tell her I toldyou. She's sensitive about it, poor girl. It all happened beforeyou and I were married. Ann was much younger then. You know whatschoolgirls are, kind of foolish and sentimental. It was my faultreally, I ought to have . . .""Good Heavens, Peter! What are you trying to tell me?""She was only a child."Mrs. Pett rose in slow horror.
　　"Peter! Tell me! Don't try to break it gently.""Ann wrote a book of poetry and I had it published for her."Mrs. Pett sank back in her chair.
　　"Oh!" she said--it would have been hard to say whether withrelief or disappointment. "Whatever did you make such a fuss for?
　　Why did you want to be so mysterious?""It was all my fault, really," proceeded Mr. Pett. "I ought tohave known better. All I thought of at the time was that it wouldplease the child to see the poems in print and be able to givethe book to her friends. She did give it to her friends," he wenton ruefully, "and ever since she's been trying to live it down.
　　I've seen her bite a young fellow's head off when he tried tomake a grand-stand play with her by quoting her poems which he'dfound in his sister's book-shelf.""But, in the name of goodness, what has all this to do with youngCrocker?""Why, it was this way. Most of the papers just gave Ann's book amention among 'Volumes Received,' or a couple of lines thatdidn't amount to anything, but the _Chronicle_ saw a Sunday featurein it, as Ann was going about a lot then and was a well-knownsociety girl. They sent this Crocker boy to get an interview fromher, all about her methods of work and inspirations and what not.
　　We never suspected it wasn't the straight goods. Why, that veryevening I mailed an order for a hundred copies to be sent to mewhen the thing appeared. And--" pinkness came upon Mr. Pett atthe recollection "it was just a josh from start to finish. Theyoung hound made a joke of the poems and what Ann had told himabout her inspirations and quoted bits of the poems just to kidthe life out of them. . . . I thought Ann would never get overit. Well, it doesn't worry her any more--she's grown out of theschool-girl stage--but you can bet she isn't going to get up andgive three cheers and a tiger if you bring young Crocker to livein the same house.""Utterly ridiculous!" said Mrs. Pett. "I certainly do not intendto alter my plans because of a trivial incident that happenedyears ago. We will sail on Wednesday.""Very well, my dear," said Mr. Pett resignedly.
　　"Just as you say. Er--just you and I?""And Ogden, of course."Mr. Pett controlled a facial spasm with a powerful effort of thewill. He had feared this.
　　"I wouldn't dream of leaving him here while I went away, afterwhat happened when poor dear Elmer sent him to school in Englandthat time." The late Mr. Ford had spent most of his married lifeeither quarrelling with or separated from his wife, but sincedeath he had been canonised as 'poor dear Elmer.' "Besides, thesea voyage will do the poor darling good. He has not been lookingat all well lately.""If Ogden's coming, I'd like to take Ann.""Why?""She can--" he sought for a euphemism.
　　"Keep in order" was the expression he wished to avoid. To hismind Ann was the only known antidote for Ogden, but he felt itwould be impolitic to say so."--look after him on the boat," heconcluded. "You know you are a bad sailor.""Very well. Bring Ann--Oh, Peter, that reminds me of what Iwanted to say to you, which this dreadful thing in the paperdrove completely out of my mind. Lord Wisbeach has asked Ann tomarry him!"Mr. Pett looked a little hurt. "She didn't tell me." Ann usuallyconfided in him.
　　"She didn't tell me, either. Lord Wisbeach told me. He said Annhad promised to think it over, and give him his answer later.
　　Meanwhile, he had come to me to assure himself that I approved. Ithought that so charming of him."Mr. Pett was frowning.
　　"She hasn't accepted him?""Not definitely.""I hope she doesn't.""Don't be foolish, Peter. It would be an excellent match."Mr. Pett shuffled his feet.
　　"I don't like him. There's something too darned smooth about thatfellow.""If you mean that his manners are perfect, I agree with you. Ishall do all in my power to induce Ann to accept him.""I shouldn't," said Mr. Pett, with more decision than was hiswont. "You know what Ann is if you try to force her to doanything. She gets her ears back and won't budge. Her father isjust the same. When we were boys together, sometimes--""Don't be absurd, Peter. As if I should dream of trying to forceAnn to do anything.""We don't know anything of this fellow. Two weeks ago we didn'tknow he was on the earth.""What do we need to know beyond his name?"Mr. Pett said nothing, but he was not convinced. The LordWisbeach under discussion was a pleasant-spoken and presentableyoung man who had called at Mr. Pett's office a short whilebefore to consult him about investing some money. He had broughta letter of introduction from Hammond Chester, Ann's father, whomhe had met in Canada, where the latter was at present engaged inthe comparatively mild occupation of bass-fishing. With theirbusiness talk the acquaintance would have begun and finished, ifMr. Pett had been able to please himself, for he had not taken afancy to Lord Wisbeach. But he was an American, with anAmerican's sense of hospitality, and, the young man being afriend of Hammond Chester, he had felt bound to invite him toRiverside Drive--with misgivings which were now, he felt,completely justified.
　　"Ann ought to marry," said Mrs. Pett. "She gets her own way toomuch now. However, it is entirely her own affair, and there isnothing that we can do." She rose. "I only hope she will besensible."She went out, leaving Mr. Pett gloomier than she had found him.
　　He hated the idea of Ann marrying Lord Wisbeach, who, even if hehad had no faults at all, would be objectionable in that he wouldprobably take her to live three thousand miles away in his owncountry. The thought of losing Ann oppressed Mr. Pett sorely.
　　Ann, meanwhile, had made her way down the passage to the gymnasiumwhich Mr. Pett, in the interests of his health, had caused to beconstructed in a large room at the end of the house--a room designedby the original owner, who had had artistic leanings, for a studio.
　　The _tap-tap-tap_ of the leather bag had ceased, but voices fromwithin told her that Jerry Mitchell, Mr. Pett's private physicalinstructor, was still there. She wondered who was his companion, andfound on opening the door that it was Ogden. The boy was leaningagainst the wall and regarding Jerry with a dull and superciliousgaze which the latter was plainly finding it hard to bear.
　　"Yes, sir!" Ogden was saying, as Ann entered. "I heard Biggsasking her to come for a joyride.""I bet she turned him down," said Jerry Mitchell sullenly.
　　"I bet she didn't. Why should she? Biggs is an awful good-lookingfellow.""What are you talking about, Ogden?" said Ann.
　　"I was telling him that Biggs asked Celestine to go for a ride inthe car with him.""I'll knock his block off," muttered the incensed Jerry.
　　Ogden laughed derisively.
　　"Yes, you will! Mother would fire you if you touched him. Shewouldn't stand for having her chauffeur beaten up."Jerry Mitchell turned an appealing face to Ann. Ogden'srevelations and especially his eulogy of Biggs' personalappearance had tormented him. He knew that, in his wooing of Mrs.
　　Pett's maid, Celestine, he was handicapped by his looks,concerning which he had no illusions. No Adonis to begin with, hehad been so edited and re-edited during a long and prosperousring career by the gloved fists of a hundred foes that in affairsof the heart he was obliged to rely exclusively on moral worthand charm of manner. He belonged to the old school of fighterswho looked the part, and in these days of pugilists who resemblematinee idols he had the appearance of an anachronism. He was astocky man with a round, solid head, small eyes, an undershotjaw, and a nose which ill-treatment had reduced to a merescenario. A narrow strip of forehead acted as a kind ofbuffer-state, separating his front hair from his eyebrows, and hebore beyond hope of concealment the badge of his late employment,the cauliflower ear. Yet was he a man of worth and a goodcitizen, and Ann had liked him from their first meeting. As forJerry, he worshipped Ann and would have done anything she askedhim. Ever since he had discovered that Ann was willing to listento and sympathise with his outpourings on the subject of histroubled wooing, he had been her slave.
　　Ann came to the rescue in characteristically direct fashion.
　　"Get out, Ogden," she said.
　　Ogden tried to meet her eye mutinously, but failed. Why he shouldbe afraid of Ann he had never been able to understand, but it wasa fact that she was the only person of his acquaintance whom herespected. She had a bright eye and a calm, imperious stare whichnever failed to tame him.
　　"Why?" he muttered. "You're not my boss.""Be quick, Ogden.""What's the big idea--ordering a fellow--""And close the door gently behind you," said Ann. She turned toJerry, as the order was obeyed.
　　"Has he been bothering you, Jerry?"Jerry Mitchell wiped his forehead.
　　"Say, if that kid don't quit butting in when I'm working in thegym--You heard what he was saying about Maggie, Miss Ann?"Celestine had been born Maggie O'Toole, a name which Mrs. Pettstoutly refused to countenance in any maid of hers.
　　"Why on earth do you pay any attention to him, Jerry? You musthave seen that he was making it all up. He spends his whole timewandering about till he finds some one he can torment, and thenhe enjoys himself. Maggie would never dream of going out in thecar with Biggs."Jerry Mitchell sighed a sigh of relief.
　　"It's great for a fellow to have you in his corner, Miss Ann."Ann went to the door and opened it. She looked down the passage,then, satisfied as to its emptiness, returned to her seat.
　　"Jerry, I want to talk to you. I have an idea. Something I wantyou to do for me.""Yes, Miss Ann?""We've got to do something about that child, Ogden. He's beenworrying uncle Peter again, and I'm not going to have it. Iwarned him once that, if he did it again, awful things wouldhappen to him, but he didn't believe me. I suppose, Jerry--whatsort of a man is your friend, Mr. Smethurst?""Do you mean Smithers, Miss Ann?""I knew it was either Smithers or Smethurst. The dog man, I mean.
　　Is he a man you can trust?""With my last buck. I've known him since we were kids.""I don't mean as regards money. I am going to send Ogden to himfor treatment, and I want to know if I can rely on him to helpme.""For the love of Mike."Jerry Mitchell, after an instant of stunned bewilderment, waslooking at her with worshipping admiration. He had always knownthat Miss Ann possessed a mind of no common order, but this, hefelt, was genius. For a moment the magnificence of the idea tookhis breath away.
　　"Do you mean that you're going to kidnap him, Miss Ann?""Yes. That is to say, _you_ are--if I can persuade you to doit for me.""Sneak him away and send him to Bud Smithers' dog-hospital?""For treatment. I like Mr. Smithers' methods. I think they woulddo Ogden all the good in the world."Jerry was enthusiastic.
　　"Why, Bud would make him part-human. But, say, isn't it takingbig chances? Kidnapping's a penitentiary offence.""This isn't that sort of kidnapping.""Well, it's mighty like it.""I don't think you need be afraid of the penitentiary. I can'tsee aunt Nesta prosecuting, when it would mean that she wouldhave to charge us with having sent Ogden to a dogs' hospital. Shelikes publicity, but it has to be the right kind of publicity.
　　No, we do run a risk, but it isn't that one. You run the risk oflosing your job here, and I should certainly be sent to mygrandmother for an indefinite sentence. You've never seen mygrandmother, have you, Jerry? She's the only person in the worldI'm afraid of! She lives miles from anywhere and has familyprayers at seven-thirty sharp every morning. Well, I'm ready torisk her, if you're ready to risk your job, in such a good cause.
　　You know you're just as fond of uncle Peter as I am, and Ogden isworrying him into a breakdown. Surely you won't refuse to helpme, Jerry?"Jerry rose and extended a calloused hand.
　　"When do we start?"Ann shook the hand warmly.
　　"Thank you, Jerry. You're a jewel. I envy Maggie. Well, I don'tthink we can do anything till they come back from England, asaunt Nesta is sure to take Ogden with her.""Who's going to England?""Uncle Peter and aunt Nesta were talking just now of sailing totry and persuade a young man named Crocker to come back here.""Crocker? Jimmy Crocker? Piccadilly Jim?""Yes. Why, do you know him?""I used to meet him sometimes when he was working on the_Chronicle_ here. Looks as if he was cutting a wide swathe in dearold London. Did you see the paper to-day?""Yes, that's what made aunt Nesta want to bring him over. Ofcourse, there isn't the remotest chance that she will be able tomake him come. Why should he come?""Last time I saw Jimmy Crocker," said Jerry, "it was a couple ofyears ago, when I went over to train Eddie Flynn for his go withPorky Jones at the National. I bumped into him at the N. S. C. Hewas a good deal tanked.""He's always drinking, I believe.""He took me to supper at some swell joint where they all had thesoup-and-fish on but me. I felt like a dirty deuce in a cleandeck. He used to be a regular fellow, Jimmy Crocker, but fromwhat you read in the papers it begins to look as if he washitting it up too swift. It's always the way with those boys whenyou take them off a steady job and let them run around loose withtheir jeans full of mazuma.""That's exactly why I want to do something about Ogden. If he'sallowed to go on as he is at present, he will grow up exactlylike Jimmy Crocker.""Aw, Jimmy Crocker ain't in Ogden's class," protested Jerry.
　　"Yes, he is. There's absolutely no difference between them.""Say! You've got it in for Jim, haven't you, Miss Ann?" Jerrylooked at her wonderingly. "What's your kick against him?"Ann bit her lip. "I object to him on principle," she said. "Idon't like his type. . . . Well, I'm glad we've settled thisabout Ogden, Jerry. I knew I could rely on you. But I won't letyou do it for nothing. Uncle Peter shall give you something forit--enough to start that health-farm you talk about so much.
　　Then you can marry Maggie and live happily ever afterwards.""Gee! Is the boss in on this, too?""Not yet. I'm going to tell him now. Hush! There's some onecoming."Mr. Pett wandered in. He was still looking troubled.
　　"Oh, Ann--good morning, Mitchell--your aunt has decided to go toEngland. I want you to come, too.""You want me? To help interview Jimmy Crocker?""No, no. Just to come along and be company on the voyage. You'llbe such a help with Ogden, Ann. You can keep him in order. Howyou do it, I don't know. You seem to make another boy of him."Ann stole a glance at Jerry, who answered with an encouraginggrin. Ann was constrained to make her meaning plainer than by thelanguage of the eye.
　　"Would you mind just running away for half a moment, Jerry?" shesaid winningly. "I want to say something to uncle Peter.""Sure. Sure."Ann turned to Mr. Pett as the door closed.
　　"You'd like somebody to make Ogden a different boy, wouldn't you,uncle Peter?""I wish it was possible.""He's been worrying you a lot lately, hasn't he?" asked Annsympathetically.
　　"Yes," sighed Mr. Pett.
　　"Then that's all right," said Ann briskly. "I was afraid that youmight not approve. But, if you do, I'll go right ahead."Mr. Pett started violently. There was something in Ann's voiceand, as he looked at her, something in her face which made himfear the worst. Her eyes were flashing with an inspired light ofa highly belligerent nature, and the sun turned the red hair towhich she owed her deplorable want of balance to a mass of flame.
　　There was something in the air. Mr. Pett sensed it with everynerve of his apprehensive person. He gazed at Ann, and as he didso the years seemed to slip from him and he was a boy again,about to be urged to lawless courses by the superior will of hisboyhood's hero, Hammond Chester. In the boyhood of nearly everyman there is a single outstanding figure, some one youthfulhypnotic Napoleon whose will was law and at whose bidding hisbetter judgment curled up and died. In Mr. Pett's life Ann'sfather had filled this role. He had dominated Mr. Pett at an agewhen the mind is most malleable. And now--so true is it thatthough Time may blunt our boyish memories the traditions ofboyhood live on in us and an emotional crisis will bring them tothe surface as an explosion brings up the fish that lurk in thenethermost mud--it was as if he were facing the youthful HammondChester again and being irresistibly impelled to some course ofwhich he entirely disapproved but which he knew that he wasdestined to undertake. He watched Ann as a trapped man mightwatch a ticking bomb, bracing himself for the explosion andknowing that he is helpless. She was Hammond Chester's daughter,and she spoke to him with the voice of Hammond Chester. She washer father's child and she was going to start something.
　　"I've arranged it all with Jerry," said Ann. "He's going to helpme smuggle Ogden away to that friend of his I told you about whokeeps the dog-hospital: and the friend is going to keep him untilhe reforms. Isn't it a perfectly splendid idea?"Mr. Pett blanched. The frightfulness of reality had exceededanticipation.
　　"But, Ann!"The words came from him in a strangled bleat. His whole being wasparalysed by a clammy horror. This was beyond the uttermost limitof his fears. And, to complete the terror of the moment, he knew,even while he rebelled against the insane lawlessness of herscheme, that he was going to agree to it, and--worst of all--thatdeep, deep down in him there was a feeling toward it which didnot dare to come to the surface but which he knew to be approval.
　　"Of course Jerry would do it for nothing," said Ann, "but Ipromised him that you would give him something for his trouble.
　　You can arrange all that yourselves later.""But, Ann! . . . But, Ann! . . . Suppose your aunt finds out whodid it!""Well, there will be a tremendous row!" said Ann composedly.
　　"And you will have to assert yourself. It will be a splendidthing for you. You know you are much too kind to every one, unclePeter. I don't think there's any one who would put up with whatyou do. Father told me in one of his letters that he used to callyou Patient Pete as a boy."Mr. Pett started. Not for many a day had a nickname which heconsidered the most distasteful of all possible nicknames risenup from its grave to haunt him. Patient Pete! He had thought therepulsive title buried forever in the same tomb as his deadyouth. Patient Pete! The first faint glimmer of the flame ofrebellion began to burn in his bosom.
　　"Patient Pete!""Patient Pete!" said Ann inexorably.
　　"But, Ann,"--there was pathos in Mr. Pett's voice--"I like apeaceful life.""You'll never have one if you don't stand up for yourself. Youknow quite well that father is right. You do let every onetrample on you. Do you think father would let Ogden worry him andhave his house filled with affected imitation geniuses so that hecouldn't find a room to be alone in?""But, Ann, your father is different. He likes fusses. I've knownyour father contradict a man weighing two hundred pounds out ofsheer exuberance. There's a lot of your father in you, Ann. I'veoften noticed it.""There is! That's why I'm going to make you put your foot downsooner or later. You're going to turn all these loafers out ofthe house. And first of all you're going to help us send Ogdenaway to Mr. Smithers."There was a long silence.
　　"It's your red hair!" said Mr. Pett at length, with the air of aman who has been solving a problem. "It's your red hair thatmakes you like this, Ann. Your father has red hair, too."Ann laughed.
　　"It's not my fault that I have red hair, uncle Peter. It's mymisfortune."Mr. Pett shook his head.
　　"Other people's misfortune, too!" he said.
Chapter 2 The Exiled Fan
    London brooded under a grey sky. There had been rain in thenight, and the trees were still dripping. Presently, however,there appeared in the laden haze a watery patch of blue: andthrough this crevice in the clouds the sun, diffidently at firstbut with gradually increasing confidence, peeped down on thefashionable and exclusive turf of Grosvenor Square. Stealingacross the square, its rays reached the massive stone walls ofDrexdale House, until recently the London residence of the earlof that name; then, passing through the window of thebreakfast-room, played lightly on the partially bald head of Mr.
　　Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States ofAmerica, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker,busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch.
　　Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, tocome and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither fromMan nor from Nature.
　　Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of acomfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth,good-humoured face wore an expression which might have beendisgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the otherhand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from hercorrespondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just asshe would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he hadhad any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had beenable all her life to accomplish more with a glance than otherwomen with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular beliefamong his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburgmillionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit ofautomatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of herphotograph on his dressing table.
　　From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,a smile softening the firm line of her lips.
　　"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on thetwenty-ninth."Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.
　　"One of the most exclusive hostesses in England. . . . She hasinfluence with the right sort of people. Her brother, the Duke ofDevizes, is the Premier's oldest friend.""Uh?""The Duchess of Axminster has written to ask me to look after astall at her bazaar for the Indigent Daughters of the Clergy.""Huh?""Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.
　　"This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game youmade me go and see yesterday.""Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. Itis simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such afuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond ofwatching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look ofpain on Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thingcarelessly, with no wish to wound: but that makes it none theless hard to bear.
　　From the hall outside came faintly the sound of the telephone,then the measured tones of Bayliss answering it. Mr. Crockerreturned to his paper.
　　Bayliss entered.
　　"Lady Corstorphine desires to speak to you on the telephone,madam."Half-way to the door Mrs. Crocker paused, as if recallingsomething that had slipped her memory.
　　"Is Mr. James getting up, Bayliss?""I believe not, madam. I am informed by one of the house-maidswho passed his door a short time back that there were no sounds."Mrs. Crocker left the room. Bayliss, preparing to follow herexample, was arrested by an exclamation from the table.
　　"Say!"His master's voice.
　　"Say, Bayliss, come here a minute. Want to ask you something."The butler approached the table. It seemed to him that hisemployer was not looking quite himself this morning. There wassomething a trifle wild, a little haggard, about his expression.
　　He had remarked on it earlier in the morning in the Servants'
　　Hall.
　　As a matter of fact, Mr. Crocker's ailment was a perfectly simpleone. He was suffering from one of those acute spasms ofhome-sickness, which invariably racked him in the earlier Summermonths. Ever since his marriage five years previously and hissimultaneous removal from his native land he had been a chronicvictim to the complaint. The symptoms grew less acute in Winterand Spring, but from May onward he suffered severely.
　　Poets have dealt feelingly with the emotions of practically everyvariety except one. They have sung of Ruth, of Israel in bondage,of slaves pining for their native Africa, and of the miner'sdream of home. But the sorrows of the baseball bug, compelled byfate to live three thousand miles away from the Polo Grounds,have been neglected in song. Bingley Crocker was such a one, andin Summer his agonies were awful. He pined away in a countrywhere they said "Well played, sir!" when they meant "'at-a-boy!""Bayliss, do you play cricket?""I am a little past the age, sir. In my younger days . . .""Do you understand it?""Yes, sir. I frequently spend an afternoon at Lord's or the Ovalwhen there is a good match."Many who enjoyed a merely casual acquaintance with the butlerwould have looked on this as an astonishingly unexpectedrevelation of humanity in Bayliss, but Mr. Crocker was notsurprised. To him, from the very beginning, Bayliss had been aman and a brother who was always willing to suspend his duties inorder to answer questions dealing with the thousand and oneproblems which the social life of England presented. Mr.
　　Crocker's mind had adjusted itself with difficulty to theniceties of class distinction: and, while he had cured himself ofhis early tendency to address the butler as "Bill," he neverfailed to consult him as man to man in his moments of perplexity.
　　Bayliss was always eager to be of assistance. He liked Mr.
　　Crocker. True, his manner might have struck a more sensitive manthan his employer as a shade too closely resembling that of anindulgent father towards a son who was not quite right in thehead: but it had genuine affection in it.
　　Mr. Crocker picked up his paper and folded it back at thesporting page, pointing with a stubby forefinger.
　　"Well, what does all this mean? I've kept out of watching cricketsince I landed in England, but yesterday they got the poisonneedle to work and took me off to see Surrey play Kent at thatplace Lord's where you say you go sometimes.""I was there yesterday, sir. A very exciting game.""Exciting? How do you make that out? I sat in the bleachers allafternoon, waiting for something to break loose. Doesn't anythingever happen at cricket?"The butler winced a little, but managed to smile a tolerantsmile. This man, he reflected, was but an American and as suchmore to be pitied than censured. He endeavoured to explain.
　　"It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain.""Eh?""The wicket was sticky, sir.""Come again.""I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slowwas that the wicket--I should say the turf--was sticky--that isto say wet. Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket issticky, the batsmen are obliged to exercise a great deal ofcaution, as the stickiness of the wicket enables the bowlers tomake the ball turn more sharply in either direction as it strikesthe turf than when the wicket is not sticky.""That's it, is it?""Yes, sir.""Thanks for telling me.""Not at all, sir."Mr. Crocker pointed to the paper.
　　"Well, now, this seems to be the box-score of the game we sawyesterday. If you can make sense out of that, go to it."The passage on which his finger rested was headed "Final Score,"and ran as follows:
　　SURREYFirst InningsHayward, c Wooley, b Carr ....... 67Hobbs, run out ................... 0Hayes, st Huish, b Fielder ...... 12Ducat, b Fielder ................33Harrison, not out ............... 11Sandham, not out ................. 6Extras .......................... 10Total (for four wickets) ....... 139Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.
　　"What is it you wish me to explain, sir?""Why, the whole thing. What's it all about?""It's perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss, and took firstknock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward calledHobbs for a short run, but the latter was unable to get acrossand was thrown out by mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He wentout of his ground and was stumped. Ducat and Hayward made acapital stand considering the stickiness of the wicket, untilDucat was bowled by a good length off-break and Hayward caught atsecond slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham played outtime."Mr. Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.
　　"Yes!" he said. "Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I'dlike to have it once again, slowly. Start with these figures.
　　What does that sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward's name?""He made sixty-seven runs, sir.""Sixty-seven! In one game?""Yes, sir.""Why, Home-Run Baker couldn't do it!""I am not familiar with Mr. Baker, sir.""I suppose you've never seen a ball-game?""Ball-game, sir?""A baseball game?""Never, sir.""Then, Bill," said Mr. Crocker, reverting in his emotion to thebad habit of his early London days, "you haven't lived. Seehere!"Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr. Crockerhad managed to preserve during the opening stages of theinterview now definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly andhe snorted like a war-horse. He clutched the butler by the sleeveand drew him closer to the table, then began to move forks,spoons, cups, and even the contents of his plate about the clothwith an energy little short of feverish.
　　"Bayliss!""Sir?""Watch!" said Mr. Crocker, with the air of an excitable highpriest about to initiate a novice into the Mysteries.
　　He removed a roll from the basket.
　　"You see this roll? That's the home plate. This spoon is firstbase. Where I'm putting this cup is second. This piece of baconis third. There's your diamond for you. Very well, then. Theselumps of sugar are the infielders and the outfielders. Now we'reready. Batter up? He stands here. Catcher behind him. Umps behindcatcher.""Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?""Call him anything you like. It's part of the game. Now here'sthe box, where I've put this dab of marmalade, and here's thepitcher, winding up.""The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?""I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets pastme.""The box, then, is the bowler's wicket?""Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher'swinding up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Hereit comes, right in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaksfor first. Outfielder--this lump of sugar--boots it. Bonehead!
　　Batter touches second. Third? No! Get back! Can't be done. Playit safe. Stick around the sack, old pal. Second batter up.
　　Pitcher getting something on the ball now besides the cover.
　　Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter up. See himrub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He's good! He letstwo alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes aroundto second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home forone run. That's a game! Take it from me, Bill, that's a _game!_"Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himselfinto his lecture, Mr. Crocker sat down and refreshed himself withcold coffee.
　　"Quite an interesting game," said Bayliss. "But I find, now thatyou have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though Ihave always known it under another name. It is played a greatdeal in this country."Mr. Crocker started to his feet.
　　"It is? And I've been five years here without finding it out!
　　When's the next game scheduled?""It is known in England as Rounders, sir. Children play it with asoft ball and a racquet, and derive considerable enjoyment fromit. I had never heard of it before as a pastime for adults."Two shocked eyes stared into the butler's face.
　　"Children?" The word came in a whisper.
　　"A racquet?""Yes, sir.""You--you didn't say a soft ball?""Yes, sir."A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr. Crocker. He had lived fiveyears in England, but not till this moment had he realised to thefull how utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placedhim, bound and helpless, in a country where they called baseballRounders and played it with a soft ball.
　　He sank back into his chair, staring before him. And as he satthe wall seemed to melt and he was gazing upon a green field, inthe centre of which a man in a grey uniform was beginning aSalome dance. Watching this person with a cold and suspiciouseye, stood another uniformed man, holding poised above hisshoulder a sturdy club. Two Masked Marvels crouched behind him inattitudes of watchful waiting. On wooden seats all around sat avast multitude of shirt-sleeved spectators, and the air was fullof voices.
　　One voice detached itself from the din.
　　"Pea-nuts! Get y'r pea-nuts!"Something that was almost a sob shook Bingley Crocker's ampleframe. Bayliss the butler gazed down upon him with concern. Hewas sure the master was unwell.
　　The case of Mr. Bingley Crocker was one that would have providedan admirable "instance" for a preacher seeking to instil into animpecunious and sceptical flock the lesson that money does not ofnecessity bring with it happiness. And poetry has crystallisedhis position in the following stanza.
　　An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain.
　　Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
　　Mr. Crocker had never lived in a thatched cottage, nor had hisrelations with the birds of his native land ever reached thestage of intimacy indicated by the poet; but substitute "LambsClub" for the former and "members" for the latter, and theparallel becomes complete.
　　Until the time of his second marriage Bingley Crocker had been anactor, a snapper-up of whatever small character-parts the godsprovided. He had an excellent disposition, no money, and one son,a young man of twenty-one. For forty-five years he had lived ahand-to-mouth existence in which his next meal had generally comeas a pleasant surprise: and then, on an Atlantic liner, he metthe widow of G. G. van Brunt, the sole heiress to that magnate'simmense fortune.
　　What Mrs. van Brunt could have seen in Bingley Crocker to causeher to single him out from all the world passes comprehension:
　　but the eccentricities of Cupid are commonplace. It were best toshun examination into first causes and stick to results. Theswift romance began and reached its climax in the ten days whichit took one of the smaller Atlantic liners to sail from Liverpoolto New York. Mr. Crocker was on board because he was returningwith a theatrical company from a failure in London, Mrs. vanBrunt because she had been told that the slow boats were thesteadiest. They began the voyage as strangers and ended it as anengaged couple--the affair being expedited, no doubt, by the factthat, even if it ever occurred to Bingley to resist the onslaughton his bachelor peace, he soon realised the futility of doing so,for the cramped conditions of ship-board intensified the alwaysoverwhelming effects of his future bride's determined nature.
　　The engagement was received in a widely differing spirit by theonly surviving blood-relations of the two principals. Jimmy, Mr.
　　Crocker's son, on being informed that his father had plighted histroth to the widow of a prominent millionaire, displayed theutmost gratification and enthusiasm, and at a little supper whichhe gave by way of farewell to a few of his newspaper comrades andwhich lasted till six in the morning, when it was broken up bythe flying wedge of waiters for which the selected restaurant isjustly famous, joyfully announced that work and he would fromthen on be total strangers. He alluded in feeling terms to theProvidence which watches over good young men and saves them fromthe blighting necessity of offering themselves in the flower oftheir golden youth as human sacrifices to the Moloch ofcapitalistic greed: and, having commiserated with his guests inthat a similar stroke of luck had not happened to each of them,advised them to drown their sorrows in drink. Which they did.
　　Far different was the attitude of Mrs. Crocker's sister, NestaPett. She entirely disapproved of the proposed match. At least,the fact that in her final interview with her sister shedescribed the bridegroom-to-be as a wretched mummer, a despicablefortune-hunter, a broken-down tramp, and a sneaking, graftingconfidence-trickster lends colour to the supposition that she wasnot a warm supporter of it. She agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs.
　　Crocker's suggestion that they should never speak to each otheragain as long as they lived: and it was immediately after thisthat the latter removed husband Bingley, step-son Jimmy, and allher other goods and chattels to London, where they had remainedever since. Whenever Mrs. Crocker spoke of America now, it was intones of the deepest dislike and contempt. Her friends wereEnglish, and every year more exclusively of England'saristocracy. She intended to become a leading figure in LondonSociety, and already her progress had been astonishing. She knewthe right people, lived in the right square, said the rightthings, and thought the right thoughts: and in the Spring of herthird year had succeeded in curing Bingley of his habit ofbeginning his remarks with the words "Say, lemme tell yasomething." Her progress, in short, was beginning to assume theaspect of a walk-over.
　　Against her complete contentment and satisfaction only one thingmilitated. That was the behaviour of her step-son, Jimmy.
　　It was of Jimmy that she spoke when, having hung the receiver onits hook, she returned to the breakfast-room. Bayliss hadsilently withdrawn, and Mr. Crocker was sitting in sombre silenceat the table.
　　"A most fortunate thing has happened, Bingley," she said. "It wasmost kind of dear Lady Corstorphine to ring me up. It seems thather nephew, Lord Percy Whipple, is back in England. He has beenin Ireland for the past three years, on the staff of the LordLieutenant, and only arrived in London yesterday afternoon. LadyCorstorphine has promised to arrange a meeting between him andJames. I particularly want them to be friends.""Eugenia," said Mr. Crocker in a hollow voice, "do you know theycall baseball Rounders over here, and children play it with asoft ball?""James is becoming a serious problem. It is absolutely necessarythat he should make friends with the right kind of young men.""And a racquet," said Mr. Crocker.
　　"Please listen to what I am saying, Bingley. I am talking aboutJames. There is a crude American strain in him which seems togrow worse instead of better. I was lunching with the Delafieldsat the Carlton yesterday, and there, only a few tables away, wasJames with an impossible young man in appalling clothes. It wasoutrageous that James should have been seen in public at all withsuch a person. The man had a broken nose and talked through it.
　　He was saying in a loud voice that made everybody turn roundsomething about his left-scissors hook--whatever that may havebeen. I discovered later that he was a low professional pugilistfrom New York--a man named Spike Dillon, I think Captain Wroxtonsaid. And Jimmy was giving him lunch--at the _Carlton!_"Mr. Crocker said nothing. Constant practice had made him an adeptat saying nothing when his wife was talking.
　　"James must be made to realise his responsibilities. I shall haveto speak to him. I was hearing only the other day of a mostdeserving man, extremely rich and lavishly generous in hiscontributions to the party funds, who was only given aknighthood, simply because he had a son who had behaved in amanner that could not possibly be overlooked. The present Courtis extraordinarily strict in its views. James cannot be toocareful. A certain amount of wildness in a young man is quiteproper in the best set, provided that he is wild in the rightcompany. Every one knows that young Lord Datchet was ejected fromthe Empire Music-Hall on Boat-Race night every year during hisresidence at Oxford University, but nobody minds. The familytreats it as a joke. But James has such low tastes. Professionalpugilists! I believe that many years ago it was not unfashionablefor young men in Society to be seen about with such persons, butthose days are over. I shall certainly speak to James. He cannotafford to call attention to himself in any way. Thatbreach-of-promise case of his three years ago, is, I hope andtrust, forgotten, but the slightest slip on his part might startthe papers talking about it again, and that would be fatal. Theeventual successor to a title must be quite as careful as--"It was not, as has been hinted above, the usual practice of Mr.
　　Crocker to interrupt his wife when she was speaking, but he didit now.
　　"Say!"Mrs. Crocker frowned.
　　"I wish, Bingley--and I have told you so often--that you wouldnot begin your sentences with the word 'Say'! It is such arevolting Americanism. Suppose some day when you are addressingthe House of Lords you should make a slip like that! The paperswould never let you hear the end of it."Mr. Crocker was swallowing convulsively, as if testing his larynxwith a view to speech. Like Saul of Tarsus, he had been strickendumb by the sudden bright light which his wife's words had causedto flash upon him. Frequently during his sojourn in London he hadwondered just why Eugenia had settled there in preference to herown country. It was not her wont to do things without an object,yet until this moment he had been unable to fathom her motives.
　　Even now it seemed almost incredible. And yet what meaning wouldher words have other than the monstrous one which had smitten himas a blackjack?
　　"Say--I mean, Eugenia--you don't want--you aren't trying--youaren't working to--you haven't any idea of trying to get them tomake me a Lord, have you?""It is what I have been working for all these years!""But--but why? Why? That's what I want to know. Why?"Mrs. Crocker's fine eyes glittered.
　　"I will tell you why, Bingley. Just before we were married I hada talk with my sister Nesta. She was insufferably offensive. Shereferred to you in terms which I shall never forgive. She affectedto look down on you, to think that I was marrying beneath me. SoI am going to make you an English peer and send Nesta a newspaperclipping of the Birthday Honours with your name in it, if I haveto keep working till I die! Now you know!"Silence fell. Mr. Crocker drank cold coffee. His wife stared withgleaming eyes into the glorious future.
　　"Do you mean that I shall have to stop on here till they make mea lord?" said Mr. Crocker limply.
　　"Yes.""Never go back to America?""Not till we have succeeded.""Oh Gee! Oh Gosh! Oh Hell!" said Mr. Crocker, bursting the bondsof years.
　　Mrs. Crocker though resolute, was not unkindly. She madeallowances for her husband's state of mind. She was willing topermit even American expletives during the sinking-in process ofher great idea, much as a broad-minded cowboy might listenindulgently to the squealing of a mustang during the brandingprocess. Docility and obedience would he demanded of him later,but not till the first agony had abated. She spoke soothingly tohim.
　　"I am glad we have had this talk, Bingley. It is best that youshould know. It will help you to realise your responsibilities.
　　And that brings me back to James. Thank goodness Lord PercyWhipple is in town. He is about James' age, and from what LadyCorstorphine tells me will be an ideal friend for him. Youunderstand who he is, of course? The second son of the Duke ofDevizes, the Premier's closest friend, the man who canpractically dictate the Birthday Honours. If James and Lord Percycan only form a close friendship, our battle will be as good aswon. It will mean everything. Lady Corstorphine has promised toarrange a meeting. In the meantime, I will speak to James andwarn him to be more careful."Mr. Crocker had produced a stump of pencil from his pocket andwas writing on the table-cloth.
　　Lord CrockerLord Bingley CrockerLord Crocker of CrockerThe Marquis of CrockerBaron CrockerBingley, first Viscount CrockerHe blanched as he read the frightful words. A sudden thought stunghim.
　　"Eugenia!""Well?""What will the boys at the Lambs say?""I am not interested," replied his wife, "in the boys at theLambs.""I thought you wouldn't be," said the future baron gloomily.
Chapter 3 Family Jars
    It is a peculiarity of the human mind that, with whateverapprehension it may be regarding the distant future, it mustreturn after a while to face the minor troubles of the futurethat is immediate. The prospect of a visit to the dentist thisafternoon causes us to forget for the moment the prospect oftotal ruin next year. Mr. Crocker, therefore, having torturedhimself for about a quarter of an hour with his meditations onthe subject of titles, was jerked back to a more imminentcalamity than the appearance of his name in the BirthdayHonours--the fact that in all probability he would be taken againthis morning to watch the continuation of that infernalcricket-match, and would be compelled to spend the greater partof to-day, as he had spent the greater part of yesterday, boredto the verge of dissolution in the pavilion at Lord's.
　　One gleam of hope alone presented itself. Like baseball, thispastime of cricket was apparently affected by rain, if there hadbeen enough of it. He had an idea that there had been a good dealof rain in the night, but had there been sufficient to cause theteams of Surrey and Kent to postpone the second instalment oftheir serial struggle? He rose from the table and went out intothe hall. It was his purpose to sally out into Grosvenor Squareand examine the turf in its centre with the heel of his shoe, inorder to determine the stickiness or non-stickiness of thewicket. He moved towards the front door, hoping for the best, andjust as he reached it the bell rang.
　　One of the bad habits of which his wife had cured Mr. Crocker inthe course of the years was the habit of going and answeringdoors. He had been brought up in surroundings where every man washis own door-keeper, and it had been among his hardest tasks tolearn the lesson that the perfect gentleman does not open doorsbut waits for the appropriate menial to come along and do it forhim. He had succeeded at length in mastering this great truth,and nowadays seldom offended. But this morning his mind wasclouded by his troubles, and instinct, allaying itself withopportunity, was too much for him. His fingers had been on thehandle when the ring came, so he turned it.
　　At the top of the steps which connect the main entrance ofDrexdale House with the sidewalk three persons were standing. Onewas a tall and formidably handsome woman in the early fortieswhose appearance seemed somehow oddly familiar. The second was asmall, fat, blobby, bulging boy who was chewing something. Thethird, lurking diffidently in the rear, was a little man of aboutMr. Crocker's own age, grey-haired and thin with brown eyes thatgazed meekly through rimless glasses.
　　Nobody could have been less obtrusive than this person, yet it washe who gripped Mr. Crocker's attention and caused that home-sicksufferer's heart to give an almost painful leap. For he wasclothed in one of those roomy suits with square shoulders whichto the seeing eye are as republican as the Stars and Stripes. Hisblunt-toed yellow shoes sang gaily of home. And his hat was notso much a hat as an effusive greeting from Gotham. A long timehad passed since Mr. Crocker had set eyes upon a biped soexhilaratingly American, and rapture held him speechless, as onewho after long exile beholds some landmark of his childhood.
　　The female member of the party took advantage of hisdumbness--which, as she had not unnaturally mistaken him for thebutler, she took for a silent and respectful query as to herbusiness and wishes--to open the conversation.
　　"Is Mrs. Crocker at home? Please tell her that Mrs. Pett wishesto see her."There was a rush and scurry in the corridors of Mr. Crocker'sbrain, as about six different thoughts tried to squashsimultaneously into that main chamber where there is room foronly one at a time. He understood now why this woman's appearancehad seemed familiar. She was his wife's sister, and that sameNesta who was some day to be pulverised by the sight of his namein the Birthday Honours. He was profoundly thankful that she hadmistaken him for the butler. A chill passed through him as hepictured what would have been Eugenia's reception of theinformation that he had committed such a bourgeois solecism asopening the front door to Mrs. Pett of all people, who alreadydespised him as a low vulgarian. There had been trouble enoughwhen she had found him opening it a few weeks before to a merecollector of subscriptions for a charity. He perceived, with aclarity remarkable in view of the fact that the discovery of heridentity had given him a feeling of physical dizziness, that atall costs he must foster this misapprehension on hissister-in-law's part.
　　Fortunately he was in a position to do so. He knew all about whatbutlers did and what they said on these occasions, for in hisinnocently curious way he had often pumped Bayliss on the subject.
　　He bowed silently and led the way to the morning-room, followedby the drove of Petts: then, opening the door, stood aside toallow the procession to march past the given point.
　　"I will inform Mrs. Crocker that you are here, madam."Mrs. Pett, shepherding the chewing child before her, passed intothe room. In the light of her outspoken sentiments regarding herbrother-in-law, it is curious to reflect that his manner at this,their first meeting, had deeply impressed her. After many monthsof smouldering revolt she had dismissed her own butler a day orso before sailing for England, and for the first time envy of hersister Eugenia gripped her. She did not covet Eugenia's otherworldly possessions, but she did grudge her this supreme butler.
　　Mr. Pett, meanwhile, had been trailing in the rear with a huntedexpression on his face. He wore the unmistakable look of a manabout to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat ina strange back-yard bears itself with less jauntiness than a manfaced by such a prospect. A millionaire several times over, Mr.
　　Pett would cheerfully have given much of his wealth to have beenelsewhere at that moment. Such was the agitated state of his mindthat, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm as he was aboutto follow his wife into the room, he started so violently thathis hat flew out of his hand. He turned to meet the eyes of thebutler who had admitted him to the house, fixed on his in anappealing stare.
　　"Who's leading in the pennant race?" said this strange butler ina feverish whisper.
　　It was a question, coming from such a source, which in anotherthan Mr. Pett might well have provoked a blank stare ofamazement. Such, however, is the almost superhuman intelligenceand quickness of mind engendered by the study of America'snational game that he answered without the slightest hesitation.
　　"Giants!""Wow!" said the butler.
　　No sense of anything strange or untoward about the situation cameto mar the perfect joy of Mr. Pett, the overmastering joy of thebaseball fan who in a strange land unexpectedly encounters abrother. He thrilled with a happiness which he had never hopedto feel that morning.
　　"No signs of them slumping?" enquired the butler.
　　"No. But you never can tell. It's early yet. I've seen those boyslead the league till the end of August and then be nosed out.""True enough," said the butler sadly.
　　"Matty's in shape.""He is? The old souper working well?""Like a machine. He shut out the Cubs the day before I sailed!""Fine!"At this point an appreciation of the unusualness of theproceedings began to steal upon Mr. Pett. He gaped at thissurprising servitor.
　　"How on earth do you know anything about baseball?" he demanded.
　　The other seemed to stiffen. A change came over his wholeappearance. He had the air of an actor who has remembered hispart.
　　"I beg your pardon, sir. I trust I have not taken a liberty. I wasat one time in the employment of a gentleman in New York, andduring my stay I became extremely interested in the nationalgame. I picked up a few of the American idioms while in thecountry." He smiled apologetically. "They sometimes slip out.""Let 'em slip!" said Mr. Pett with enthusiasm. "You're the firstthing that's reminded me of home since I left. Say!""Sir?""Got a good place here?""Er--oh, yes, sir.""Well, here's my card. If you ever feel like making a change,there's a job waiting for you at that address.""Thank you, sir." Mr. Crocker stooped.
　　"Your hat, sir."He held it out, gazing fondly at it the while. It was like beinghome again to see a hat like that. He followed Mr. Pett as hewent into the morning-room with an affectionate eye.
　　Bayliss was coming along the hall, hurrying more than his wont.
　　The ring at the front door had found him deep in an extremelyinteresting piece of news in his halfpenny morning paper, and hewas guiltily aware of having delayed in answering it.
　　"Bayliss," said Mr. Crocker in a cautious undertone, "go and tellMrs. Crocker that Mrs. Pett is waiting to see her. She's in themorning-room. If you're asked, say you let her in. Get me?""Yes, sir," said Bayliss, grateful for this happy solution.
　　"Oh, Bayliss!""Sir?""Is the wicket at Lord's likely to be too sticky for them to goon with that game to-day?""I hardly think it probable that there will be play, sir. Therewas a great deal of rain in the night."Mr. Crocker passed on to his den with a lighter heart.
　　* * * * *It was Mrs. Crocker's habit, acquired after years of practice anda sedulous study of the best models, to conceal beneath a mask ofwell-bred indifference any emotion which she might chance tofeel. Her dealings with the aristocracy of England had shown herthat, while the men occasionally permitted themselves anoutburst, the women never did, and she had schooled herself sorigorously that nowadays she seldom even raised her voice. Herbearing, as she approached the morning-room was calm and serene,but inwardly curiosity consumed her. It was unbelievable thatNesta could have come to try to effect a reconciliation, yet shecould think of no other reason for her visit.
　　She was surprised to find three persons in the morning-room.
　　Bayliss, delivering his message, had mentioned only Mrs. Pett. ToMrs. Crocker the assemblage had the appearance of being a sort ofOld Home Week of Petts, a kind of Pett family mob-scene. Hersister's second marriage having taken place after their quarrel,she had never seen her new brother-in-law, but she assumed thatthe little man lurking in the background was Mr. Pett. The guesswas confirmed.
　　"Good morning, Eugenia," said Mrs. Pett.
　　"Peter, this is my sister, Eugenia. My husband."Mrs. Crocker bowed stiffly. She was thinking how hopelesslyAmerican Mr. Pett was, how baggy his clothes looked, whatabsurdly shaped shoes he wore, how appalling his hat was, howlittle hair he had and how deplorably he lacked all those gracesof repose, culture, physical beauty, refinement, dignity, andmental alertness which raise men above the level of the commoncock-roach.
　　Mr. Pett, on his side, receiving her cold glance squarely betweenthe eyes, felt as if he were being disembowelled by a clumsyamateur. He could not help wondering what sort of a man thisfellow Crocker was whom this sister-in-law of his had married. Hepictured him as a handsome, powerful, robust individual with astrong jaw and a loud voice, for he could imagine no lesser typeof man consenting to link his lot with such a woman. He sidled ina circuitous manner towards a distant chair, and, having loweredhimself into it, kept perfectly still, pretending to be dead,like an opossum. He wished to take no part whatever in the cominginterview.
　　"Ogden, of course, you know," said Mrs. Pett.
　　She was sitting so stiffly upright on a hard chair and had somuch the appearance of having been hewn from the living rock thatevery time she opened her mouth it was as if a statue had spoken.
　　"I know Ogden," said Mrs. Crocker shortly. "Will you please stophim fidgeting with that vase? It is valuable."She directed at little Ogden, who was juggling aimlessly with ahandsome _objet d'art_ of the early Chinese school, a glance similarto that which had just disposed of his step-father. But Ogdenrequired more than a glance to divert him from any pursuit in whichhe was interested. He shifted a deposit of candy from his rightcheek to his left cheek, inspected Mrs. Crocker for a moment with apale eye, and resumed his juggling. Mrs. Crocker meant nothing inhis young life.
　　"Ogden, come and sit down," said Mrs. Pett.
　　"Don't want to sit down.""Are you making a long stay in England, Nesta?" asked Mrs.
　　Crocker coldly.
　　"I don't know. We have made no plans.""Indeed?"She broke off. Ogden, who had possessed himself of a bronzepaper-knife, had begun to tap the vase with it. The ringing notethus produced appeared to please his young mind.
　　"If Ogden really wishes to break that vase," said Mrs. Crocker ina detached voice, "let me ring for the butler to bring him ahammer.""Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.
　　"Oh Gee! A fellow can't do a thing!" muttered Ogden, and walkedto the window. He stood looking out into the square, a slighttwitching of the ears indicating that he still made progress withthe candy.
　　"Still the same engaging child!" murmured Mrs. Crocker.
　　"I did not come here to discuss Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.
　　Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows. Not even Mrs. Otho Lanners,from whom she had learned the art, could do it more effectively.
　　"I am still waiting to find out why you did come, Nesta!""I came here to talk to you about your step-son, James Crocker."The discipline to which Mrs. Crocker had subjected herself in thematter of the display of emotion saved her from the humiliationof showing surprise. She waved her hand graciously--in the mannerof the Duchess of Axminster, a supreme hand-waver--to indicatethat she was all attention.
　　"Your step-son, James Crocker," repeated Mrs. Pett. "What is itthe New York papers call him, Peter?"Mr. Pett, the human opossum, came to life. He had contrived tocreate about himself such a defensive atmosphere of non-existencethat now that he re-entered the conversation it was as if acorpse had popped out of its tomb like a jack-in-the-box.
　　Obeying the voice of authority, he pushed the tombstone to oneside and poked his head out of the sepulchre.
　　"Piccadilly Jim!" he murmured apologetically.
　　"Piccadilly Jim!" said Mrs. Crocker. "It is extremely impertinentof them!"In spite of his misery, a wan smile appeared on Mr. Pett'sdeath-mask at this remark.
　　"They should worry about--!""Peter!"Mr. Pett died again, greatly respected.
　　"Why should the New York papers refer to James at all?" said Mrs.
　　Crocker.
　　"Explain, Peter!"Mr. Pett emerged reluctantly from the cerements. He had supposedthat Nesta would do the talking.
　　"Well, he's a news-item.""Why?""Well, here's a boy that's been a regular fellow--raised inAmerica--done work on a newspaper--suddenly taken off to Englandto become a London dude--mixing with all the dukes, playingpinochle with the King--naturally they're interested in him."A more agreeable expression came over Mrs. Crocker's face.
　　"Of course, that is quite true. One cannot prevent the papersfrom printing what they wish. So they have published articlesabout James' doings in English Society?""Doings," said Mr. Pett, "is right!""Something has got to be done about it," said Mrs. Pett.
　　Mr. Pett endorsed this.
　　"Nesta's going to lose her health if these stories go on," hesaid.
　　Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows, but she had hard work to keep acontented smile off her face.
　　"If you are not above petty jealousy, Nesta . . ."Mrs. Pett laughed a sharp, metallic laugh.
　　"It is the disgrace I object to!""The disgrace!""What else would you call it, Eugenia? Wouldn't you be ashamed ifyou opened your Sunday paper and came upon a full page articleabout your nephew having got intoxicated at the races and foughta book-maker--having broken up a political meeting--having beensued for breach-of-promise by a barmaid . . ."Mrs. Crocker preserved her well-bred calm, but she was shaken.
　　The episodes to which her sister had alluded were ancienthistory, horrors of the long-dead past, but it seemed that theystill lived in print. There and then she registered the resolveto talk to her step-son James when she got hold of him in such amanner as would scourge the offending Adam out of him for onceand for all.
　　"And not only that," continued Mrs. Pett. "That would be bad enoughin itself, but somehow the papers have discovered that I am theboy's aunt. Two weeks ago they printed my photograph with one ofthese articles. I suppose they will always do it now. That is why Ihave come to you. It must stop. And the only way it can be made tostop is by taking your step-son away from London where he isrunning wild. Peter has most kindly consented to give the boy aposition in his office. It is very good of him, for the boy cannotin the nature of things be of any use for a very long time, but wehave talked it over and it seems the only course. I have come thismorning to ask you to let us take James Crocker back to Americawith us and keep him out of mischief by giving him honest work.
　　What do you say?"Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
　　"What do you expect me to say? It is utterly preposterous. I havenever heard anything so supremely absurd in my life.""You refuse?""Of course I refuse.""I think you are extremely foolish.""Indeed!"Mr. Pett cowed in his chair. He was feeling rather like a nervousand peace-loving patron of a wild western saloon who observes twocowboys reach for their hip-pockets. Neither his wife nor hissister-in-law paid any attention to him. The concluding exercisesof a duel of the eyes was in progress between them. After somesilent, age-long moments, Mrs. Crocker laughed a light laugh.
　　"Most extraordinary!" she murmured.
　　Mrs. Pett was in no mood for Anglicisms.
　　"You know perfectly well, Eugenia," she said heatedly, "thatJames Crocker is being ruined here. For his sake, if not formine--"Mrs. Crocker laughed another light laugh, one of those offensiverippling things which cause so much annoyance.
　　"Don't be so ridiculous, Nesta! Ruined! Really! It is quite truethat, a long while ago, when he was much younger and not quite usedto the ways of London Society, James was a little wild, but allthat sort of thing is over now. He knows"--she paused, settingherself as it were for the punch--"he knows that at any momentthe government may decide to give his father a Peerage . . ."The blow went home. A quite audible gasp escaped her strickensister.
　　"What!"Mrs. Crocker placed two ringed fingers before her mouth in ordernot to hide a languid yawn.
　　"Yes. Didn't you know? But of course you live so out of the world.
　　Oh yes, it is extremely probable that Mr. Crocker's name willappear in the next Honours List. He is very highly thought of bythe Powers. So naturally James is quite aware that he must behavein a suitable manner. He is a dear boy! He was handicapped atfirst by getting into the wrong set, but now his closest friendis Lord Percy Whipple, the second son of the Duke of Devizes, whois one of the most eminent men in the kingdom and a personalfriend of the Premier."Mrs. Pett was in bad shape under this rain of titles, but sherallied herself to reply in kind.
　　"Indeed?" she said. "I should like to meet him. I have no doubthe knows our great friend, Lord Wisbeach."Mrs. Crocker was a little taken aback. She had not supposed thather sister had even this small shot in her locker.
　　"Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" she said.
　　"Oh yes," replied Mrs. Pett, beginning to feel a little better.
　　"We have been seeing him every day. He always says that he lookson my house as quite a home. He knows so few people in New York.
　　It has been a great comfort to him, I think, knowing us."Mrs. Crocker had had time now to recover her poise.
　　"Poor dear Wizzy!" she said languidly.
　　Mrs. Pett started.
　　"What!""I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, shiftless fellow?
　　He left here with the intention of travelling round the world,and he has stopped in New York! How like him!""Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" demanded Mrs. Pett.
　　Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
　　"Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James'
　　most intimate friend!"Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collectedOgden and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was notto be trifled with. She uttered no word.
　　"Must you really go?" said Mrs. Crocker. "It was sweet of you tobother to come all the way from America like this. So strange tomeet any one from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!"The _cortege_ left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touchedthe bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival ofBayliss. They were in no mood for the formalities of politeSociety. They wanted to be elsewhere, and they wanted to be therequick. The front door had closed behind them before the butlerreached the morning-room.
　　"Bayliss," said Mrs. Crocker with happy, shining face, "send forthe car to come round at once.""Very good, madam.""Is Mr. James up yet?""I believe not, madam."Mrs. Crocker went upstairs to her room. If Bayliss had not beenwithin earshot, she would probably have sung a bar or two. Heramiability extended even to her step-son, though she had notaltered her intention of speaking eloquently to him on certainmatters when she could get hold of him. That, however, couldwait. For the moment, she felt in vein for a gentle drive in thePark.
　　A few minutes after she had disappeared, there was a sound ofslow footsteps on the stairs, and a young man came down into thehall. Bayliss, who had finished telephoning to the garage forMrs. Crocker's limousine and was about to descend to those lowerdepths where he had his being, turned, and a grave smile ofwelcome played over his face.
　　"Good morning, Mr. James," he said.
Chapter 4 Jimmy's Disturbing News
    Jimmy Crocker was a tall and well-knit young man who later on inthe day would no doubt be at least passably good-looking. At themoment an unbecoming pallor marred his face, and beneath his eyeswere marks that suggested that he had slept little and ill. Hestood at the foot of the stairs, yawning cavernously.
　　"Bayliss," he said, "have you been painting yourself yellow?""No, sir.""Strange! Your face looks a bright gamboge to me, and youroutlines wobble. Bayliss, never mix your drinks. I say this toyou as a friend. Is there any one in the morning-room?""No, Mr. James.""Speak softly, Bayliss, for I am not well. I am conscious of astrange weakness. Lead me to the morning-room, then, and lay megently on a sofa. These are the times that try men's souls."The sun was now shining strongly through the windows of themorning-room. Bayliss lowered the shades. Jimmy Crocker sank ontothe sofa, and closed his eyes.
　　"Bayliss.""Sir?""A conviction is stealing over me that I am about to expire.""Shall I bring you a little breakfast, Mr. James?"A strong shudder shook Jimmy.
　　"Don't be flippant, Bayliss," he protested. "Try to cure yourselfof this passion for being funny at the wrong time. Your comedy isgood, but tact is a finer quality than humour. Perhaps you thinkI have forgotten that morning when I was feeling just as I doto-day and you came to my bedside and asked me if I would like anice rasher of ham. I haven't and I never shall. You may bring mea brandy-and-soda. Not a large one. A couple of bath-tubs fullwill be enough.""Very good, Mr. James.""And now leave me, Bayliss, for I would be alone. I have to makea series of difficult and exhaustive tests to ascertain whether Iam still alive."When the butler had gone, Jimmy adjusted the cushions, closed hiseyes, and remained for a space in a state of coma. He was trying,as well as an exceedingly severe headache would permit, to recallthe salient events of the previous night. At present his memoriesrefused to solidify. They poured about in his brain in a fluidand formless condition, exasperating to one who sought for hardfacts.
　　It seemed strange to Jimmy that the shadowy and inchoate vision ofa combat, a fight, a brawl of some kind persisted in flittingabout in the recesses of his mind, always just far enough away toelude capture. The absurdity of the thing annoyed him. A man haseither indulged in a fight overnight or he has not indulged in afight overnight. There can be no middle course. That he should beuncertain on the point was ridiculous. Yet, try as he would, hecould not be sure. There were moments when he seemed on the veryverge of settling the matter, and then some invisible personwould meanly insert a red-hot corkscrew in the top of his headand begin to twist it, and this would interfere with calmthought. He was still in a state of uncertainty when Baylissreturned, bearing healing liquids on a tray.
　　"Shall I set it beside you, sir?"Jimmy opened one eye.
　　"Indubitably. No mean word, that, Bayliss, for the morning after.
　　Try it yourself next time. Bayliss, who let me in this morning?""Let you in, sir?""Precisely. I was out and now I am in. Obviously I must havepassed the front door somehow. This is logic.""I fancy you let yourself in, Mr. James, with your key.""That would seem to indicate that I was in a state of icysobriety. Yet, if such is the case, how is it that I can'tremember whether I murdered somebody or not last night? It isn'tthe sort of thing your sober man would lightly forget. Have youever murdered anybody, Bayliss?""No, sir.""Well, if you had, you would remember it next morning?""I imagine so, Mr. James.""Well, it's a funny thing, but I can't get rid of the impressionthat at some point in my researches into the night life of Londonyestreen I fell upon some person to whom I had never beenintroduced and committed mayhem upon his person."It seemed to Bayliss that the time had come to impart to Mr. Jamesa piece of news which he had supposed would require no imparting.
　　He looked down upon his young master's recumbent form with agrave commiseration. It was true that he had never been able totell with any certainty whether Mr. James intended the statementshe made to be taken literally or not, but on the present occasionhe seemed to have spoken seriously and to be genuinely at a lossto recall an episode over the printed report of which the entiredomestic staff had been gloating ever since the arrival of thehalfpenny morning paper to which they subscribed.
　　"Do you really mean it, Mr. James?" he enquired cautiously.
　　"Mean what?""You have really forgotten that you were engaged in a fracas lastnight at the Six Hundred Club?"Jimmy sat up with a jerk, staring at this omniscient man. Thenthe movement having caused a renewal of the operations of thered-hot corkscrew, he fell back again with a groan.
　　"Was I? How on earth did you know? Why should you know all aboutit when I can't remember a thing? It was my fault, not yours.""There is quite a long report of it in to-day's _Daily Sun_, Mr.
　　James.""A report? In the _Sun_?""Half a column, Mr. James. Would you like me to fetch the paper?
　　I have it in my pantry.""I should say so. Trot a quick heat back with it. This wantslooking into."Bayliss retired, to return immediately with the paper. Jimmy tookit, gazed at it, and handed it back.
　　"I overestimated my powers. It can't be done. Have you anyimportant duties at the moment, Bayliss?""No, sir.""Perhaps you wouldn't mind reading me the bright little excerpt,then?""Certainly, sir.""It will be good practice for you. I am convinced I am going to bea confirmed invalid for the rest of my life, and it will be partof your job to sit at my bedside and read to me. By the way, doesthe paper say who the party of the second part was? Who was thecitizen with whom I went to the mat?""Lord Percy Whipple, Mr. James.""Lord who?""Lord Percy Whipple.""Never heard of him. Carry on, Bayliss."Jimmy composed himself to listen, yawning.
Chapter 5 The Morning After
    Bayliss took a spectacle-case from the recesses of his costume,opened it, took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, dived into thejungle again, came out with a handkerchief, polished thespectacles, put them on his nose, closed the case, restored it toits original position, replaced the handkerchief, and took up thepaper.
　　"Why the hesitation, Bayliss? Why the coyness?" enquired Jimmy,lying with closed eyes. "Begin!""I was adjusting my glasses, sir.""All set now?""Yes, sir. Shall I read the headlines first?""Read everything."The butler cleared his throat.
　　"Good Heavens, Bayliss," moaned Jimmy, starting, "don't gargle.
　　Have a heart! Go on!"Bayliss began to read.
　　FRACAS IN FASHIONABLE NIGHT-CLUBSPRIGS OF NOBILITY BRAWLJimmy opened his eyes, interested.
　　"Am I a sprig of nobility?""It is what the paper says, sir.""We live and learn. Carry on."The butler started to clear his throat, but checked himself.
　　SENSATIONAL INTERNATIONAL CONTESTBATTLING PERCY(England)vCYCLONE JIM(America)FULL DESCRIPTION BY OUR EXPERTJimmy sat up.
　　"Bayliss, you're indulging that distorted sense of humour ofyours again. That isn't in the paper?""Yes, sir. Very large headlines."Jimmy groaned.
　　"Bayliss, I'll give you a piece of advice which may be useful toyou when you grow up. Never go about with newspaper men. It allcomes back to me. Out of pure kindness of heart I took young BillBlake of the _Sun_ to supper at the Six Hundred last night. This ismy reward. I suppose he thinks it funny. Newspaper men are a lowlot, Bayliss.""Shall I go on, sir?""Most doubtless. Let me hear all."Bayliss resumed. He was one of those readers who, whether theirsubject be a murder case or a funny anecdote, adopt a measuredand sepulchral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy andhorror to whatever they read. At the church which he attended onSundays, of which he was one of the most influential andrespected members, children would turn pale and snuggle up totheir mothers when Bayliss read the lessons. Young Mr. Blake'saccount of the overnight proceedings at the Six Hundred Club herendered with a gloomy gusto more marked even than his wont. Ithad a topical interest for him which urged him to extend himself.
　　"At an early hour this morning, when our myriad readerswere enjoying that refreshing and brain-restoring sleep sonecessary to the proper appreciation of the _Daily Sun_ atthe breakfast table, one of the most interesting sportingevents of the season was being pulled off at the SixHundred Club in Regent Street, where, after three roundsof fast exchanges, James B. Crocker, the well-knownAmerican welter-weight scrapper, succeeded in stoppingLord Percy Whipple, second son of the Duke of Devizes,better known as the Pride of Old England. Once again thesuperiority of the American over the English style ofboxing was demonstrated. Battling Percy has a kind heart,but Cyclone Jim packs the punch.""The immediate cause of the encounter had to do with adisputed table, which each gladiator claimed to haveengaged in advance over the telephone.""I begin to remember," said Jimmy meditatively. "A pill withbutter-coloured hair tried to jump my claim. Honeyed wordsproving fruitless, I soaked him on the jaw. It may be that I wasnot wholly myself. I seem to remember an animated session at theEmpire earlier in the evening, which may have impaired myself-control. Proceed!""One word leading to others, which in their turn led toseveral more, Cyclone Jim struck Battling Percy on whatour rude forefathers were accustomed to describe as themazzard, and the gong sounded for"ROUND ONE"Both men came up fresh and eager to mix things, though itseems only too probable that they had already been mixingmore things than was good for them. Battling Percy tried aright swing which got home on a waiter. Cyclone Jim put ina rapid one-two punch which opened a large gash in theatmosphere. Both men sparred cautiously, being hampered intheir movements by the fact, which neither had at thisstage of the proceedings perceived, that they were onopposite sides of the disputed table. A clever Fitzsimmons'
　　shift on the part of the Battler removed this obstacle,and some brisk work ensued in neutral territory. Percylanded twice without a return. The Battler's round by ashade.
　　"ROUND TWO"The Cyclone came out of his corner with a rush, gettinghome on the Battler's shirt-front and following it up witha right to the chin. Percy swung wildly and upset a bottleof champagne on a neighbouring table. A good rallyfollowed, both men doing impressive in-fighting. TheCyclone landed three without a return. The Cyclone'sround.
　　"ROUND THREE"Percy came up weak, seeming to be overtrained. TheCyclone waded in, using both hands effectively. TheBattler fell into a clinch, but the Cyclone broke awayand, measuring his distance, picked up a haymaker from thefloor and put it over. Percy down and out.
　　"Interviewed by our representative after the fight,Cyclone Jim said: 'The issue was never in doubt. I washandicapped at the outset by the fact that I was under theimpression that I was fighting three twin-brothers, and Imissed several opportunities of putting over the winningwallop by attacking the outside ones. It was only in thesecond round that I decided to concentrate my assault onthe one in the middle, when the affair speedily came to aconclusion. I shall not adopt pugilism as a profession.
　　The prizes are attractive, but it is too much like work.'"Bayliss ceased, and silence fell upon the room.
　　"Is that all?""That is all, sir.""And about enough.""Very true, sir.""You know, Bayliss," said Jimmy thoughtfully, rolling over on thecouch, "life is peculiar, not to say odd. You never know what iswaiting for you round the corner. You start the day with thefairest prospects, and before nightfall everything is as rockyand ding-basted as stig tossed full of doodlegammon. Why is this,Bayliss?""I couldn't say, sir.""Look at me. I go out to spend a happy evening, meaning no harmto any one, and I come back all blue with the blood of thearistocracy. We now come to a serious point. Do you think mylady stepmother has read that sporting chronicle?""I fancy not, Mr. James.""On what do you base these words of comfort?""Mrs. Crocker does not read the halfpenny papers, sir.""True! She does not. I had forgotten. On the other hand theprobability that she will learn about the little incident fromother sources is great. I think the merest prudence suggests thatI keep out of the way for the time being, lest I be fallen uponand questioned. I am not equal to being questioned this morning.
　　I have a headache which starts at the soles of my feet and getsworse all the way up. Where is my stepmother?""Mrs. Crocker is in her room, Mr. James. She ordered the car tobe brought round at once. It should be here at any moment now,sir. I think Mrs. Crocker intends to visit the Park beforeluncheon.""Is she lunching out?""Yes, sir.""Then, if I pursue the excellent common-sense tactics of thelesser sand-eel, which as you doubtless know buries itself tailupwards in the mud on hearing the baying of the eel-hounds andremains in that position till the danger is past, I shall be ableto postpone an interview. Should you be questioned as to mywhereabouts, inflate your chest and reply in a clear and manlyvoice that I have gone out, you know not where. May I rely onyour benevolent neutrality, Bayliss?""Very good, Mr. James.""I think I will go and sit in my father's den. A man may lie hidthere with some success as a rule."Jimmy heaved himself painfully off the sofa, blinked, and set outfor the den, where his father, in a deep arm-chair, was smoking arestful pipe and reading the portions of the daily papers whichdid not deal with the game of cricket.
　　Mr. Crocker's den was a small room at the back of the house. Itwas not luxurious, and it looked out onto a blank wall, but itwas the spot he liked best in all that vast pile which had onceechoed to the tread of titled shoes; for, as he sometimesobserved to his son, it had the distinction of being the onlyroom on the ground floor where a fellow could move withoutstubbing his toe on a countess or an honourable. In this peacefulbackwater he could smoke a pipe, put his feet up, take off hiscoat, and generally indulge in that liberty and pursuit ofhappiness to which the Constitution entitles a free-bornAmerican. Nobody ever came there except Jimmy and himself.
　　He did not suspend his reading at his son's entrance. He muttereda welcome through the clouds, but he did not raise his eyes.
　　Jimmy took the other arm-chair, and began to smoke silently. Itwas the unwritten law of the den that soothing silence ratherthan aimless chatter should prevail. It was not until a quarterof an hour had passed that Mr. Crocker dropped his paper andspoke.
　　"Say, Jimmy, I want to talk to you.""Say on. You have our ear.""Seriously.""Continue--always, however, keeping before you the fact that I ama sick man. Last night was a wild night on the moors, dad.""It's about your stepmother. She was talking at breakfast aboutyou. She's sore at you for giving Spike Dillon lunch at theCarlton. You oughtn't to have taken him there, Jimmy. That's whatgot her goat. She was there with a bunch of swells and they hadto sit and listen to Spike talking about his half-scissors hook.""What's their kick against Spike's half-scissors hook? It's adarned good one.""She said she was going to speak to you about it. I thought I'dlet you know.""Thanks, dad. But was that all?""All.""All that she was going to speak to me about? Sure there wasnothing else?""She didn't say anything about anything else.""Then she _doesn't_ know! Fine!"Mr. Crocker's feet came down from the mantelpiece with a crash.
　　"Jimmy! You haven't been raising Cain again?""No, no, dad. Nothing serious. High-spirited Young Patricianstuff, the sort of thing that's expected of a fellow in myposition."Mr. Crocker was not to be comforted.
　　"Jimmy, you've got to pull up. Honest, you have. I don't care formyself. I like to see a boy having a good time. But yourstepmother says you're apt to queer us with the people up top,the way you're going on. Lord knows I wouldn't care if thingswere different, but I'll tell you exactly how I stand. I didn'tget wise till this morning. Your stepmother sprang it on mesuddenly. I've often wondered what all this stuff was about, thisliving in London and trailing the swells. I couldn't think whatwas your stepmother's idea. Now I know. Jimmy, she's trying toget them to make me a peer!""What!""Just that. And she says--""But, dad, this is rich! This is comedy of a high order! A peer!
　　Good Heavens, if it comes off, what shall I be? This titlebusiness is all so complicated. I know I should have to change myname to Hon. Rollo Cholmondeley or the Hon. Aubrey Marjoribanks,but what I want to know is which? I want to be prepared for theworst.""And you see, Jimmy, these people up top, the guys who arrangethe giving of titles, are keeping an eye on you, because youwould have the title after me and naturally they don't want toget stung. I gathered all that from your stepmother. Say, Jimmy,I'm not asking a lot of you, but there is just one thing you cando for me without putting yourself out too much.""I'll do it, dad, if it kills me. Slip me the info!""Your stepmother's friend Lady Corstorphine's nephew . . .""It's not the sort of story to ask a man with a headache tofollow. I hope it gets simpler as it goes along.""Your stepmother wants you to be a good fellow and make friendswith this boy. You see, his father is in right with the Premierand has the biggest kind of a pull when it comes to handing outtitles.""Is that all you want? Leave it to me. Inside of a week I'll beplaying kiss-in-the-ring with him. The whole force of my sunnypersonality shall be directed towards making him love me. What'shis name?""Lord Percy Whipple."Jimmy's pipe fell with a clatter.
　　"Dad, pull yourself together! Reflect! You know you don'tseriously mean Lord Percy Whipple.""Eh?"Jimmy laid a soothing hand on his father's shoulder.
　　"Dad, prepare yourself for the big laugh. This is where you throwyour head back and roar with honest mirth. I met Lord PercyWhipple last night at the Six Hundred Club. Words ensued. I fellupon Percy and beat his block off! How it started, except that weboth wanted the same table, I couldn't say. 'Why, that I cannottell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory!' If I had known,dad, nothing would have induced me to lay a hand upon Perce, savein the way of kindness, but, not even knowing who he was, itwould appear from contemporary accounts of the affair that I justnaturally sailed in and expunged the poor, dear boy!"The stunning nature of this information had much the same effecton Mr. Crocker as the announcement of his ruin has upon the GoodOld Man in melodrama. He sat clutching the arms of his chair andstaring into space, saying nothing. Dismay was written upon hisanguished countenance.
　　His collapse sobered Jimmy. For the first time he perceived thatthe situation had another side than the humorous one which hadappealed to him. He had anticipated that Mr. Crocker, who as ageneral thing shared his notions of what was funny and could berelied on to laugh in the right place, would have been struck,like himself, by the odd and pleasing coincidence of his havingpicked on for purposes of assault and battery the one young manwith whom his stepmother wished him to form a firm and lastingfriendship. He perceived now that his father was seriously upset.
　　Neither Jimmy nor Mr. Crocker possessed a demonstrative nature,but there had always existed between them the deepest affection.
　　Jimmy loved his father as he loved nobody else in the world, andthe thought of having hurt him was like a physical pain. Hislaughter died away and he set himself with a sinking heart to tryto undo the effect of his words.
　　"I'm awfully sorry, dad. I had no idea you would care. I wouldn'thave done a fool thing like that for a million dollars if I'dknown. Isn't there anything I can do? Gee whiz! I'll go rightround to Percy now and apologise. I'll lick his boots. Don't youworry, dad. I'll make it all right."The whirl of words roused Mr. Crocker from his thoughts.
　　"It doesn't matter, Jimmy. Don't worry yourself. It's only alittle unfortunate, because our stepmother says she won't thinkof our going back to America till these people here have given mea title. She wants to put one over on her sister. That's allthat's troubling me, the thought that this affair will set usback, this Lord Percy being in so strong with the guys who givethe titles. I guess it will mean my staying on here for a whilelonger, and I'd liked to have seen another ball-game. Jimmy, doyou know they call baseball Rounders in this country, andchildren play it with a soft ball!"Jimmy was striding up and down the little room. Remorse had himin its grip.
　　"What a damned fool I am!""Never mind, Jimmy. It's unfortunate, but it wasn't your fault.
　　You couldn't know.""It was my fault. Nobody but a fool like me would go aboutbeating people up. But don't worry, dad. It's going to be allright. I'll fix it. I'm going right round to this fellow Percynow to make things all right. I won't come back till I've squaredhim. Don't you bother yourself about it any longer, dad. It'sgoing to be all right."
Chapter 6 Jimmy Abandons Piccadilly
    Jimmy removed himself sorrowfully from the doorstep of the Dukeof Devizes' house in Cleveland Row. His mission had been afailure. In answer to his request to be permitted to see LordPercy Whipple, the butler had replied that Lord Percy wasconfined to his bed and was seeing nobody. He eyed Jimmy, onreceiving his name, with an interest which he failed to conceal,for he too, like Bayliss, had read and heartily enjoyed BillBlake's spirited version of the affair of last night which hadappeared in the _Daily Sun_. Indeed, he had clipped the report outand had been engaged in pasting it in an album when the bellrang.
　　In face of this repulse, Jimmy's campaign broke down. He was at aloss to know what to do next. He ebbed away from the Duke's frontdoor like an army that has made an unsuccessful frontal attack onan impregnable fortress. He could hardly force his way in andsearch for Lord Percy.
　　He walked along Pall Mall, deep in thought. It was a beautifulday. The rain which had fallen in the night and relieved Mr.
　　Crocker from the necessity of watching cricket had freshenedLondon up.
　　The sun was shining now from a turquoise sky. A gentle breezeblew from the south. Jimmy made his way into Piccadilly, andfound that thoroughfare a-roar with happy automobilists andcheery pedestrians. Their gaiety irritated him. He resentedtheir apparent enjoyment of life.
　　Jimmy's was not a nature that lent itself readily tointrospection, but he was putting himself now through a searchingself-examination which was revealing all kinds of unsuspectedflaws in his character. He had been having too good a time foryears past to have leisure to realise that he possessed anyresponsibilities. He had lived each day as it came in the spiritof the Monks of Thelema. But his father's reception of the newsof last night's escapade and the few words he had said had givenhim pause. Life had taken on of a sudden a less simple aspect.
　　Dimly, for he was not accustomed to thinking along these lines,he perceived the numbing truth that we human beings are merely asmany pieces in a jig-saw puzzle and that our every movementaffects the fortunes of some other piece. Just so, faintly atfirst and taking shape by degrees, must the germ of civic spirithave come to Prehistoric Man. We are all individualists till wewake up.
　　The thought of having done anything to make his father unhappywas bitter to Jimmy Crocker. They had always been more likebrothers than father and son. Hard thoughts about himself surgedthrough Jimmy's mind. With a dejectedness to which it is possiblethat his headache contributed he put the matter squarely tohimself. His father was longing to return to America--he, Jimmy,by his idiotic behaviour was putting obstacles in the way of thatreturn--what was the answer? The answer, to Jimmy's way ofthinking, was that all was not well with James Crocker, that,when all the evidence was weighed, James Crocker would appear tobe a fool, a worm, a selfish waster, and a hopeless, low-down,skunk.
　　Having come to this conclusion, Jimmy found himself so low inspirit that the cheerful bustle of Piccadilly was too much forhim. He turned, and began to retrace his steps. Arriving in duecourse at the top of the Haymarket he hesitated, then turned downit till he reached Cockspur Street. Here the Trans-Atlanticsteamship companies have their offices, and so it came about thatJimmy, chancing to look up as he walked, perceived before him,riding gallantly on a cardboard ocean behind a plate-glasswindow, the model of a noble vessel. He stopped, conscious of acurious thrill. There is a superstition in all of us. When anaccidental happening chances to fit smoothly in with a mood,seeming to come as a direct commentary on that mood, we are aptto accept it in defiance of our pure reason as an omen. Jimmystrode to the window and inspected the model narrowly. The sightof it had started a new train of thought. His heart began torace. Hypnotic influences were at work on him.
　　Why not? Could there be a simpler solution of the whole trouble?
　　Inside the office he would see a man with whiskers buying aticket for New York. The simplicity of the process fascinatedhim. All you had to do was to walk in, bend over the counterwhile the clerk behind it made dabs with a pencil at theillustrated plate of the ship's interior organs, and hand overyour money. A child could do it, if in funds. At this thought hishand strayed to his trouser-pocket. A musical crackling ofbank-notes proceeded from the depths. His quarterly allowance hadbeen paid to him only a short while before, and, though a willingspender, he still retained a goodly portion of it. He rustled thenotes again. There was enough in that pocket to buy three ticketsto New York. Should he? . . . Or, on the other hand--always lookon both sides of the question--should he not?
　　It would certainly seem to be the best thing for all parties ifhe did follow the impulse. By remaining in London he was injuringeverybody, himself included. . . . Well, there was no harm inmaking enquiries. Probably the boat was full up anyway. . . . Hewalked into the office.
　　"Have you anything left on the _Atlantic_ this trip?"The clerk behind the counter was quite the wrong sort of personfor Jimmy to have had dealings with in his present mood. WhatJimmy needed was a grave, sensible man who would have laid a handon his shoulder and said "Do nothing rash, my boy!" The clerkfell short of this ideal in practically every particular. He wasabout twenty-two, and he seemed perfectly enthusiastic about theidea of Jimmy going to America. He beamed at Jimmy.
　　"Plenty of room," he said. "Very few people crossing. Give youexcellent accommodation.""When does the boat sail?""Eight to-morrow morning from Liverpool. Boat-train leavesPaddington six to-night."Prudence came at the eleventh hour to check Jimmy. This was not amatter, he perceived, to be decided recklessly, on the spur of asudden impulse. Above all, it was not a matter to be decidedbefore lunch. An empty stomach breeds imagination. He hadascertained that he could sail on the _Atlantic_ if he wished to.
　　The sensible thing to do now was to go and lunch and see how hefelt about it after that. He thanked the clerk, and started towalk up the Haymarket, feeling hard-headed and practical, yetwith a strong premonition that he was going to make a fool ofhimself just the same.
　　It was half-way up the Haymarket that he first became consciousof the girl with the red hair.
　　Plunged in thought, he had not noticed her before. And yet shehad been walking a few paces in front of him most of the way. Shehad come out of Panton Street, walking briskly, as one going tokeep a pleasant appointment. She carried herself admirably, witha jaunty swing.
　　Having become conscious of this girl, Jimmy, ever a warm admirerof the sex, began to feel a certain interest stealing over him.
　　With interest came speculation. He wondered who she was. Hewondered where she had bought that excellently fitting suit oftailor-made grey. He admired her back, and wondered whether herface, if seen, would prove a disappointment. Thus musing, he drewnear to the top of the Haymarket, where it ceases to be a streetand becomes a whirlpool of rushing traffic. And here the girl,having paused and looked over her shoulder, stepped off thesidewalk. As she did so a taxi-cab rounded the corner quicklyfrom the direction of Coventry Street.
　　The agreeable surprise of finding the girl's face fully asattractive as her back had stimulated Jimmy, so that he was keyedup for the exhibition of swift presence-of-mind. He jumpedforward and caught her arm, and swung her to one side as the cabrattled past, its driver thinking hard thoughts to himself. Thewhole episode was an affair of seconds.
　　"Thank you," said the girl.
　　She rubbed the arm which he had seized with rather a ruefulexpression. She was a little white, and her breath came quickly.
　　"I hope I didn't hurt you," said Jimmy.
　　"You did. Very much. But the taxi would have hurt me more."She laughed. She looked very attractive when she laughed. She hada small, piquant, vivacious face. Jimmy, as he looked at it, hadan odd feeling that he had seen her before--when and where he didnot know. That mass of red-gold hair seemed curiously familiar.
　　Somewhere in the hinterland of his mind there lurked a memory,but he could not bring it into the open. As for the girl, if shehad ever met him before, she showed no signs of recollecting it.
　　Jimmy decided that, if he had seen her, it must have been in hisreporter days. She was plainly an American, and he occasionallyhad the feeling that he had seen every one in America when he hadworked for the _Chronicle_.
　　"That's right," he said approvingly. "Always look on the brightside.""I only arrived in London yesterday," said the girl, "and Ihaven't got used to your keeping-to-the-left rules. I don'tsuppose I shall ever get back to New York alive. Perhaps, as youhave saved my life, you wouldn't mind doing me another service.
　　Can you tell me which is the nearest and safest way to arestaurant called the Regent Grill?""It's just over there, at the corner of Regent Street. As to thesafest way, if I were you I should cross over at the top of thestreet there and then work round westward. Otherwise you will haveto cross Piccadilly Circus.""I absolutely refuse even to try to cross Piccadilly Circus.
　　Thank you very much. I will follow your advice. I hope I shallget there. It doesn't seem at all likely."She gave him a little nod, and moved away. Jimmy turned into thatdrug-store at the top of the Haymarket at which so many Londonershave found healing and comfort on the morning after, and boughtthe pink drink for which his system had been craving since herose from bed. He wondered why, as he drained it, he should feelashamed and guilty.
　　A few minutes later he found himself, with mild surprise, goingdown the steps of the Regent Grill. It was the last place he hadhad in his mind when he had left the steamship company's officesin quest of lunch. He had intended to seek out some quiet,restful nook where he could be alone with his thoughts. Ifanybody had told him then that five minutes later he would beplacing himself of his own free will within the range of arestaurant orchestra playing "My Little Grey Home in theWest"--and the orchestra at the Regent played little else--hewould not have believed him.
　　Restaurants in all large cities have their ups and downs. At thistime the Regent Grill was enjoying one of those bursts ofpopularity for which restaurateurs pray to whatever strange godsthey worship. The more prosperous section of London's Bohemiaflocked to it daily. When Jimmy had deposited his hat with therobber-band who had their cave just inside the main entrance andhad entered the grill-room, he found it congested. There did notappear to be a single unoccupied table.
　　From where he stood he could see the girl of the red-gold hair.
　　Her back was towards him, and she was sitting at a table againstone of the pillars with a little man with eye-glasses, a handsomewoman in the forties, and a small stout boy who was skirmishingwith the olives. As Jimmy hesitated, the vigilant head-waiter,who knew him well, perceived him, and hurried up.
　　"In one moment, Mister Crockaire!" he said, and began to scattercommands among the underlings. "I will place a table for you inthe aisle.""Next to that pillar, please," said Jimmy.
　　The underlings had produced a small table--apparently from uptheir sleeves, and were draping it in a cloth. Jimmy sat down andgave his order. Ordering was going on at the other table. Thelittle man seemed depressed at the discovery that corn on the coband soft-shelled crabs were not to be obtained, and his wife'sreception of the news that clams were not included in theRegent's bill-of-fare was so indignant that one would have saidthat she regarded the fact as evidence that Great Britain wasgoing to pieces and would shortly lose her place as a worldpower.
　　A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struckup "My Little Grey Home in the West," and no attempt was made tocompete with it. When the last lingering strains had died awayand the violinist-leader, having straightened out the kinks inhis person which the rendition of the melody never failed toproduce, had bowed for the last time, a clear, musical voicespoke from the other side of the pillar.
　　"Jimmy Crocker is a WORM!"Jimmy spilled his cocktail. It might have been the voice ofConscience.
　　"I despise him more than any one on earth. I hate to think thathe's an American."Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly tomake sure of them, partly as a restorative. It is an unnervingthing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you havejust saved. To Jimmy it was not only unnerving; it was uncanny.
　　This girl had not known him when they met on the street a fewmoments before. How then was she able to display such intimateacquaintance with his character now as to describe him--justlyenough--as a worm? Mingled with the mystery of the thing was itspathos. The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this oneand yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmyhad ever come across. It was like one of those Things Which MakeMe Weep In This Great City so dear to the hearts of thesob-writers of his late newspaper.
　　A waiter bustled up with a high-ball. Jimmy thanked him with hiseyes. He needed it. He raised it to his lips.
　　"He's always drinking--"He set it down hurriedly.
　　"--and making a disgraceful exhibition of himself in public! Ialways think Jimmy Crocker--"Jimmy began to wish that somebody would stop this girl. Whycouldn't the little man change the subject to the weather, orthat stout child start prattling about some general topic? Surelya boy of that age, newly arrived in London, must have all sortsof things to prattle about? But the little man was dealingstrenuously with a breaded cutlet, while the stout boy, grimlysilent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of astarving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to bewrestling with unpleasant thoughts, beyond speech.
　　"--I always think that Jimmy Crocker is the worst case I know ofthe kind of American young man who spends all his time in Europeand tries to become an imitation Englishman. Most of them are thesort any country would be glad to get rid of, but he used to workonce, so you can't excuse him on the ground that he hasn't thesense to know what he's doing. He's deliberately chosen to loafabout London and make a pest of himself. He went to pieces withhis eyes open. He's a perfect, utter, hopeless WORM!"Jimmy had never been very fond of the orchestra at the RegentGrill, holding the view that it interfered with conversation andmade for an unhygienic rapidity of mastication; but he wasprofoundly grateful to it now for bursting suddenly into _LaBoheme_, the loudest item in its repertory. Under cover of thatprotective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which hiswaiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts ofthings about him still but he could not hear them.
　　The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered incomparative silence; then the girl's voice spoke again. She had,however, selected another topic of conversation.
　　"I've seen all I want to of England," she said, "I've seenWestminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and His Majesty'sTheatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I've developeda frightful home-sickness. Why shouldn't we go back to-morrow?"For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. Shecast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say "Yes," thenwrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparentlybeen waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that thesooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he wouldbe pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished hisfish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of moroseresolution.
　　"There's certain to be a boat," said the girl. "There always is.
　　You've got to say that for England--it's an easy place to get backto America from." She paused. "What I can't understand is how,after having been in America and knowing what it was like, JimmyCrocker could stand living . . ."The waiter had come to Jimmy's side, bearing cheese; but Jimmylooked at it with dislike and shook his head in silent negation.
　　He was about to depart from this place. His capacity forabsorbing home-truths about himself was exhausted. He placed anoiseless sovereign on the table, caught the waiter's eye,registered renunciation, and departed soft-footed down the aisle.
　　The waiter, a man who had never been able to bring himself tobelieve in miracles, revised the views of a life-time. He lookedat the sovereign, then at Jimmy, then at the sovereign again.
　　Then he took up the coin and bit it furtively.
　　A few minutes later, a hat-check boy, untipped for the first timein his predatory career, was staring at Jimmy with equalintensity, but with far different feelings. Speechless concernwas limned on his young face.
　　The commissionaire at the Piccadilly entrance of the restauranttouched his hat ingratiatingly, with the smug confidence of a manwho is accustomed to getting sixpence a time for doing it.
　　"Taxi, Mr. Crocker?""A worm," said Jimmy.
　　"Beg pardon, sir?""Always drinking," explained Jimmy, "and making a pest ofhimself."He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently asthe waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr.
　　Crocker like this after supper, but never before during theluncheon hour.
　　Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue. Forperhaps half an hour he sat in a condition of coma in thesmoking-room; then, his mind made up, he went to one of thewriting-tables. He sat awaiting inspiration for some minutes,then began to write.
　　The letter he wrote was to his father:
　　Dear Dad:
　　I have been thinking over what we talked about thismorning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is todrop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on inLondon, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner likelast night's which will spill the beans for you once more.
　　The least I can do for you is to give you a clear fieldand not interfere, so I am off to New York by to-night'sboat.
　　I went round to Percy's to try to grovel in the dustbefore him, but he wouldn't see me. It's no goodgrovelling in the dust of the front steps for the benefitof a man who's in bed on the second floor, so I withdrewin more or less good order. I then got the present idea.
　　Mark how all things work together for good. When they cometo you and say "No title for you. Your son slugged our palPercy," all you have to do is to come back at them with "Iknow my son slugged Percy, and believe me I didn't do athing to him! I packed him off to America withintwenty-four hours. Get me right, boys! I'm anti-Jimmy andpro-Percy." To which their reply will be "Oh, well, inthat case arise, Lord Crocker!" or whatever they say whenslipping a title to a deserving guy. So you will see thatby making this getaway I am doing the best I can to putthings straight. I shall give this to Bayliss to give toyou. I am going to call him up on the phone in a minute tohave him pack a few simple tooth-brushes and so on for me.
　　On landing in New York, I shall instantly proceed to thePolo Grounds to watch a game of Rounders, and will cableyou the full score. Well. I think that's about all. Sogood-bye--or even farewell--for the present.
　　J.
　　P.S. I know you'll understand, dad. I'm doing what seemsto me the only possible thing. Don't worry about me. Ishall be all right. I'll get back my old job and be aterrific success all round. You go ahead and get thattitle and then meet me at the entrance of the PoloGrounds. I'll be looking for you.
　　P.P.S. I'm a worm.
　　The young clerk at the steamship offices appeared rejoiced to seeJimmy once more. With a sunny smile he snatched a pencil from hisear and plunged it into the vitals of the Atlantic.
　　"How about E. a hundred and eight?""Suits me.""You're too late to go in the passenger-list, of course."Jimmy did not reply. He was gazing rigidly at a girl who had justcome in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile.
　　"So you're sailing on the _Atlantic_, too!" she said, with a glanceat the chart on the counter. "How odd! We have just decided to goback on her too. There's nothing to keep us here and we're allhomesick. Well, you see I wasn't run over after I left you."A delicious understanding relieved Jimmy's swimming brain, asthunder relieves the tense and straining air. The feeling that hewas going mad left him, as the simple solution of his mysterycame to him. This girl must have heard of him in NewYork--perhaps she knew people whom he knew and it was on hearsay,not on personal acquaintance, that she based that dislike of himwhich she had expressed with such freedom and conviction so shorta while before at the Regent Grill. She did not know who he was!
　　Into this soothing stream of thought cut the voice of the clerk.
　　"What name, please?"Jimmy's mind rocked again. Why were these things happening to himto-day of all days, when he needed the tenderest treatment, whenhe had a headache already?
　　The clerk was eyeing him expectantly. He had laid down his penciland was holding aloft a pen. Jimmy gulped. Every name in theEnglish language had passed from his mind. And then from out ofthe dark came inspiration.
　　"Bayliss," he croaked.
　　The girl held out her hand.
　　"Then we can introduce ourselves at last. My name is Ann Chester.
　　How do you do, Mr. Bayliss?""How do you do, Miss Chester?"The clerk had finished writing the ticket, and was pressinglabels and a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, wasa form and had to be filled up. He examined it, and found it tobe a searching document. Some of its questions could be answeredoff-hand, others required thought.
　　"Height?" Simple. Five foot eleven.
　　"Hair?" Simple. Brown.
　　"Eyes?" Simple again. Blue.
　　Next, queries of a more offensive kind.
　　"Are you a polygamist?"He could answer that. Decidedly no. One wife would beample--provided she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the rightkind of mouth, and a dimple. Whatever doubts there might be inhis mind on other points, on that one he had none whatever.
　　"Have you ever been in prison?"Not yet.
　　And then a very difficult one. "Are you a lunatic?"Jimmy hesitated. The ink dried on his pen. He was wondering.
　　* * *In the dim cavern of Paddington Station the boat-train snortedimpatiently, varying the process with an occasional sharp shriek.
　　The hands of the station clock pointed to ten minutes to six. Theplatform was a confused mass of travellers, porters, baggage,trucks, boys with buns and fruits, boys with magazines, friends,relatives, and Bayliss the butler, standing like a faithfulwatchdog beside a large suitcase. To the human surf that brokeand swirled about him he paid no attention. He was looking forthe young master.
　　Jimmy clove the crowd like a one-man flying-wedge. Two fruit andbun boys who impeded his passage drifted away like leaves on anAutumn gale.
　　"Good man!" He possessed himself of the suitcase. "I was afraidyou might not be able to get here.""The mistress is dining out, Mr. James. I was able to leave thehouse.""Have you packed everything I shall want?""Within the scope of a suitcase, yes, sir.""Splendid! Oh, by the way, give this letter to my father, willyou?""Very good, sir.""I'm glad you were able to manage. I thought your voice soundeddoubtful over the phone.""I was a good deal taken aback, Mr. James. Your decision to leavewas so extremely sudden.""So was Columbus'. You know about him? He saw an egg standing onits head and whizzed off like a jack-rabbit.""If you will pardon the liberty, Mr. James, is it not a littlerash--?""Don't take the joy out of life, Bayliss. I may be a chump, buttry to forget it. Use your willpower.""Good evening, Mr. Bayliss," said a voice behind them. They bothturned. The butler was gazing rather coyly at a vision in a greytailor-made suit.
　　"Good evening, miss," he said doubtfully.
　　Ann looked at him in astonishment, then broke into a smile.
　　"How stupid of me! I meant this Mr. Bayliss. Your son! We met atthe steamship offices. And before that he saved my life. So weare old friends."Bayliss, gaping perplexedly and feeling unequal to theintellectual pressure of the conversation, was surprised furtherto perceive a warning scowl on the face of his Mr. James. Jimmyhad not foreseen this thing, but he had a quick mind and wasequal to it.
　　"How are you, Miss Chester? My father has come down to see meoff. This is Miss Chester, dad."A British butler is not easily robbed of his poise, but Baylisswas frankly unequal to the sudden demand on his presence of mind.
　　He lowered his jaw an inch or two, but spoke no word.
　　"Dad's a little upset at my going," whispered Jimmyconfidentially. "He's not quite himself."Ann was a girl possessed not only of ready tact but of a kindheart. She had summed up Mr. Bayliss at a glance. Every line ofhim proclaimed him a respectable upper servant. No girl on earthcould have been freer than she of snobbish prejudice, but shecould not check a slight thrill of surprise and disappointment atthe discovery of Jimmy's humble origin. She understood everything,and there were tears in her eyes as she turned away to avoidintruding on the last moments of the parting of father and son.
　　"I'll see you on the boat, Mr. Bayliss," she said.
　　"Eh?" said Bayliss.
　　"Yes, yes," said Jimmy. "Good-bye till then."Ann walked on to her compartment. She felt as if she had just reada whole long novel, one of those chunky younger-English-novelistthings. She knew the whole story as well as if it had been toldto her in detail. She could see the father, the honest steadybutler, living his life with but one aim, to make a gentleman ofhis beloved only son. Year by year he had saved. Probably he hadsent the son to college. And now, with a father's blessing andthe remains of a father's savings, the boy was setting out forthe New World, where dollar-bills grew on trees and no one askedor cared who any one else's father might be.
　　There was a lump in her throat. Bayliss would have been amazed ifhe could have known what a figure of pathetic fineness he seemedto her. And then her thoughts turned to Jimmy, and she was awareof a glow of kindliness towards him. His father had succeeded inhis life's ambition. He had produced a gentleman! How easily andsimply, without a trace of snobbish shame, the young man hadintroduced his father. There was the right stuff in him. He wasnot ashamed of the humble man who had given him his chance inlife. She found herself liking Jimmy amazingly . . .
　　The hands of the clock pointed to three minutes to the hour.
　　Porters skimmed to and fro like water-beetles.
　　"I can't explain," said Jimmy. "It wasn't temporary insanity; itwas necessity.""Very good, Mr. James. I think you had better be taking your seatnow.""Quite right, I had. It would spoil the whole thing if they leftme behind. Bayliss, did you ever see such eyes? Such hair! Lookafter my father while I am away. Don't let the dukes worry him.
　　Oh, and, Bayliss"--Jimmy drew his hand from his pocket--"as onepal to another--"Bayliss looked at the crackling piece of paper.
　　"I couldn't, Mr. James, I really couldn't! A five-pound note! Icouldn't!""Nonsense! Be a sport!""Begging your pardon, Mr. James, I really couldn't. You cannotafford to throw away your money like this. You cannot have agreat deal of it, if you will excuse me for saying so.""I won't do anything of the sort. Grab it! Oh, Lord, the train'sstarting! Good-bye, Bayliss!"The engine gave a final shriek of farewell. The train began toslide along the platform, pursued to the last by optimistic boysoffering buns for sale. It gathered speed. Jimmy, leaning out thewindow, was amazed at a spectacle so unusual as practically toamount to a modern miracle--the spectacled Bayliss running. Thebutler was not in the pink of condition, but he was striding outgallantly. He reached the door of Jimmy's compartment, and raisedhis hand.
　　"Begging your pardon, Mr. James," he panted, "for taking theliberty, but I really couldn't!"He reached up and thrust something into Jimmy's hand, somethingcrisp and crackling. Then, his mission performed, fell back andstood waving a snowy handkerchief. The train plunged into thetunnel.
　　Jimmy stared at the five-pound note. He was aware, like Annfarther along the train, of a lump in his throat. He put the noteslowly into his pocket.
　　The train moved on.
Chapter 7 On The Boat-Deck
    Rising waters and a fine flying scud that whipped stingingly overthe side had driven most of the passengers on the _Atlantic_ to theshelter of their staterooms or to the warm stuffiness of thelibrary. It was the fifth evening of the voyage. For five daysand four nights the ship had been racing through a placid oceanon her way to Sandy Hook: but in the early hours of thisafternoon the wind had shifted to the north, bringing heavy seas.
　　Darkness had begun to fall now. The sky was a sullen black. Thewhite crests of the rollers gleamed faintly in the dusk, and thewind sang in the ropes.
　　Jimmy and Ann had had the boat-deck to themselves for half anhour. Jimmy was a good sailor: it exhilarated him to fight thewind and to walk a deck that heaved and dipped and shudderedbeneath his feet; but he had not expected to have Ann's companyon such an evening. But she had come out of the saloon entrance,her small face framed in a hood and her slim body shapelessbeneath a great cloak, and joined him in his walk.
　　Jimmy was in a mood of exaltation. He had passed the last fewdays in a condition of intermittent melancholy, consequent on thediscovery that he was not the only man on board the _Atlantic_ whodesired the society of Ann as an alleviation of the tedium of anocean voyage. The world, when he embarked on this venture, hadconsisted so exclusively of Ann and himself that, until the shipwas well on its way to Queenstown, he had not conceived thepossibility of intrusive males forcing their unwelcome attentionson her. And it had added bitterness to the bitter awakening thattheir attentions did not appear to be at all unwelcome. Almostimmediately after breakfast on the very first day, a creature witha small black moustache and shining teeth had descended upon Annand, vocal with surprise and pleasure at meeting her again--heclaimed, damn him!, to have met her before at Palm Beach, BarHarbor, and a dozen other places--had carried her off to play anidiotic game known as shuffle-board. Nor was this an isolatedcase. It began to be borne in upon Jimmy that Ann, whom he hadlooked upon purely in the light of an Eve playing opposite hisAdam in an exclusive Garden of Eden, was an extremely well-knownand popular character. The clerk at the shipping-office had liedabsurdly when he had said that very few people were crossing onthe _Atlantic_ this voyage. The vessel was crammed till its sidesbulged, it was loaded down in utter defiance of the Plimsoll law,with Rollos and Clarences and Dwights and Twombleys who had knownand golfed and ridden and driven and motored and swum and dancedwith Ann for years. A ghastly being entitled Edgar Something orTeddy Something had beaten Jimmy by a short head in the race forthe deck-steward, the prize of which was the placing of hisdeck-chair next to Ann's. Jimmy had been driven from thepromenade deck by the spectacle of this beastly creature lyingswathed in rugs reading best-sellers to her.
　　He had scarcely seen her to speak to since the beginning of thevoyage. When she was not walking with Rolly or playingshuffle-board with Twombley, she was down below ministering tothe comfort of a chronically sea-sick aunt, referred to inconversation as "poor aunt Nesta". Sometimes Jimmy saw the littleman--presumably her uncle--in the smoking-room, and once he cameupon the stout boy recovering from the effects of a cigar in aquiet corner of the boat-deck: but apart from these meetings thefamily was as distant from him as if he had never seen Ann atall--let alone saved her life.
　　And now she had dropped down on him from heaven. They were alonetogether with the good clean wind and the bracing scud. Rollo,Clarence, Dwight, and Twombley, not to mention Edgar or possiblyTeddy, were down below--he hoped, dying. They had the world tothemselves.
　　"I love rough weather," said Ann, lifting her face to the wind.
　　Her eyes were very bright. She was beyond any doubt or questionthe only girl on earth. "Poor aunt Nesta doesn't. She was badenough when it was quite calm, but this storm has finished her.
　　I've just been down below, trying to cheer her up."Jimmy thrilled at the picture. Always fascinating, Ann seemed tohim at her best in the role of ministering angel. He longed totell her so, but found no words. They reached the end of thedeck, and turned. Ann looked up at him.
　　"I've hardly seen anything of you since we sailed," she said. Shespoke almost reproachfully. "Tell me all about yourself, Mr.
　　Bayliss. Why are you going to America?"Jimmy had had an impassioned indictment of the Rollos on histongue, but she had closed the opening for it as quickly as shehad made it. In face of her direct demand for information hecould not hark back to it now. After all, what did the Rollosmatter? They had no part in this little wind-swept world: theywere where they belonged, in some nether hell on the C. or D.
　　deck, moaning for death.
　　"To make a fortune, I hope," he said.
　　Ann was pleased at this confirmation of her diagnosis. She haddeduced this from the evidence at Paddington Station.
　　"How pleased your father will be if you do!"The slight complexity of Jimmy's affairs caused him to pause fora moment to sort out his fathers, but an instant's reflectiontold him that she must be referring to Bayliss the butler.
　　"Yes.""He's a dear old man," said Ann. "I suppose he's very proud ofyou?""I hope so.""You must do tremendously well in America, so as not todisappoint him. What are you thinking of doing?"Jimmy considered for a moment.
　　"Newspaper work, I think.""Oh? Why, have you had any experience?""A little."Ann seemed to grow a little aloof, as if her enthusiasm had beendamped.
　　"Oh, well, I suppose it's a good enough profession. I'm not veryfond of it myself. I've only met one newspaper man in my life,and I dislike him very much, so I suppose that has prejudicedme.""Who was that?""You wouldn't have met him. He was on an American paper. A mannamed Crocker."A sudden gust of wind drove them back a step, rendering talkimpossible. It covered a gap when Jimmy could not have spoken.
　　The shock of the information that Ann had met him before made himdumb. This thing was beyond him. It baffled him.
　　Her next words supplied a solution. They were under shelter ofone of the boats now and she could make herself heard.
　　"It was five years ago, and I only met him for a very shortwhile, but the prejudice has lasted."Jimmy began to understand. Five years ago! It was not so strange,then, that they should not recognise each other now. He stirredup his memory. Nothing came to the surface. Not a gleam ofrecollection of that early meeting rewarded him. And yetsomething of importance must have happened then, for her toremember it. Surely his mere personality could not have been sounpleasant as to have made such a lasting impression on her!
　　"I wish you could do something better than newspaper work," saidAnn. "I always think the splendid part about America is that itis such a land of adventure. There are such millions of chances.
　　It's a place where anything may happen. Haven't you anadventurous soul, Mr. Bayliss?"No man lightly submits to a charge, even a hinted charge, ofbeing deficient in the capacity for adventure.
　　"Of course I have," said Jimmy indignantly. "I'm game to tackleanything that comes along.""I'm glad of that."Her feeling of comradeship towards this young man deepened. Sheloved adventure and based her estimate of any member of theopposite sex largely on his capacity for it. She moved in a set,when at home, which was more polite than adventurous, and hadfrequently found the atmosphere enervating.
　　"Adventure," said Jimmy, "is everything."He paused. "Or a good deal," he concluded weakly.
　　"Why qualify it like that? It sounds so tame. Adventure is thebiggest thing in life."It seemed to Jimmy that he had received an excuse for a remark ofa kind that had been waiting for utterance ever since he had mether. Often and often in the watches of the night, smoking endlesspipes and thinking of her, he had conjured up just such a visionas this--they two walking the deserted deck alone, and sheinnocently giving him an opening for some low-voiced, tenderspeech, at which she would start, look at him quickly, and thenask him haltingly if the words had any particular application.
　　And after that--oh, well, all sorts of things might happen. Andnow the moment had come. It was true that he had always picturedthe scene as taking place by moonlight and at present there was ahalf-gale blowing, out of an inky sky; also on the presentoccasion anything in the nature of a low-voiced speech wasabsolutely out of the question owing to the uproar of theelements. Still, taking these drawbacks into consideration, thechance was far too good to miss. Such an opening might neverhappen again. He waited till the ship had steadied herself afteran apparently suicidal dive into an enormous roller, then,staggering back to her side, spoke.
　　"Love is the biggest thing in life!" he roared.
　　"What is?" shrieked Ann.
　　"Love!" bellowed Jimmy.
　　He wished a moment later that he had postponed this statement offaith, for their next steps took them into a haven of comparativecalm, where some dimly seen portion of the vessel's anatomyjutted out and formed a kind of nook where it was possible tohear the ordinary tones of the human voice. He halted here, andAnn did the same, though unwillingly. She was conscious of afeeling of disappointment and of a modification of her mood ofcomradeship towards her companion. She held strong views, whichshe believed to be unalterable, on the subject under discussion.
　　"Love!" she said. It was too dark to see her face, but her voicesounded unpleasantly scornful. "I shouldn't have thought that youwould have been so conventional as that. You seemed different.""Eh?" said Jimmy blankly.
　　"I hate all this talk about Love, as if it were somethingwonderful that was worth everything else in life put together.
　　Every book you read and every song that you see in theshop-windows is all about Love. It's as if the whole world werein a conspiracy to persuade themselves that there's a wonderfulsomething just round the corner which they can get if they tryhard enough. And they hypnotise themselves into thinking ofnothing else and miss all the splendid things of life.""That's Shaw, isn't it?" said Jimmy.
　　"What is Shaw?""What you were saying. It's out of one of Bernard Shaw's things,isn't it?""It is not." A note of acidity had crept into Ann's voice. "It isperfectly original.""I'm certain I've heard it before somewhere.""If you have, that simply means that you must have associatedwith some sensible person."Jimmy was puzzled.
　　"But why the grouch?" he asked.
　　"I don't understand you.""I mean, why do you feel that way about it?"Ann was quite certain now that she did not like this young mannearly as well as she had supposed. It is trying for astrong-minded, clear-thinking girl to have her philosophydescribed as a grouch.
　　"Because I've had the courage to think about it for myself, andnot let myself be blinded by popular superstition. The wholeworld has united in making itself imagine that there is somethingcalled love which is the most wonderful happening in life. Thepoets and novelists have simply hounded them on to believe it.
　　It's a gigantic swindle."A wave of tender compassion swept over Jimmy. He understood itall now. Naturally a girl who had associated all her life withthe Rollos, Clarences, Dwights, and Twombleys would come todespair of the possibility of falling in love with any one.
　　"You haven't met the right man," he said. She had, of course, butonly recently: and, anyway, he could point that out later.
　　"There is no such thing as the right man," said Ann resolutely,"if you are suggesting that there is a type of man in existencewho is capable of inspiring what is called romantic love. Ibelieve in marriage. . . .""Good work!" said Jimmy, well satisfied.
　　" . . . But not as the result of a sort of delirium. I believe init as a sensible partnership between two friends who know eachother well and trust each other. The right way of looking atmarriage is to realise, first of all, that there are no thrills,no romances, and then to pick out some one who is nice and kindand amusing and full of life and willing to do things to make youhappy.""Ah!" said Jimmy, straightening his tie, "Well, that'ssomething.""How do you mean--that's something? Are you shocked at my views?""I don't believe they are your views. You've been reading one ofthese stern, soured fellows who analyse things."Ann stamped. The sound was inaudible, but Jimmy noticed themovement.
　　"Cold?" he said. "Let's walk on."Ann's sense of humour reasserted itself. It was not often that itremained dormant for so long. She laughed.
　　"I know exactly what you are thinking," she said. "You believethat I am posing, that those aren't my real opinions.""They can't be. But I don't think you are posing. It's getting onfor dinner-time, and you've got that wan, sinking feeling thatmakes you look upon the world and find it a hollow fraud. Thebugle will be blowing in a few minutes, and half an hour afterthat you will be yourself again.""I'm myself now. I suppose you can't realise that a pretty girlcan hold such views."Jimmy took her arm.
　　"Let me help you," he said. "There's a knothole in the deck.
　　Watch your step. Now, listen to me. I'm glad you've brought upthis subject--I mean the subject of your being the prettiest girlin the known world--""I never said that.""Your modesty prevented you. But it's a fact, nevertheless. I'mglad, I say, because I have been thinking a lot along those linesmyself, and I have been anxious to discuss the point with you.
　　You have the most glorious hair I have ever seen!""Do you like red hair?""Red-gold.""It is nice of you to put it like that. When I was a child allexcept a few of the other children called me Carrots.""They have undoubtedly come to a bad end by this time. If bearswere sent to attend to the children who criticised Elijah, yourlittle friends were in line for a troupe of tigers. But therewere some of a finer fibre? There were a few who didn't call youCarrots?""One or two. They called me Brick-Top.""They have probably been electrocuted since. Your eyes areperfectly wonderful!"Ann withdrew her arm. An extensive acquaintance of young men toldher that the topic of conversation was now due to be changed.
　　"You will like America," she said.
　　"We are not discussing America.""I am. It is a wonderful country for a man who wants to succeed.
　　If I were you, I should go out West.""Do you live out West?""No.""Then why suggest my going there? Where do you live?""I live in New York.""I shall stay in New York, then."Ann was wary, but amused. Proposals of marriage--and Jimmy seemedto be moving swiftly towards one--were no novelty in her life. Inthe course of several seasons at Bar Harbor, Tuxedo, Palm Beach,and in New York itself, she had spent much of her time foilingand discouraging the ardour of a series of sentimental youths whohad laid their unwelcome hearts at her feet.
　　"New York is open for staying in about this time, I believe."Jimmy was silent. He had done his best to fight a tendency tobecome depressed and had striven by means of a light tone to keephimself resolutely cheerful, but the girl's apparently totalindifference to him was too much for his spirits. One of theyoung men who had had to pick up the heart he had flung at Ann'sfeet and carry it away for repairs had once confided to anintimate friend, after the sting had to some extent passed, thatthe feelings of a man who made love to Ann might be likened tothe emotions which hot chocolate might be supposed to entertainon contact with vanilla ice-cream. Jimmy, had the comparison beenpresented to him, would have endorsed its perfect accuracy. Thewind from the sea, until now keen and bracing, had become merelyinfernally cold. The song of the wind in the rigging, erstwhilemelodious, had turned into a damned depressing howling.
　　"I used to be as sentimental as any one a few years ago," saidAnn, returning to the dropped subject. "Just after I leftcollege, I was quite maudlin. I dreamed of moons and Junes andloves and doves all the time. Then something happened which mademe see what a little fool I was. It wasn't pleasant at the time,but it had a very bracing effect. I have been quite differentever since. It was a man, of course, who did it. His method wasquite simple. He just made fun of me, and Nature did the rest."Jimmy scowled in the darkness. Murderous thoughts towards theunknown brute flooded his mind.
　　"I wish I could meet him!" he growled.
　　"You aren't likely to," said Ann. "He lives in England. His nameis Crocker. Jimmy Crocker. I spoke about him just now."Through the howling of the wind cut the sharp notes of a bugle.
　　Ann turned to the saloon entrance.
　　"Dinner!" she said brightly. "How hungry one gets on board ship!"She stopped. "Aren't you coming down, Mr. Bayliss?""Not just yet," said Jimmy thickly.
Chapter 8 Painful Scene
    The noonday sun beat down on Park Row. Hurrying mortals, releasedfrom a thousand offices, congested the sidewalks, their thoughtsbusy with the vision of lunch. Up and down the canyon of NassauStreet the crowds moved more slowly. Candy-selling aliens jostlednewsboys, and huge dray-horses endeavoured to the best of theirability not to grind the citizenry beneath their hooves.
　　Eastward, pressing on to the City Hall, surged the usual densearmy of happy lovers on their way to buy marriage-licenses. Menpopped in and out of the subway entrances like rabbits. It was astirring, bustling scene, typical of this nerve-centre of NewYork's vast body.
　　Jimmy Crocker, standing in the doorway, watched the throngsenviously. There were men in that crowd who chewed gum, therewere men who wore white satin ties with imitation diamondstick-pins, there were men who, having smoked seven-tenths of acigar, were eating the remainder: but there was not one with whomhe would not at that moment willingly have exchanged identities.
　　For these men had jobs. And in his present frame of mind itseemed to him that no further ingredient was needed for therecipe of the ultimate human bliss.
　　The poet has said some very searching and unpleasant things aboutthe man "whose heart has ne'er within him burned as home hisfootsteps he has turned from wandering on some foreign strand,"but he might have excused Jimmy for feeling just then not so mucha warmth of heart as a cold and clammy sensation of dismay. Hewould have had to admit that the words "High though his titles,proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim" did notapply to Jimmy Crocker. The latter may have been "concentred allon self," but his wealth consisted of one hundred andthirty-three dollars and forty cents and his name was so far frombeing proud that the mere sight of it in the files of the NewYork _Sunday Chronicle_, the record-room of which he had just beenvisiting, had made him consider the fact that he had changed itto Bayliss the most sensible act of his career.
　　The reason for Jimmy's lack of enthusiasm as he surveyed theportion of his native land visible from his doorway is not far toseek. The _Atlantic_ had docked on Saturday night, and Jimmy,having driven to an excellent hotel and engaged an expensive roomtherein, had left instructions at the desk that breakfast shouldbe served to him at ten o'clock and with it the Sunday issue ofthe _Chronicle_. Five years had passed since he had seen the dearold rag for which he had reported so many fires, murders,street-accidents, and weddings: and he looked forward to itsperusal as a formal taking _seisin_ of his long-neglected country.
　　Nothing could be more fitting and symbolic than that the firstmorning of his return to America should find him propped up inbed reading the good old _Chronicle_. Among his final meditationsas he dropped off to sleep was a gentle speculation as to who wasCity editor now and whether the comic supplement was stillfeaturing the sprightly adventures of the Doughnut family.
　　A wave of not unmanly sentiment passed over him on the followingmorning as he reached out for the paper. The sky-line of NewYork, seen as the boat comes up the bay, has its points, and therattle of the Elevated trains and the quaint odour of the Subwayextend a kindly welcome, but the thing that really convinces thereturned traveller that he is back on Manhattan Island is thefirst Sunday paper. Jimmy, like every one else, began by openingthe comic supplement: and as he scanned it a chilly discomfort,almost a premonition of evil, came upon him. The Doughnut Familywas no more. He knew that it was unreasonable of him to feel asif he had just been informed of the death of a dear friend, forPa Doughnut and his associates had been having their adventuresfive years before he had left the country, and even the toughestcomic supplementary hero rarely endures for a decade: butnevertheless the shadow did fall upon his morning optimism, andhe derived no pleasure whatever from the artificial rollickingsof a degraded creature called Old Pop Dill-Pickle who was offeredas a substitute.
　　But this, he was to discover almost immediately, was a triflingdisaster. It distressed him, but it did not affect his materialwelfare. Tragedy really began when he turned to the magazinesection. Scarcely had he started to glance at it when thisheadline struck him like a bullet:
　　PICCADILLY JIM AT IT AGAINAnd beneath it his own name.
　　Nothing is so capable of diversity as the emotion we feel onseeing our name unexpectedly in print. We may soar to the heightsor we may sink to the depths. Jimmy did the latter. A merecursory first inspection of the article revealed the fact that itwas no eulogy. With an unsparing hand the writer had muck-rakedhis eventful past, the text on which he hung his remarks beingthat ill-fated encounter with Lord Percy Whipple at the SixHundred Club. This the scribe had recounted at a length and witha boisterous vim which outdid even Bill Blake's effort in theLondon _Daily Sun_. Bill Blake had been handicapped byconsideration of space and the fact that he had turned in hiscopy at an advanced hour when the paper was almost made up. Thepresent writer was shackled by no restrictions. He had plenty ofroom to spread himself in, and he had spread himself. So liberalhad been the editor's views in the respect that, in addition tothe letter-press, the pages contained an unspeakably offensivepicture of a burly young man in an obviously advanced conditionof alcoholism raising his fist to strike a monocled youth inevening dress who had so little chin that Jimmy was surprisedthat he had ever been able to hit it. The only gleam ofconsolation that he could discover in this repellent drawing wasthe fact that the artist had treated Lord Percy even morescurvily than himself. Among other things, the second son of theDuke of Devizes was depicted as wearing a coronet--a thing whichwould have excited remark even in a London night-club.
　　Jimmy read the thing through in its entirety three times beforehe appreciated a _nuance_ which his disordered mind had at firstfailed to grasp--to wit, that this character-sketch of himselfwas no mere isolated outburst but apparently one of a series. Inseveral places the writer alluded unmistakeably to other theseson the same subject.
　　Jimmy's breakfast congealed on its tray, untouched. That boonwhich the gods so seldom bestow, of seeing ourselves as otherssee us, had been accorded to him in full measure. By the time hehad completed his third reading he was regarding himself in apurely objective fashion not unlike the attitude of a naturalisttowards some strange and loathesome manifestation of insect life.
　　So this was the sort of fellow he was! He wondered they had lethim in at a reputable hotel.
　　The rest of the day he passed in a state of such humility that hecould have wept when the waiters were civil to him. On the Mondaymorning he made his way to Park Row to read the files of the_Chronicle_--a morbid enterprise, akin to the eccentric behaviourof those priests of Baal who gashed themselves with knives or ofauthors who subscribe to press-clipping agencies.
　　He came upon another of the articles almost at once, in an issuenot a month old. Then there was a gap of several weeks, and hoperevived that things might not be as bad as he had feared--only tobe crushed by another trenchant screed. After that he set abouthis excavations methodically, resolved to know the worst. Heknew it in just under two hours. There it all was--his row withthe bookie, his bad behaviour at the political meeting, hisbreach-of-promise case. It was a complete biography.
　　And the name they called him. Piccadilly Jim! Ugh!
　　He went out into Park Row, and sought a quiet doorway where hecould brood upon these matters.
　　It was not immediately that the practical or financial aspect ofthe affair came to scourge him. For an appreciable time hesuffered in his self-esteem alone. It seemed to him that allthese bustling persons who passed knew him, that they werecasting sidelong glances at him and laughing derisively, thatthose who chewed gum chewed it sneeringly and that those who atetheir cigars ate them with thinly-veiled disapproval and scorn.
　　Then, the passage of time blunting sensitiveness, he found thatthere were other and weightier things to consider.
　　As far as he had had any connected plan of action in his suddencasting-off of the flesh-pots of London, he had determined assoon as possible after landing to report at the office of his oldpaper and apply for his ancient position. So little thought hadhe given to the minutiae of his future plans that it had notoccurred to him that he had anything to do but walk in, slap thegang on the back, and announce that he was ready to work. Work!--on the staff of a paper whose chief diversion appeared to be thesatirising of his escapades! Even had he possessed the moralcourage--or gall--to make the application, what good would it be?
　　He was a by-word in a world where he had once been a worthycitizen. What paper would trust Piccadilly Jim with anassignment? What paper would consider Piccadilly Jim even onspace rates? A chill dismay crept over him. He seemed to hear thegrave voice of Bayliss the butler speaking in his car as he hadspoken so short a while before at Paddington Station.
　　"Is it not a little rash, Mr. James?"Rash was the word. Here he stood, in a country that had nopossible use for him, a country where competition was keen andjobs for the unskilled infrequent. What on earth was there thathe could do?
　　Well, he could go home. . . . No, he couldn't. His pride revoltedat that solution. Prodigal Son stuff was all very well in itsway, but it lost its impressiveness if you turned up again athome two weeks after you had left. A decent interval among thehusks and swine was essential. Besides, there was his father toconsider. He might be a poor specimen of a fellow, as witness the_Sunday Chronicle_ _passim_, but he was not so poor as to comeslinking back to upset things for his father just when he haddone the only decent thing by removing himself. No, that was outof the question.
　　What remained? The air of New York is bracing and healthy, but aman cannot live on it. Obviously he must find a job. But whatjob?
　　What could he do?
　　A gnawing sensation in the region of the waistcoat answered thequestion. The solution--which it put forward was, it was true,but a temporary one, yet it appealed strongly to Jimmy. He hadfound it admirable at many crises. He would go and lunch, and itmight be that food would bring inspiration.
　　He moved from his doorway and crossed to the entrance of thesubway. He caught a timely express, and a few minutes lateremerged into the sunlight again at Grand Central. He made his waywestward along Forty-second Street to the hotel which he thoughtwould meet his needs. He had scarcely entered it when in a chairby the door he perceived Ann Chester, and at the sight of her allhis depression vanished and he was himself again.
　　"Why, how do you do, Mr. Bayliss? Are you lunching here?""Unless there is some other place that you would prefer," saidJimmy. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."Ann laughed. She was looking very delightful in something softand green.
　　"I'm not going to lunch with you. I'm waiting for Mr. Ralstoneand his sister. Do you remember him? He crossed over with us. Hischair was next to mine on the promenade deck."Jimmy was shocked. When he thought how narrowly she had escaped,poor girl, from lunching with that insufferable pill Teddy--orwas it Edgar?--he felt quite weak. Recovering himself, he spokefirmly.
　　"When were they to have met you?""At one o'clock.""It is now five past. You are certainly not going to wait anylonger. Come with me, and we will whistle for cabs.""Don't be absurd!""Come along. I want to talk to you about my future.""I shall certainly do nothing of the kind," said Ann, rising. Shewent with him to the door. "Teddy would never forgive me." Shegot into the cab. "It's only because you have appealed to me tohelp you discuss your future," she said, as they drove off.
　　"Nothing else would have induced me . . .""I know," said Jimmy. "I felt that I could rely on your womanlysympathy. Where shall we go?""Where do you want to go? Oh, I forget that you have never beenin New York before. By the way, what are your impressions of ourglorious country?""Most gratifying, if only I could get a job.""Tell him to drive to Delmonico's. It's just around the corner onForty-fourth Street.""There are some things round the corner, then?""That sounds cryptic. What do you mean.""You've forgotten our conversation that night on the ship. Yourefused to admit the existence of wonderful things just round thecorner. You said some very regrettable things that night. Aboutlove, if you remember.""You can't be going to talk about love at one o'clock in theafternoon! Talk about your future.""Love is inextricably mixed up with my future.""Not with your immediate future. I thought you said that you weretrying to get a job. Have you given up the idea of newspaperwork, then?""Absolutely.""Well, I'm rather glad."The cab drew up at the restaurant door, and the conversation wasinterrupted. When they were seated at their table and Jimmy hadgiven an order to the waiter of absolutely inexcusableextravagance, Ann returned to the topic.
　　"Well, now the thing is to find something for you to do."Jimmy looked round the restaurant with appreciative eyes. Thesummer exodus from New York was still several weeks distant, andthe place was full of prosperous-looking lunchers, not one ofwhom appeared to have a care or an unpaid bill in the world. Theatmosphere was redolent of substantial bank-balances. Solvencyshone from the closely shaven faces of the men and reflecteditself in the dresses of the women. Jimmy sighed.
　　"I suppose so," he said. "Though for choice I'd like to be one ofthe Idle Rich. To my mind the ideal profession is strolling intothe office and touching the old dad for another thousand."Ann was severe.
　　"You revolt me!" she said. "I never heard anything so thoroughlydisgraceful. You _need_ work!""One of these days," said Jimmy plaintively, "I shall be sittingby the roadside with my dinner-pail, and you will come by in yourlimousine, and I shall look up at you and say '_You_ hounded meinto this!' How will you feel then?""Very proud of myself.""In that case, there is no more to be said. I'd much rather hangabout and try to get adopted by a millionaire, but if you insiston my working--Waiter!""What do you want?" asked Ann.
　　"Will you get me a Classified Telephone Directory," said Jimmy.
　　"What for?" asked Ann.
　　"To look for a profession. There is nothing like beingmethodical."The waiter returned, bearing a red book. Jimmy thanked him andopened it at the A's.
　　"The boy, what will he become?" he said. He turned the pages.
　　"How about an Auditor? What do you think of that?""Do you think you could audit?""That I could not say till I had tried. I might turn out to bevery good at it. How about an Adjuster?""An adjuster of what?""The book doesn't say. It just remarks broadly--in a sort ofspacious way--'Adjuster.' I take it that, having decided tobecome an adjuster, you then sit down and decide what you wish toadjust. One might, for example, become an Asparagus Adjuster.""A what?""Surely you know? Asparagus Adjusters are the fellows who sellthose rope-and-pulley affairs by means of which the Smart Setlower asparagus into their mouths--or rather Francis the footmandoes it for them, of course. The diner leans back in his chair,and the menial works the apparatus in the background. It isentirely superseding the old-fashioned method of picking thevegetable up and taking a snap at it. But I suspect that to be asuccessful Asparagus Adjuster requires capital. We now come toAwning Crank and Spring Rollers. I don't think I should likethat. Rolling awning cranks seems to me a sorry way of spendinglife's springtime. Let's try the B's.""Let's try this omelette. It looks delicious." Jimmy shook hishead.
　　"I will toy with it--but absently and in a _distrait_ manner, asbecomes a man of affairs. There's nothing in the B's. I mightdevote my ardent youth to Bar-Room Glassware and Bottlers'
　　Supplies. On the other hand, I might not. Similarly, while thereis no doubt a bright future for somebody in Celluloid, Fiberloid,and Other Factitious Goods, instinct tells me that there is nonefor--" he pulled up on the verge of saying, "James BraithwaiteCrocker," and shuddered at the nearness of the pitfall.
　　"--for--" he hesitated again--"for Algernon Bayliss," heconcluded.
　　Ann smiled delightedly. It was so typical that his father shouldhave called him something like that. Time had not dimmed herregard for the old man she had seen for that brief moment atPaddington Station. He was an old dear, and she thoroughlyapproved of this latest manifestation of his supposed pride inhis offspring.
　　"Is that really your name--Algernon?""I cannot deny it.""I think your father is a darling," said Ann inconsequently.
　　Jimmy had buried himself in the directory again.
　　"The D's," he said. "Is it possible that posterity will know meas Bayliss the Dermatologist? Or as Bayliss the Drop Forger? Idon't quite like that last one. It may be a respectableoccupation, but it sounds rather criminal to me. The sentence forforging drops is probably about twenty years with hard labour.""I wish you would put that book away and go on with your lunch,"said Ann.
　　"Perhaps," said Jimmy, "my grandchildren will cluster round myknee some day and say in their piping, childish voices, 'Tell ushow you became the Elastic Stocking King, grandpa!' What do youthink?""I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are wastingyour time, when you ought to be either talking to me or elsethinking very seriously about what you mean to do."Jimmy was turning the pages rapidly.
　　"I will be with you in a moment," he said. "Try to amuse yourselfsomehow till I am at leisure. Ask yourself a riddle. Tellyourself an anecdote. Think of life. No, it's no good. I don'tsee myself as a Fan Importer, a Glass Beveller, a Hotel Broker,an Insect Exterminator, a Junk Dealer, a Kalsomine Manufacturer,a Laundryman, a Mausoleum Architect, a Nurse, an Oculist, aPaper-Hanger, a Quilt Designer, a Roofer, a Ship Plumber, aTinsmith, an Undertaker, a Veterinarian, a Wig Maker, an X-rayapparatus manufacturer, a Yeast producer, or a Zinc Spelter." Heclosed the book. "There is only one thing to do. I must starve inthe gutter. Tell me--you know New York better than I do--where isthere a good gutter?"At this moment there entered the restaurant an Immaculate Person.
　　He was a young man attired in faultlessly fitting clothes, withshoes of flawless polish and a perfectly proportioned floweret inhis buttonhole. He surveyed the room through a monocle. He was apleasure to look upon, but Jimmy, catching sight of him, startedviolently and felt no joy at all; for he had recognised him. Itwas a man he knew well and who knew him well--a man whom he hadlast seen a bare two weeks ago at the Bachelors' Club in London.
　　Few things are certain in this world, but one was that, ifBartling--such was the Vision's name--should see him, he wouldcome over and address him as Crocker. He braced himself to thetask of being Bayliss, the whole Bayliss, and nothing butBayliss. It might he that stout denial would carry him through.
　　After all, Reggie Bartling was a man of notoriously feebleintellect, who could believe in anything.
　　The monocle continued its sweep. It rested on Jimmy's profile.
　　"By Gad!" said the Vision.
　　Reginald Bartling had landed in New York that morning, andalready the loneliness of a strange city had begun to oppresshim. He had come over on a visit of pleasure, his suit-casestuffed with letters of introduction, but these he had not yetused. There was a feeling of home-sickness upon him, and he achedfor a pal. And there before him sat Jimmy Crocker, one of thebest. He hastened to the table.
　　"I say, Crocker, old chap, I didn't know you were over here. Whendid you arrive?"Jimmy was profoundly thankful that he had seen this pest in timeto be prepared for him. Suddenly assailed in this fashion, hewould undoubtedly have incriminated himself by recognition of hisname. But, having anticipated the visitation, he was able to saya whole sentence to Ann before showing himself aware that it washe who was addressed.
　　"I say! Jimmy Crocker!"Jimmy achieved one of the blankest stares of modern times. Helooked at Ann. Then he looked at Bartling again.
　　"I think there's some mistake," he said. "My name is Bayliss."Before his stony eye the immaculate Bartling wilted. It was aperfectly astounding likeness, but it was apparent to him whenwhat he had ever heard and read about doubles came to him. He wasconfused. He blushed. It was deuced bad form going up to aperfect stranger like this and pretending you knew him. Probablythe chappie thought he was some kind of a confidence johnnie orsomething. It was absolutely rotten! He continued to blush tillone could have fancied him scarlet to the ankles. He backed away,apologising in ragged mutters. Jimmy was not insensible to thepathos of his suffering acquaintance's position; he knew Reggieand his devotion to good form sufficiently well to enable him toappreciate the other's horror at having spoken to a fellow towhom he had never been introduced; but necessity forbade anyother course. However Reggie's soul might writhe and howeversleepless Reggie's nights might become as a result of thisencounter, he was prepared to fight it out on those lines if ittook all summer. And, anyway, it was darned good for Reggie toget a jolt like that every once in a while. Kept him bright andlively.
　　So thinking, he turned to Ann again, while the crimson Bartlingtottered off to restore his nerve centres to their normal tone atsome other hostelry. He found Ann staring amazedly at him, eyeswide and lips parted.
　　"Odd, that!" he observed with a light carelessness which headmired extremely and of which he would not have believed himselfcapable. "I suppose I must be somebody's double. What was thename he said?""Jimmy Crocker!" cried Ann.
　　Jimmy raised his glass, sipped, and put it down.
　　"Oh yes, I remember. So it was. It's a curious thing, too, thatit sounds familiar. I've heard the name before somewhere.""I was talking about Jimmy Crocker on the ship. That evening ondeck."Jimmy looked at her doubtfully.
　　"Were you? Oh yes, of course. I've got it now. He is the man youdislike so."Ann was still looking at him as if he had undergone a change intosomething new and strange.
　　"I hope you aren't going to let the resemblance prejudice youagainst _me_?" said Jimmy. "Some are born Jimmy Crockers, othershave Jimmy Crockers thrust upon them. I hope you'll bear in mindthat I belong to the latter class.""It's such an extraordinary thing.""Oh, I don't know. You often hear of doubles. There was a man inEngland a few years ago who kept getting sent to prison forthings some genial stranger who happened to look like him haddone.""I don't mean that. Of course there are doubles. But it iscurious that you should have come over here and that we shouldhave met like this at just this time. You see, the reason I wentover to England at all was to try to get Jimmy Crocker to comeback here.""What!""I don't mean that _I_ did. I mean that I went with my uncle andaunt, who wanted to persuade him to come and live with them."Jimmy was now feeling completely out of his depth.
　　"Your uncle and aunt? Why?""I ought to have explained that they are his uncle and aunt, too.
　　My aunt's sister married his father.""But--""It's quite simple, though it doesn't sound so. Perhaps youhaven't read the _Sunday Chronicle_ lately? It has been publishingarticles about Jimmy Crocker's disgusting behaviour inLondon--they call him Piccadilly Jim, you know--"In print, that name had shocked Jimmy. Spoken, and by Ann, it wasloathly. Remorse for his painful past tore at him.
　　"There was another one printed yesterday.""I saw it," said Jimmy, to avert description.
　　"Oh, did you? Well, just to show you what sort of a man JimmyCrocker is, the Lord Percy Whipple whom he attacked in the clubwas his very best friend. His step-mother told my aunt so. Heseems to be absolutely hopeless." She smiled. "You're lookingquite sad, Mr. Bayliss. Cheer up! You may look like him, but youaren't him he?--him?--no, 'he' is right. The soul is what counts.
　　If you've got a good, virtuous, Algernonish soul, it doesn'tmatter if you're so like Jimmy Crocker that his friends come upand talk to you in restaurants. In fact, it's rather anadvantage, really. I'm sure that if you were to go to my aunt andpretend to be Jimmy Crocker, who had come over after all in a fitof repentance, she would be so pleased that there would benothing she wouldn't do for you. You might realise your ambitionof being adopted by a millionaire. Why don't you try it? I won'tgive you away.""Before they found me out and hauled me off to prison, I shouldhave been near you for a time. I should have lived in the samehouse with you, spoken to you--!" Jimmy's voice shook.
　　Ann turned her head to address an imaginary companion.
　　"You must listen to this, my dear," she said in an undertone. "Hespeaks _wonderfully!_ They used to call him the Boy Orator in hishome-town. Sometimes that, and sometimes Eloquent Algernon!"Jimmy eyed her fixedly. He disapproved of this frivolity.
　　"One of these days you will try me too high--!""Oh, you didn't hear what I was saying to my friend, did you?"she said in concern. "But I meant it, every word. I love to hearyou talk. You have such _feeling!_"Jimmy attuned himself to the key of the conversation.
　　"Have you no sentiment in you?" he demanded.
　　"I was just warming up, too! In another minute you would haveheard something worth while. You've damped me now. Let's talkabout my lifework again.""Have you thought of anything?""I'd like to be one of those fellows who sit in offices, and signchecks, and tell the office-boy to tell Mr. Rockerfeller they cangive him five minutes. But of course I should need a check-book,and I haven't got one. Oh well, I shall find something to do allright. Now tell me something about yourself. Let's drop thefuture for awhile."* * * * *An hour later Jimmy turned into Broadway. He walked pensively,for he had much to occupy his mind. How strange that the Pettsshould have come over to England to try to induce him to returnto New York, and how galling that, now that he was in New York,this avenue to a prosperous future was closed by the fact thatsomething which he had done five years ago--that he couldremember nothing about it was quite maddening--had caused Ann tonurse this abiding hatred of him. He began to dream tenderly ofAnn, bumping from pedestrian to pedestrian in a gentle trance.
　　From this trance the seventh pedestrian aroused him by utteringhis name, the name which circumstances had compelled him toabandon.
　　"Jimmy Crocker!"Surprise brought Jimmy back from his dreams to the hard world--surprise and a certain exasperation. It was ridiculous to beincognito in a city which he had not visited in five years and tobe instantly recognised in this way by every second man he met.
　　He looked sourly at the man. The other was a sturdy,square-shouldered, battered young man, who wore on his homelyface a grin of recognition and regard. Jimmy was not particularlygood at remembering faces, but this person's was of a kind whichthe poorest memory might have recalled. It was, as theadvertisements say, distinctively individual. The broken nose,the exiguous forehead, and the enlarged ears all clamoured forrecognition. The last time Jimmy had seen Jerry Mitchell had beentwo years before at the National Sporting Club in London, and,placing him at once, he braced himself, as a short while ago hehad braced himself to confound immaculate Reggie.
　　"Hello!" said the battered one.
　　"Hello indeed!" said Jimmy courteously. "In what way can Ibrighten your life?"The grin faded from the other's face. He looked puzzled.
　　"You're Jimmy Crocker, ain't you?""No. My name chances to be Algernon Bayliss."Jerry Mitchell reddened.
　　"'Scuse me. My mistake."He was moving off, but Jimmy stopped him. Parting from Ann hadleft a large gap in his life, and he craved human society.
　　"I know you now," he said. "You're Jerry Mitchell. I saw youfight Kid Burke four years ago in London."The grin returned to the pugilist's face, wider than ever. Hebeamed with gratification.
　　"Gee! Think of that! I've quit since then. I'm working for an oldguy named Pett. Funny thing, he's Jimmy Crocker's uncle that Imistook you for. Say, you're a dead ringer for that guy! I couldhave sworn it was him when you bumped into me. Say, are you doinganything?""Nothing in particular.""Come and have a yarn. There's a place I know just round byhere.""Delighted."They made their way to the place.
　　"What's yours?" said Jerry Mitchell. "I'm on the wagon myself,"he said apologetically.
　　"So am I," said Jimmy. "It's the only way. No sense in alwaysdrinking and making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself inpublic!"Jerry Mitchell received this homily in silence. It disposeddefinitely of the lurking doubt in his mind as to the possibilityof this man really being Jimmy Crocker. Though outwardlyconvinced by the other's denial, he had not been able to ridhimself till now of a nebulous suspicion. But this convinced him.
　　Jimmy Crocker would never have said a thing like that nor wouldhave refused the offer of alcohol. He fell into pleasantconversation with him. His mind eased.
Chapter 9 Mrs.Pett Is Shocked
    At five o'clock in the afternoon some ten days after her returnto America, Mrs. Pett was at home to her friends in the house onRiverside Drive. The proceedings were on a scale that amounted toa reception, for they were not only a sort of officialnotification to New York that one of its most prominent hostesseswas once more in its midst, but were also designed to entertainand impress Mr. Hammond Chester, Ann's father, who had beenspending a couple of days in the metropolis preparatory todeparting for South America on one of his frequent trips. He wasvery fond of Ann in his curious, detached way, though he neverceased in his private heart to consider it injudicious of her notto have been born a boy, and he always took in New York for a dayor two on his way from one wild and lonely spot to another, if hecould manage it.
　　The large drawing-room overlooking the Hudson was filled almostto capacity with that strange mixture of humanity which Mrs. Pettchiefly affected. She prided herself on the Bohemian element inher parties, and had become during the past two years a humandrag-net, scooping Genius from its hiding-place and bringing itinto the open. At different spots in the room stood the sixresident geniuses to whose presence in the home Mr. Pett had suchstrong objections, and in addition to these she had collected somany more of a like breed from the environs of Washington Squarethat the air was clamorous with the hoarse cries of futuristpainters, esoteric Buddhists, _vers libre_ poets, interiordecorators, and stage reformers, sifted in among the moreconventional members of society who had come to listen to them.
　　Men with new religions drank tea with women with new hats.
　　Apostles of Free Love expounded their doctrines to persons whohad been practising them for years without realising it. All overthe room throats were being strained and minds broadened.
　　Mr. Chester, standing near the door with Ann, eyed the assemblagewith the genial contempt of a large dog for a voluble pack ofsmall ones. He was a massive, weather-beaten man, who looked verylike Ann in some ways and would have looked more like her but forthe misfortune of having had some of his face clawed away by anirritable jaguar with whom he had had a difference some yearsback in the jungles of Peru.
　　"Do you like this sort of thing?" he asked.
　　"I don't mind it," said Ann.
　　"Well, I shall be very sorry to leave you, Ann, but I'm glad I'mpulling out of here this evening. Who are all these people?"Ann surveyed the gathering.
　　"That's Ernest Wisden, the playwright, over there, talking toLora Delane Porter, the feminist writer. That's ClaraWhat's-her-name, the sculptor, with the bobbed hair. Next toher--"Mr. Chester cut short the catalogue with a stifled yawn.
　　"Where's old Pete? Doesn't he come to these jamborees?"Ann laughed.
　　"Poor uncle Peter! If he gets back from the office before thesepeople leave, he will sneak up to his room and stay there tillit's safe to come out. The last time I made him come to one ofthese parties he was pounced on by a woman who talked to him foran hour about the morality of Finance and seemed to think thatmillionaires were the scum of the earth.""He never would stand up for himself." Mr. Chester's gaze hoveredabout the room, and paused. "Who's that fellow? I believe I'veseen him before somewhere."A constant eddying swirl was animating the multitude. Wheneverthe mass tended to congeal, something always seemed to stir it upagain. This was due to the restless activity of Mrs. Pett, whoheld it to be the duty of a good hostess to keep her guestsmoving. From the moment when the room began to fill till themoment when it began to empty she did not cease to plough her wayto and fro, in a manner equally reminiscent of a hawk swooping onchickens and an earnest collegian bucking the line. Her guestswere as a result perpetually forming new ententes andcombinations, finding themselves bumped about like those littlemoving figures which one sees in shop-windows on Broadway, whichrevolve on a metal disc until, urged by impact with anotherlittle figure, they scatter to regroup themselves elsewhere. Itwas a fascinating feature of Mrs. Pett's at-homes and one whichassisted that mental broadening process already alluded to thatone never knew, when listening to a discussion on the sincerityof Oscar Wilde, whether it would not suddenly change in themiddle of a sentence to an argument on the inner meaning of theRussian Ballet.
　　Plunging now into a group dominated for the moment by an angularwoman who was saying loud and penetrating things about thesuffrage, Mrs. Pett had seized and removed a tall, blonde youngman with a mild, vacuous face. For the past few minutes thisyoung man had been sitting bolt upright on a chair with his handson his knees, so exactly in the manner of an end-man at aminstrel show that one would hardly have been surprised had heburst into song or asked a conundrum.
　　Ann followed her father's gaze.
　　"Do you mean the man talking to aunt Nesta? There, they've goneover to speak to Willie Partridge. Do you mean that one?""Yes. Who is he?""Well, I like that!" said Ann. "Considering that you introducedhim to us! That's Lord Wisbeach, who came to uncle Peter with aletter of introduction from you. You met him in Canada.""I remember now. I ran across him in British Columbia. We campedtogether one night. I'd never seen him before and I didn't seehim again. He said he wanted a letter to old Pete for somereason, so I scribbled him one in pencil on the back of anenvelope. I've never met any one who played a better game of drawpoker. He cleaned me out. There's a lot in that fellow, in spiteof his looking like a musical comedy dude. He's clever."Ann looked at him meditatively.
　　"It's odd that you should be discovering hidden virtues in LordWisbeach, father. I've been trying to make up my mind about him.
　　He wants me to marry him.""He does! I suppose a good many of these young fellows here wantthe same thing, don't they, Ann?" Mr. Chester looked at hisdaughter with interest. Her growing-up and becoming a beauty hadalways been a perplexity to him. He could never rid himself ofthe impression of her as a long-legged child in short skirts. "Isuppose you're refusing them all the time?""Every day from ten to four, with an hour off for lunch. I keepregular office hours. Admission on presentation of visitingcard.""And how do you feel about this Lord Wisbeach?""I don't know," said Ann frankly. "He's very nice. And--what ismore important--he's different. Most of the men I know are allturned out of the same mould. Lord Wisbeach--and one otherman--are the only two I've met who might not be the brothers ofall the rest.""Who's the other?""A man I hardly know. I met him on board ship--"Mr. Chester looked at his watch.
　　"It's up to you, Ann," he said. "There's one comfort in beingyour father--I don't mean that exactly; I mean that it is acomfort to me AS your father--to know that I need feel nopaternal anxiety about you. I don't have to give you advice.
　　You've not only got three times the sense that I have, but you'renot the sort of girl who would take advice. You've always knownjust what you wanted ever since you were a kid. . . . Well, ifyou're going to take me down to the boat, we'd better bestarting. Where's the car?""Waiting outside. Aren't you going to say good-bye to auntNesta?""Good God, no!" exclaimed Mr. Chester in honest concern. "What!
　　Plunge into that pack of coyotes and fight my way through to her!
　　I'd be torn to pieces by wild poets. Besides, it seems silly tomake a fuss saying good-bye when I'm only going to be away ashort time. I shan't go any further than Colombia this trip.""You'll be able to run back for week-ends," said Ann.
　　She paused at the door to cast a fleeting glance over hershoulder at the fair-haired Lord Wisbeach, who was now inanimated conversation with her aunt and Willie Partridge; thenshe followed her father down the stairs. She was a littlethoughtful as she took her place at the wheel of her automobile.
　　It was not often that her independent nature craved outsidesupport, but she was half conscious of wishing at the presentjuncture that she possessed a somewhat less casual father. Shewould have liked to ask him to help her decide a problem whichhad been vexing her for nearly three weeks now, ever since LordWisbeach had asked her to marry him and she had promised to givehim his answer on her return from England. She had been back inNew York several days now, but she had not been able to make upher mind. This annoyed her, for she was a girl who liked swiftdecisiveness of thought and action both in others and in herself.
　　She was fond of Mr. Chester in much the same unemotional,detached way that he was fond of her, but she was perfectly wellaware of the futility of expecting counsel from him. She saidgood-bye to him at the boat, fussed over his comfort for awhilein a motherly way, and then drove slowly back. For the first timein her life she was feeling uncertain of herself. When she hadleft for England, she had practically made up her mind to acceptLord Wisbeach, and had only deferred actual acceptance of himbecause in her cool way she wished to re-examine the position ather leisure. Second thoughts had brought no revulsion of feeling.
　　She had not wavered until her arrival in New York. Then, for somereason which baffled her, the idea of marrying Lord Wisbeach hadbecome vaguely distasteful. And now she found herself fluctuatingbetween this mood and her former one.
　　She reached the house on Riverside Drive, but did not slacken thespeed of the machine. She knew that Lord Wisbeach would bewaiting for her there, and she did not wish to meet him just yet.
　　She wanted to be alone. She was feeling depressed. She wonderedif this was because she had just departed from her father, anddecided that it was. His swift entrances into and exits from herlife always left her temporarily restless. She drove on up theriver. She meant to decide her problem one way or the otherbefore she returned home.
　　Lord Wisbeach, meanwhile, was talking to Mrs. Pett and Willie,its inventor, about Partridgite. Willie, on hearing himselfaddressed, had turned slowly with an air of absentself-importance, the air of a great thinker disturbed inmid-thought. He always looked like that when spoken to, and therewere those--Mr. Pett belonged to this school of thought--who heldthat there was nothing to him beyond that look and that he hadbuilt up his reputation as a budding mastermind on a foundationthat consisted entirely of a vacant eye, a mop of hair throughwhich he could run his fingers, and the fame of his late father.
　　Willie Partridge was the son of the great inventor, DwightPartridge, and it was generally understood that the explosive,Partridgite, was to be the result of a continuation ofexperiments which his father had been working upon at the time ofhis death. That Dwight Partridge had been trying experiments inthe direction of a new and powerful explosive during the lastyear of his life was common knowledge in those circles which areinterested in such things. Foreign governments were understood tohave made tentative overtures to him. But a sudden illness,ending fatally, had finished the budding career of Partridgiteabruptly, and the world had thought no more of it until aninterview in the _Sunday Chronicle_, that store-house ofinformation about interesting people, announced that Willie wascarrying on his father's experiments at the point where he hadleft off. Since then there had been vague rumours of possiblesensational developments, which Willie had neither denied norconfirmed. He preserved the mysterious silence which went so wellwith his appearance.
　　Having turned slowly so that his eyes rested on Lord Wisbeach'singenuous countenance, Willie paused, and his face assumed theexpression of his photograph in the _Chronicle_.
　　"Ah, Wisbeach!" he said.
　　Lord Wisbeach did not appear to resent the patronage of hismanner. He plunged cheerily into talk. He had a pleasant, simpleway of comporting himself which made people like him.
　　"I was just telling Mrs. Pett," he said, "that I shouldn't besurprised if you were to get an offer for your stuff from ourfellows at home before long. I saw a lot of our War Office menwhen I was in England, don't you know. Several of them mentionedthe stuff."Willie resented Partridgite as being referred to as "the stuff,"but he made allowance. All Englishmen talked that way, hesupposed.
　　"Indeed?" he said.
　　"Of course," said Mrs. Pett, "Willie is a patriot and would haveto give our own authorities the first chance.""Rather!""But you know what officials are all over the world. They are sosceptical and they move so slowly.""I know. Our men at home are just the same as a rule. I've got apal who invented something-or-other, I forget what, but it was amost decent little contrivance and very useful and all that; andhe simply can't get them to say Yes or No about it. But, all thesame, I wonder you didn't have some of them trying to put outfeelers to you when you were in London.""Oh, we were only in London a few hours. By the way, LordWisbeach, my sister--"--Mrs. Pett paused; she disliked to have tomention her sister or to refer to this subject at all, butcuriosity impelled her--"my sister said that you are a greatfriend of her step-son, James Crocker. I didn't know that youknew him."Lord Wisbeach seemed to hesitate for a moment.
　　"He's not coming over, is he? Pity! It would have done him aworld of good. Yes, Jimmy Crocker and I have always been greatpals. He's a bit of a nut, of course, . . . I beg your pardon!
　　. . . I mean . . ." He broke off confusedly, and turned to Willieagain to cover himself. "How are you getting on with the jollyold stuff?" he asked.
　　If Willie had objected to Partridgite being called "the stuff,"he was still less in favour of its being termed "the jolly oldstuff." He replied coldly.
　　"I have ceased to get along with the jolly old stuff.""Struck a snag?" enquired Lord Wisbeach sympathetically.
　　"On the contrary, my experiments have been entirely successful. Ihave enough Partridgite in my laboratory to blow New York tobits!""Willie!" exclaimed Mrs. Pett. "Why didn't you tell me before?
　　You know I am so interested.""I only completed my work last night."He moved off with an important nod. He was tired of LordWisbeach's society. There was something about the young man whichhe did not like. He went to find more congenial company in agroup by the window.
　　Lord Wisbeach turned to his hostess. The vacuous expression haddropped from his face like a mask. A pair of keen and intelligenteyes met Mrs. Pett's.
　　"Mrs. Pett, may I speak to you seriously?"Mrs. Pett's surprise at the alteration in the man prevented herfrom replying. Much as she liked Lord Wisbeach, she had nevergiven him credit for brains, and it was a man with brains andkeen ones who was looking at her now. She nodded.
　　"If your nephew has really succeeded in his experiments, youshould be awfully careful. That stuff ought not to lie about inhis laboratory, though no doubt he has hidden it as carefully aspossible. It ought to be in a safe somewhere. In that safe inyour library. News of this kind moves like lightning. At thisvery moment, there may be people watching for a chance of gettingat the stuff."Every nerve in Mrs. Pett's body, every cell of a brain which hadfor years been absorbing and giving out sensational fiction,quivered irrepressibly at these words, spoken in a low, tensevoice which gave them additional emphasis. Never had shemisjudged a man as she had misjudged Lord Wisbeach.
　　"Spies?" she quavered.
　　"They wouldn't call themselves that," said Lord Wisbeach. "SecretService agents. Every country has its men whose only duty it isto handle this sort of work.""They would try to steal Willie's--?" Mrs. Pett's voice failed.
　　"They would not look on it as stealing. Their motives would bepatriotic. I tell you, Mrs. Pett, I have heard stories fromfriends of mine in the English Secret Service which would amazeyou. Perfectly straight men in private life, but absolutelyunscrupulous when at work. They stick at nothing--nothing. If Iwere you, I should suspect every one, especially every stranger."He smiled engagingly. "You are thinking that that is odd advicefrom one who is practically a stranger like myself. Never mind.
　　Suspect me, too, if you like. Be on the safe side.""I would not dream of doing such a thing, Lord Wisbeach," saidMrs. Pett horrified. "I trust you implicitly. Even supposing sucha thing were possible, would you have warned me like this, if youhad been--?""That's true," said Lord Wisbeach. "I never thought of that.
　　Well, let me say, suspect everybody but me." He stopped abruptly.
　　"Mrs. Pett," he whispered, "don't look round for a moment.
　　Wait." The words were almost inaudible. "Who is that man behindyou? He has been listening to us. Turn slowly."With elaborate carelessness, Mrs. Pett turned her head. At firstshe thought her companion must have alluded to one of a smallgroup of young men who, very improperly in such surroundings,were discussing with raised voices the prospects of the clubscompeting for the National League Baseball Pennant. Then,extending the sweep of her gaze, she saw that she had beenmistaken. Midway between her and this group stood a singlefigure, the figure of a stout man in a swallow-tail suit, whobore before him a tray with cups on it. As she turned, this mancaught her eye, gave a guilty start, and hurried across the room.
　　"You saw?" said Lord Wisbeach. "He was listening. Who is thatman? Your butler apparently. What do you know of him?""He is my new butler. His name is Skinner.""Ah, your _new_ butler? He hasn't been with you long, then?""He only arrived from England three days ago.""From England? How did he get in here? I mean, on whoserecommendation?""Mr. Pett offered him the place when we met him at my sister's inLondon. We went over there to see my sister, Eugenia--Mrs.
　　Crocker. This man was the butler who admitted us. He asked Mr.
　　Pett something about baseball, and Mr. Pett was so pleased thathe offered him a place here if he wanted to come over. The mandid not give any definite answer then, but apparently he sailedon the next boat, and came to the house a few days after we hadreturned."Lord Wisbeach laughed softly.
　　"Very smart. Of course they had him planted there for thepurpose.""What ought I to do?" asked Mrs. Pett agitatedly.
　　"Do nothing. There is nothing that you can do, for the present,except keep your eyes open. Watch this man Skinner. See if he hasany accomplices. It is hardly likely that he is working alone.
　　Suspect everybody. Believe me . . ."At this moment, apparently from some upper region, there burstforth an uproar so sudden and overwhelming that it might wellhave been taken for a premature testing of a large sample ofPartridgite; until a moment later it began to resemble morenearly the shrieks of some partially destroyed victim of thatdeath-dealing invention. It was a bellow of anguish, and itpoured through the house in a cascade of sound, advertising toall beneath the roof the twin facts that some person unknown wassuffering and that whoever the sufferer might be he had excellentlungs.
　　The effect on the gathering in the drawing-room was immediate andimpressive. Conversation ceased as if it had been turned off witha tap. Twelve separate and distinct discussions on twelve highlyintellectual topics died instantaneously. It was as if the lasttrump had sounded. Futurist painters stared pallidly at _verslibre_ poets, speech smitten from their lips; and stage performerslooked at esoteric Buddhists with a wild surmise.
　　The sudden silence had the effect of emphasising the strangenoise and rendering it more distinct, thus enabling it to carryits message to one at least of the listeners. Mrs. Pett, after amoment of strained attention in which time seemed to her to standstill, uttered a wailing cry and leaped for the door.
　　"Ogden!" she shrilled; and passed up the stairs two at a time,gathering speed as she went. A boy's best friend is his mother.
Chapter 10 Instruction Deportment
    While the feast of reason and flow of soul had been in progressin the drawing-room, in the gymnasium on the top floor JerryMitchell, awaiting the coming of Mr. Pett, had been passing thetime in improving with strenuous exercise his already impressivephysique. If Mrs. Pett's guests had been less noisilyconcentrated on their conversation, they might have heard themuffled _tap-tap-tap_ that proclaimed that Jerry Mitchell waspunching the bag upstairs.
　　It was not until he had punched it for perhaps five minutes that,desisting from his labours, he perceived that he had the pleasureof the company of little Ogden Ford. The stout boy was standingin the doorway, observing him with an attentive eye.
　　"What are you doing?" enquired Ogden.
　　Jerry passed a gloved fist over his damp brow.
　　"Punchin' the bag."He began to remove his gloves, eyeing Ogden the while with adisapproval which he made no attempt to conceal. An extremist onthe subject of keeping in condition, the spectacle of the bulbousstripling was a constant offence to him. Ogden, in pursuance ofhis invariable custom on the days when Mrs. Pett entertained, hadbeen lurking on the stairs outside the drawing-room for the pasthour, levying toll on the food-stuffs that passed his way. Hewore a congested look, and there was jam about his mouth.
　　"Why?" he said, retrieving a morsel of jam from his right cheekwith the tip of his tongue.
　　"To keep in condition.""Why do you want to keep in condition?"Jerry flung the gloves into their locker.
　　"Fade!" he said wearily. "Fade!""Huh?""Beat it!""Huh?" Much pastry seemed to have clouded the boy's mind.
　　"Run away.""Don't want to run away."The annoyed pugilist sat down and scrutinised his visitorcritically.
　　"You never do anything you don't want to, I guess?""No," said Ogden simply. "You've got a funny nose," he addeddispassionately. "What did you do to it to make it like that?"Mr. Mitchell shifted restlessly on his chair. He was not a vainman, but he was a little sensitive about that particular item inhis make-up.
　　"Lizzie says it's the funniest nose she ever saw. She says it'ssomething out of a comic supplement."A dull flush, such as five minutes with the bag had been unableto produce, appeared on Jerry Mitchell's peculiar countenance. Itwas not that he looked on Lizzie Murphy, herself no LillianRussell, as an accepted authority on the subject of facialbeauty; but he was aware that in this instance she spoke notwithout reason, and he was vexed, moreover, as many another hadbeen before him, by the note of indulgent patronage in Ogden'svoice. His fingers twitched a little eagerly, and he lookedsullenly at his tactless junior.
　　"Get out!""Huh?""Get outa here!""Don't want to get out of here," said Ogden with finality. He puthis hand in his trouser-pocket and pulled out a sticky mass whichlooked as if it might once have been a cream-puff or a meringue.
　　He swallowed it contentedly. "I'd forgotten I had that," heexplained. "Mary gave it to me on the stairs. Mary thinks you'vea funny nose, too," he proceeded, as one relating agreeablegossip.
　　"Can it! Can it!" exclaimed the exasperated pugilist.
　　"I'm only telling you what I heard her say."Mr. Mitchell rose convulsively and took a step towards hispersecutor, breathing noisily through the criticised organ. Hewas a chivalrous man, a warm admirer of the sex, but he wasconscious of a wish that it was in his power to give Mary what hewould have described as "hers." She was one of the parlour-maids,a homely woman with a hard eye, and it was part of his grievanceagainst her that his Maggie, alias Celestine, Mrs. Pett's maid,had formed an enthusiastic friendship with her. He had noevidence to go on, but he suspected Mary of using her influencewith Celestine to urge the suit of his leading rival for thelatter's hand, Biggs the chauffeur. He disliked Mary intensely,even on general grounds. Ogden's revelation added fuel to hisaversion. For a moment he toyed with the fascinating thought ofrelieving his feelings by spanking the boy, but restrainedhimself reluctantly at the thought of the inevitable ruin whichwould ensue. He had been an inmate of the house long enough toknow, with a completeness which would have embarrassed thatgentleman, what a cipher Mr. Pett was in the home and how littlehis championship would avail in the event of a clash with Mrs.
　　Pett. And to give Ogden that physical treatment which should longsince have formed the main plank in the platform of his educationwould be to invite her wrath as nothing else could. He checkedhimself, and reached out for the skipping-rope, hoping to easehis mind by further exercise.
　　Ogden, chewing the remains of the cream-puff, eyed him withlanguid curiosity.
　　"What are you doing that for?"Mr. Mitchell skipped grimly on.
　　"What are you doing that for? I thought only girls skipped."Mr. Mitchell paid no heed. Ogden, after a moment's silentcontemplation, returned to his original train of thought.
　　"I saw an advertisement in a magazine the other day of a sort ofmachine for altering the shape of noses. You strap it on when yougo to bed. You ought to get pop to blow you to one."Jerry Mitchell breathed in a laboured way.
　　"You want to look nice about the place, don't you? Well, then!
　　there's no sense in going around looking like that if you don'thave to, is there? I heard Mary talking about your nose to Biggsand Celestine. She said she had to laugh every time she saw it."The skipping-rope faltered in its sweep, caught in the skipper'slegs, and sent him staggering across the room. Ogden threw backhis head and laughed merrily. He liked free entertainments, andthis struck him as a particularly enjoyable one.
　　There are moments in the life of every man when the impulseattacks him to sacrifice his future to the alluring gratificationof the present. The strong man resists such impulses. JerryMitchell was not a weak man, but he had been sorely tried. Theannoyance of Ogden's presence and conversation had sapped hisself-restraint, as dripping water will wear away a rock. A shortwhile before, he had fought down the urgent temptation tomassacre this exasperating child, but now, despised love addingits sting to that of injured vanity, he forgot the consequences.
　　Bounding across the room, he seized Ogden in a powerful grip, andthe next instant the latter's education, in the true sense of theword, so long postponed, had begun; and with it that avalanche ofsound which, rolling down into the drawing-room, hurled Mrs. Pettso violently and with such abruptness from the society of herguests.
　　Disposing of the last flight of stairs with the agility of thechamois which leaps from crag to crag of the snow-topped Alps,Mrs. Pett finished with a fine burst of speed along the passageon the top floor, and rushed into the gymnasium just as Jerry'savenging hand was descending for the eleventh time.
Chapter 11 Jimmy Decides To Be Himself
    It was less than a quarter of an hour later--such was the speedwith which Nemesis, usually slow, had overtaken him--that JerryMitchell, carrying a grip and walking dejectedly, emerged fromthe back premises of the Pett home and started down RiversideDrive in the direction of his boarding-house, a cheap, clean, andrespectable establishment situated on Ninety-seventh Streetbetween the Drive and Broadway. His usually placid nervous systemwas ruffled and a-quiver from the events of the afternoon, andhis cauliflower ears still burned reminiscently at therecollection of the uncomplimentary words shot at them by Mrs.
　　Pett before she expelled him from the house. Moreover, he was ina mild panic at the thought of having to see Ann later on and tryto explain the disaster to her. He knew how the news would affecther. She had set her heart on removing Ogden to more disciplinarysurroundings, and she could not possibly do it now that her allywas no longer an inmate of the house. He was an essential factorin the scheme, and now, to gratify the desire of the moment, hehad eliminated himself. Long before he reached the brown-stonehouse, which looked exactly like all the other brown-stone housesin all the other side-streets of uptown New York, the first finecareless rapture of his mad outbreak had passed from JerryMitchell, leaving nervous apprehension in its place. Ann was agirl whom he worshipped respectfully, but he feared her in herwrath.
　　Having entered the boarding-house, Jerry, seeking company in hishour of sorrow, climbed the stairs till he reached a door on thesecond floor. Sniffing and detecting the odour of tobacco, heknocked and was hidden to enter.
　　"Hello, Bayliss!" he said sadly, having obeyed the call.
　　He sat down on the end of the bed and heaved a deep sigh.
　　The room which he had entered was airy but small, so small,indeed, that the presence of any furniture in it at all wasalmost miraculous, for at first sight it seemed incredible thatthe bed did not fill it from side to side. There were however, afew vacant spots, and in these had been placed a wash-stand, achest of drawers, and a midget rocking-chair. The window, whichthe thoughtful architect had designed at least three sizes toolarge for the room and which admitted the evening air in pleasingprofusion, looked out onto a series of forlorn back-yards. Inboarding-houses, it is only the windows of the rich and haughtythat face the street.
　　On the bed, a corn-cob pipe between his teeth, lay Jimmy Crocker.
　　He was shoeless and in his shirt-sleeves. There was a crumpledevening paper on the floor beside the bed. He seemed to be takinghis rest after the labours of a trying day.
　　At the sound of Jerry's sigh he raised his head, but, finding theattitude too severe a strain on the muscles of the neck, restoredit to the pillow.
　　"What's the matter, Jerry? You seem perturbed. You have theaspect of one whom Fate has smitten in the spiritual solarplexus, or of one who has been searching for the leak in Life'sgaspipe with a lighted candle. What's wrong?""Curtains!"Jimmy, through long absence from his native land, was not alwaysable to follow Jerry's thoughts when concealed in the wrappingsof the peculiar dialect which he affected.
　　"I get you not, friend. Supply a few footnotes.""I've been fired."Jimmy sat up. This was no imaginary trouble, no mere _malaise_of the temperament. It was concrete, and called for sympathy.
　　"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "No wonder you aren't rollicking.
　　How did it happen?""That half-portion Bill Taft came joshing me about my beezer tillit got something fierce," explained Jerry. "William J. Bryancouldn't have stood for it."Once again Jimmy lost the thread. The wealth of politicalallusion baffled him.
　　"What's Taft been doing to you?""It wasn't Taft. He only looks like him. It was that kid Ogden upwhere I work. He came butting into the gym, joshing meabout--makin' pers'nal remarks till I kind of lost my goat, andthe next thing I knew I was giving him his!" A faint gleam ofpleasure lightened the gloom of his face. "I cert'nly give himhis!" The gleam faded. "And after that--well, here I am!"Jimmy understood now. He had come to the boarding-house the nightof his meeting with Jerry Mitchell on Broadway, and had beenthere ever since, and frequent conversations with the pugilisthad put him abreast of affairs at the Pett home. He was familiarwith the _personnel_ of the establishment on Riverside Drive,and knew precisely how great was the crime of administeringcorrection to Ogden Ford, no matter what the cause. Nor did herequire explanation of the phenomenon of Mrs. Pett dismissing onewho was in her husband's private employment. Jerry had hissympathy freely.
　　"You appear," he said, "to have acted in a thoroughly capable andpraiseworthy manner. The only point in your conduct which I wouldpermit myself to criticise is your omission to slay the kid.
　　That, however, was due, I take it, to the fact that you wereinterrupted. We will now proceed to examine the future. I cannotsee that it is altogether murky. You have lost a good job, butthere are others, equally good, for a man of your calibre. NewYork is crammed with dyspeptic millionaires who need an efficientphysical instructor to look after them. Cheer up, Cuthbert, forthe sun is still shining!"Jerry Mitchell shook his head. He refused to be comforted.
　　"It's Miss Ann," he said. "What am I going to say to her?""What has she got to do with it?" asked Jimmy, interested.
　　For a moment Jerry hesitated, but the desire for sympathy andadvice was too strong for him. And after all there was no harm inconfiding in a good comrade like Jimmy.
　　"It's like this," he said. "Miss Ann and me had got it all fixedup to kidnap the kid!""What!""Say, I don't mean ordinary kidnapping. It's this way. Miss Anncome to me and we agree that the kid's a pest that had ought tohave some strong-arm keep him in order, so we decide to get himaway to a friend of mine who keeps a dogs' hospital down on LongIsland. Bud Smithers is the guy to handle that kid. You ought tosee him take hold of a dog that's all grouch and ugliness andmake it over into a dog that it's a pleasure to have around. Ithought a few weeks with Bud was what the doctor ordered forOgden, and Miss Ann guessed I was right, so we had it all framed.
　　And now this happens and balls everything up! She can't donothing with a husky kid like that without me to help her. Andhow am I going to help her if I'm not allowed in the house?"Jimmy was conscious of a renewed admiration for a girl whom hehad always considered a queen among women. How rarely in thisworld did one find a girl who combined every feminine charm ofmind and body with a resolute determination to raise Cain at theslightest provocation!
　　"What an absolutely corking idea!"Jerry smirked modestly at the approbation, but returned instantlyto his gloom.
　　"You get me now? What am I to say to her? She'll be sore!""The problem," Jimmy had begun, "is one which, as you suggest,presents certain--" when there was a knock at the door and thehead of the boarding-house's maid-of-all-work popped in.
　　"Mr. Bayliss, is Mr. Mitchell--? Oh, say, Mr. Mitchell, there's alady down below wants to see you. Says her name's Chester."Jerry looked at Jimmy appealingly.
　　"What'll I do?""Do nothing," said Jimmy, rising and reaching for his shoes.
　　"I'll go down and see her. I can explain for you.""It's mighty good of you.""It will be a pleasure. Rely on me."Ann, who had returned from her drive shortly after the Ogdendisaster and had instantly proceeded to the boarding-house, hadbeen shown into the parlour. Jimmy found her staring in a raptway at a statuette of the Infant Samuel which stood near a bowlof wax fruit on the mantelpiece. She was feeling aggrieved withFate and extremely angry with Jerry Mitchell, and she turned atthe sound of the opening door with a militant expression in hereyes, which changed to one of astonishment on perceiving who itwas that had come in.
　　"Mr. Bayliss!""Good evening, Miss Chester. We, so to speak, meet again. I havecome as an intermediary. To be brief, Jerry Mitchell daren't faceyou, so I offered to come down instead.""But how--but why are you here?""I live here." He followed her gaze. It rested on a picture ofcows in a field. "Late American school," he said. "Attributed tothe landlady's niece, a graduate of the Wissahickon, Pa.
　　Correspondence School of Pictorial Art. Said to be genuine.""You _live_ here?" repeated Ann. She had been brought up all herlife among the carefully thought out effects of eminent interiordecorators, and the room seemed more dreadful to her than itactually was. "What an awful room!""Awful? You must be overlooking the piano. Can't you see thehandsome plush cover from where you are standing? Move a littleto the southeast and shade your eyes. We get music here of anevening--when we don't see it coming and sidestep.""Why in the name of goodness do you live here, Mr. Bayliss?""Because, Miss Chester, I am infernally hard up! Because theBayliss bank-roll has been stricken with a wasting sickness."Ann was looking at him incredulously.
　　"But--but--then, did you really mean all that at lunch the otherday? I thought you were joking. I took it for granted that youcould get work whenever you wanted to or you wouldn't have madefun of it like that! Can't you really find anything to do?""Plenty to do. But I'm not paid for it. I walk a great number ofblocks and jump into a great number of cars and dive intoelevators and dive out again and open doors and say 'Goodmorning' when people tell me they haven't a job for me. My daysare quite full, but my pocket-book isn't!"Ann had forgotten all about her errand in her sympathy.
　　"I'm so sorry. Why, it's terrible! I should have thought youcould have found _something_.""I thought the same till the employers of New York in a body toldme I couldn't. Men of widely differing views on religion,politics, and a hundred other points, they were unanimous onthat. The nearest I came to being a financial Titan was when Ilanded a job in a store on Broadway, demonstrating a patentcollar-clip at ten dollars a week. For awhile all Nature seemedto be shouting 'Ten per! Ten per!' than which there are fewsweeter words in the language. But I was fired half-way throughthe second day, and Nature changed her act.""But why?""It wasn't my fault. Just Fate. This contrivance was calledKlipstone's Kute Kollar-Klip, and it was supposed to make it easyfor you to fasten your tie. My job was to stand in the window inmy shirt-sleeves, gnashing my teeth and registering baffled ragewhen I tried the old, obsolete method and beaming on themultitude when I used the Klip. Unfortunately I got the cardsmixed. I beamed when I tried the old, obsolete method and nearlyburst myself with baffled fury just after I had exhibited thecard bearing the words 'I will now try Klipstone's Kute Klip.' Icouldn't think what the vast crowd outside the window waslaughing at till the boss, who chanced to pause on the outskirtsof the gathering on his way back from lunch, was good enough totell me. Nothing that I could say would convince him that I wasnot being intentionally humorous. I was sorry to lose the job,though it did make me feel like a goldfish. But talking of beingfired brings us back to Jerry Mitchell.""Oh, never mind Jerry Mitchell now--""On the contrary, let us discuss his case and the points arisingfrom it with care and concentration. Jerry Mitchell has told meall!"Ann was startled.
　　"What do you mean?""The word 'all,'" said Jimmy, "is slang for 'everything.' You seein me a confidant. In a word, I am hep.""You know--?""Everything. A colloquialism," explained Jimmy, "for 'all.' AboutOgden, you know. The scheme. The plot. The enterprise."Ann found nothing to say.
　　"I am thoroughly in favour of the plan. So much so that I proposeto assist you by taking Jerry's place.""I don't understand.""Do you remember at lunch that day, after that remarkable personhad mistaken me for Jimmy Crocker, you suggested in a light,casual way that if I were to walk into your uncle's office andclaim to be Jimmy Crocker I should he welcomed without aquestion? I'm going to do it. Then, once aboard the lugger--oncein the house, I am at your orders. Use me exactly as you wouldhave used Jerry Mitchell.""But--but--!""Jerry!" said Jimmy scornfully. "Can't I do everything that hecould have done? And more. A bonehead like Jerry would have beencertain to have bungled the thing somehow. I know him well. Agood fellow, but in matters requiring intellect and swift thoughtdead from the neck up. It's a very lucky thing he is out of therunning. I love him like a brother, but his dome is of ivory.
　　This job requires a man of tact, sense, shrewdness, initiative,_esprit_, and _verve_." He paused. "Me!" he concluded.
　　"But it's ridiculous! It's out of the question!""Not at all. I must be extraordinarily like Jimmy Crocker, orthat fellow at the restaurant wouldn't have taken me for him.
　　Leave this in my hands. I can get away with it.""I shan't dream of allowing you--""At nine o'clock to-morrow morning," said Jimmy firmly, "Ipresent myself at Mr. Pett's office. It's all settled."Ann was silent. She was endeavouring to adjust her mind to theidea. Her first startled revulsion from it had begun to wane. Itwas an idea peculiarly suited to her temperament, an idea thatshe might have suggested herself if she had thought of it. Soon,from being disapproving, she found herself glowing withadmiration for its author. He was a young man of her own sort!
　　"You asked me on the boat, if you remember," said Jimmy, "if Ihad an adventurous soul. I am now submitting my proofs. You alsospoke highly of America as a land where there were adventures tobe had. I now see that you were right."Ann thought for a moment.
　　"If I consent to your doing this insane thing, Mr. Bayliss, willyou promise me something?""Anything.""Well, in the first place I absolutely refuse to let you risk allsorts of frightful things by coming into this kidnapping plot."She waved him down, and went on. "But I see where you can help mevery much. As I told you at lunch, my aunt would do anything forJimmy Crocker if he were to appear in New York now. I want you topromise that you will confine your activities to asking her tolet Jerry Mitchell come back.""Never!""You said you would promise me anything.""Anything but that.""Then it is all off!"Jimmy pondered.
　　"It's terribly tame that way.""Never mind. It's the only way I will consider.""Very well. I protest, though."Ann sat down.
　　"I think you're splendid, Mr. Bayliss. I'm much obliged!""Not at all.""It will be such a splendid thing for Ogden, won't it?""Admirable.""Now the only thing to do is just to see that we have goteverything straight. How about this, for instance? They will askyou when you arrived in New York. How are you going to accountfor your delay in coming to see them?""I've thought of that. There's a boat that docks to-morrow--the_Caronia_, I think. I've got a paper upstairs. I'll look it up. Ican say I came by her.""That seems all right. It's lucky you and uncle Peter never meton the _Atlantic_.""And now as to my demeanour on entering the home? How should Ibehave? Should I be jaunty or humble? What would a long-lostnephew naturally do?""A long-lost nephew with a record like Jimmy Crocker's wouldcrawl in with a white flag, I should think."A bell clanged in the hall.
　　"Supper!" said Jimmy. "To go into painful details, New Englandboiled dinner, or my senses deceive me, and prunes.""I must be going.""We shall meet at Philippi."He saw her to the door, and stood at the top of the stepswatching her trim figure vanish into the dusk. She passed fromhis sight. Jimmy drew a deep breath, and, thinking hard, wentdown the passage to fortify himself with supper.
Chapter 12 Jimmy Catches The Boss's Eye
    When Jimmy arrived at Mr. Pett's office on Pine Street atten-thirty the next morning--his expressed intention of gettingup early enough to be there by nine having proved an emptyboast--he was in a high state of preparedness. He had made readyfor what might be a trying interview by substituting acombination of well-chosen dishes at an expensive hotel for theless imaginative boarding-house breakfast with which he had oflate been insulting his interior. His suit was pressed, his shoesgleamed brightly, and his chin was smoothly shaven. These things,combined with the perfection of the morning and that vagueexhilaration which a fine day in down-town New York brings to theman who has not got to work, increased his natural optimism.
　　Something seemed to tell him that all would he well. He wouldhave been the last person to deny that his position was a littlecomplicated--he had to use a pencil and a sheet of paper to showhimself just where he stood--but what of that? A fewcomplications in life are an excellent tonic for the brain. Itwas with a sunny geniality which startled that unaccustomedstripling considerably--and indeed caused him to swallow hischewing gum--that he handed in his card to Mr. Pett's watchfullywaiting office-boy.
　　"This to the boss, my open-faced lad!" he said. "Get swiftly offthe mark."The boy departed dumbly.
　　From where he stood, outside the barrier which separated visitorsto the office from the workers within, Jimmy could see a vista ofefficient-looking young men with paper protectors round theircuffs working away at mysterious jobs which seemed to involve theuse of a great deal of paper. One in particular was so surroundedby it that he had the appearance of a bather in surf. Jimmy eyedthese toilers with a comfortable and kindly eye. All thisindustry made him feel happy. He liked to think of this sort ofthing going on all round him.
　　The office-boy returned. "This way, please."The respectfulness of the lad's manner had increased noticeably.
　　Mr. Pett's reception of the visitor's name had impressed him. Itwas an odd fact that the financier, a cipher in his own home,could impress all sorts of people at the office.
　　To Mr. Pett, the announcement that Mr. James Crocker was waitingto see him had come like the announcement of a miracle. Not a dayhad passed since their return to America without lamentationsfrom Mrs. Pett on the subject of their failure to secure theyoung man's person. The occasion of Mrs. Pett's reading of thearticle in the _Sunday Chronicle_ descriptive of the Lord PercyWhipple affair had been unique in the little man's domestichistory. For the first time since he had known her theindomitable woman had completely broken down. Of all sad words oftongue or pen the saddest are these "It might have been!" and thethought that, if she had only happened to know it, she had had inher hands during that interview with her sister in London aweapon which would have turned defeat into triumph was more thaneven Mrs. Pett's strong spirit could endure. When she looked backon that scene and recalled the airy way in which Mrs. Crocker hadspoken of her step-son's "best friend, Lord Percy Whipple" andrealised that at that very moment Lord Percy had been recoveringin bed from the effects of his first meeting with Jimmy Crocker,the iron entered into her soul and she refused to be comforted.
　　In the first instant of realisation she thought of six separateand distinct things she could have said to her sister, each morecrushing than the last--things which now she would never be ableto say.
　　And now, suddenly and unaccountably, the means was at hand forrestoring her to her tranquil self-esteem. Jimmy Crocker, despitewhat his stepmother had said, probably in active defiance of hercommands, had come to America after all. Mr. Pett's first thoughtwas that his wife would, as he expressed it to himself, be"tickled to death about this." Scarcely waiting for theoffice-boy to retire, he leaped towards Jimmy like a gambollinglamb and slapped him on the back with every evidence of joy andfriendliness.
　　"My dear boy!" he cried. "My dear boy! I'm delighted to see you!"Jimmy was surprised, relieved, and pleased. He had not expectedthis warmth. A civil coldness had been the best he had lookedfor. He had been given to understand that in the Pett home he wasregarded as the black sheep: and, while one may admit a blacksheep into the fold, it does not follow that one must ofnecessity fawn upon him.
　　"You're very kind," he said, rather startled.
　　They inspected each other for a brief moment. Mr. Pett wasthinking that Jimmy was a great improvement on the picture hisimagination had drawn of him. He had looked for somethingtougher, something flashy and bloated. Jimmy, for his part, hadtaken an instant liking to the financier. He, too, had beenmisled by imagination. He had always supposed that thesemillionaires down Wall Street way were keen, aggressive fellows,with gimlet eyes and sharp tongues. On the boat he had only seenMr. Pett from afar, and had had no means of estimating hischaracter. He found him an agreeable little man.
　　"We had given up all hope of your coming," said Mr. Pett.
　　A little manly penitence seemed to Jimmy to be in order.
　　"I never expected you would receive me like this. I thought Imust have made myself rather unpopular."Mr. Pett buried the past with a gesture.
　　"When did you land?" he asked.
　　"This morning. On the _Caronia_ . . .""Good passage?""Excellent."There was a silence. It seemed to Jimmy that Mr. Pett was lookingat him rather more closely than was necessary for the actualenjoyment of his style of beauty. He was just about to throw outsome light remark about the health of Mrs. Pett or somethingabout porpoises on the voyage to add local colour andverisimilitude, when his heart missed a beat, as he perceivedthat he had made a blunder. Like many other amateur plotters, Annand he had made the mistake of being too elaborate. It had struckthem as an ingenious idea for Jimmy to pretend that he hadarrived that morning, and superficially it was a good idea: buthe now remembered for the first time that, if he had seen Mr.
　　Pett on the _Atlantic_, the probability was that Mr. Pett had seenhim. The next moment the other had confirmed this suspicion.
　　"I've an idea I've seen you before. Can't think where.""Everybody well at home?" said Jimmy.
　　"I'm sure of it.""I'm looking forward to seeing them all.""I've seen you some place.""I'm often there.""Eh?"Mr. Pett seemed to be turning this remark over in his mind atrifle suspiciously. Jimmy changed the subject.
　　"To a young man like myself," he said, "with life opening outbefore him, there is something singularly stimulating in thesight of a modern office. How busy those fellows seem!""Yes," said Mr. Pett. "Yes." He was glad that this conversationalnote had been struck. He was anxious to discuss the future withthis young man.
　　"Everybody works but father!" said Jimmy.
　　Mr. Pett started.
　　"Eh?""Nothing."Mr. Pett was vaguely ruffled. He suspected insult, but could notpin it down. He abandoned his cheeriness, however, and became theman of business.
　　"I hope you intend to settle down, now that you are here, andwork hard," he said in the voice which he vainly tried to use onOgden at home.
　　"Work!" said Jimmy blankly.
　　"I shall be able to make a place for you in my office. That wasmy promise to your step-mother, and I shall fulfil it.""But wait a minute! I don't get this! Do you mean to put me towork?""Of course. I take it that that was why you came over here,because you realised how you were wasting your life and wanted achance of making good in my office."A hot denial trembled on Jimmy's tongue. Never had he been somisjudged. And then the thought of Ann checked him. He must donothing that would interfere with Ann's plans. Whatever the cost,he must conciliate this little man. For a moment he musedsentimentally on Ann. He hoped she would understand what he wasgoing through for her sake. To a man with his ingrained distastefor work in any shape the sight of those wage-slaves outsidethere in the outer office had, as he had told Mr. Pett, beenstimulating: but only because it filled him with a sort ofspiritual uplift to think that he had not got to do that sort ofthing. Consider them in the light of fellow-workers, and thespectacle ceased to stimulate and became nauseating. And for hersake he was about to become one of them! Had any knight of oldever done anything as big as that for his lady? He very muchdoubted it.
　　"All right," he said. "Count me in. I take it that I shall have ajob like one of those out there?""Yes.""Not presuming to dictate, I suggest that you give me somethingthat will take some of the work off that fellow who's swimming inpaper. Only the tip of his nose was above the surface as I passedthrough. I never saw so many fellows working so hard at the sametime in my life. All trying to catch the boss's eye, too, Isuppose? It must make you feel like a snipe."Mr. Pett replied stiffly. He disliked this levity on the sacredsubject of office work. He considered that Jimmy was notapproaching his new life in the proper spirit. Many young men haddiscussed with him in that room the subject of working in hisemployment, but none in quite the same manner.
　　"You are at a serious point in your career," he said. "You willhave every opportunity of rising.""Yes. At seven in the morning, I suppose?""A spirit of levity--" began Mr. Pett.
　　"I laugh that I may not weep," explained Jimmy. "Try to thinkwhat this means to a bright young man who loathes work. Be kindto me. Instruct your floor-walkers to speak gently to me atfirst. It may be a far, far better thing that I do than I haveever done, but don't ask me to enjoy it! It's all right for you.
　　You're the boss. Any time you want to call it a day and go offand watch a ball-game, all you have to do is to leave word thatyou have an urgent date to see Mr. Rockerfeller. Whereas I shallhave to submerge myself in paper and only come up for air whenthe danger of suffocation becomes too great."It may have been the mention of his favourite game that softenedMr. Pett. The frostiness which had crept into his manner thawed.
　　"It beats me," he said, "why you ever came over at all, if youfeel like that.""Duty!" said Jimmy. "Duty! There comes a time in the life ofevery man when he must choose between what is pleasant and whatis right.""And that last fool-game of yours, that Lord Percy Whipplebusiness, must have made London pretty hot for you?" suggestedMr. Pett.
　　"Your explanation is less romantic than mine, but there issomething in what you say.""Had it occurred to you, young man, that I am taking a chanceputting a fellow like you to work in my office?""Have no fear. The little bit of work I shall do won't make anydifference.""I've half a mind to send you straight back to London.""Couldn't we compromise?""How?""Well, haven't you some snug secretarial job you could put meinto? I have an idea that I should make an ideal secretary.""My secretaries work.""I get you. Cancel the suggestion."Mr. Pett rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
　　"You puzzle me. And that's the truth.""Always speak the truth," said Jimmy approvingly.
　　"I'm darned if I know what to do with you. Well, you'd bettercome home with me now, anyway, and meet your aunt, and then wecan talk things over. After all, the main thing is to keep youout of mischief.""You put things crudely, but no doubt you are right.""You'll live with us, of course.""Thank you very much. This is the right spirit.""I'll have to talk to Nesta about you. There may he something youcan do.""I shouldn't mind being a partner," suggested Jimmy helpfully.
　　"Why don't you get work on a paper again? You used to do thatwell.""I don't think my old paper would welcome me now. They regard merather as an entertaining news-item than a worker.""That's true. Say, why on earth did you make such a fool ofyourself over on the other side? That breach-of-promise case withthe barmaid!" said Mr. Pett reproachfully.
　　"Let bygones be bygones," said Jimmy. "I was more sinned againstthan sinning. You know how it is, uncle Pete!" Mr. Pett startedviolently, but said nothing. "You try out of pure goodness ofheart to scatter light and sweetness and protect the poorworking-girl--like Heaven--and brighten up her lot and so on, andshe turns right around and soaks it to you good! And anyway shewasn't a barmaid. She worked in a florist's shop.""I don't see that that makes any difference.""All the difference in the world, all the difference between thesordid and the poetical. I don't know if you have everexperienced the hypnotic intoxication of a florist's shop? Takeit from me, uncle Pete, any girl can look an angel as long as sheis surrounded by choice blooms. I couldn't help myself. I wasn'tresponsible. I only woke up when I met her outside. But all thatsort of thing is different now. I am another man. Sober, steady,serious-minded!"Mr. Pett had taken the receiver from the telephone and wastalking to some one. The buzzing of a feminine voice came toJimmy's ears. Mr. Pett hung up the receiver.
　　"Your aunt says we are to come up at once.""I'm ready. And it will be a good excuse for you to knock offwork. I bet you're glad I came! Does the carriage await or shallwe take the subway?""I guess it will be quicker to take the subway. Your aunt's verysurprised that you are here, and very pleased.""I'm making everybody happy to-day."Mr. Pett was looking at him in a meditative way. Jimmy caught hiseye.
　　"You're registering something, uncle Pete, and I don't know whatit is. Why the glance?""I was just thinking of something.""Jimmy," prompted his nephew.
　　"Eh?""Add the word Jimmy to your remarks. It will help me to feel athome and enable me to overcome my shyness."Mr. Pett chuckled.
　　"Shyness! If I had your nerve--!" He broke off with a sigh andlooked at Jimmy affectionately. "What I was thinking was thatyou're a good boy. At least, you're not, but you're differentfrom that gang of--of--that crowd up-town.""What crowd?""Your aunt is literary, you know. She's filled the house withpoets and that sort of thing. It will be a treat having youaround. You're human! I don't see that we're going to make muchof you now that you're here, but I'm darned glad you've come,Jimmy!""Put it there, uncle Pete!" said Jimmy. "You're all right.
　　You're the finest Captain of Industry I ever met!"
Chapter 13 Slight Complictions
    They left the subway at Ninety-sixth Street and walked up theDrive. Jimmy, like every one else who saw it for the first time,experienced a slight shock at the sight of the Pett mansion, but,rallying, followed his uncle up the flagged path to the frontdoor.
　　"Your aunt will be in the drawing-room, I guess," said Mr. Pett,opening the door with his key.
　　Jimmy was looking round him appreciatively. Mr. Pett's housemight be an eyesore from without, but inside it had had thebenefit of the skill of the best interior decorator in New York.
　　"A man could be very happy in a house like this, if he didn'thave to poison his days with work," said Jimmy.
　　Mr. Pett looked alarmed.
　　"Don't go saying anything like that to your aunt!" he urged. "Shethinks you have come to settle down.""So I have. I'm going to settle down like a limpet. I hope Ishall be living in luxury on you twenty years from now. Is thisthe room?"Mr. Pett opened the drawing-room door. A small hairy objectsprang from a basket and stood yapping in the middle of the room.
　　This was Aida, Mrs. Pett's Pomeranian. Mr. Pett, avoiding theanimal coldly, for he disliked it, ushered Jimmy into the room.
　　"Here's Jimmy Crocker, Nesta."Jimmy was aware of a handsome woman of middle age, so like hisstep-mother that for an instant his self-possession left him andhe stammered.
　　"How--how do you do?"His demeanour made a favourable impression on Mrs. Pett. She tookit for the decent confusion of remorse.
　　"I was very surprised when your uncle telephoned me," she said.
　　"I had not the slightest idea that you were coming over. I amvery glad to see you.""Thank you.""This is your cousin, Ogden."Jimmy perceived a fat boy lying on a settee. He had not risen onJimmy's entrance, and he did not rise now. He did not even lowerthe book he was reading.
　　"Hello," he said.
　　Jimmy crossed over to the settee, and looked down on him. He hadgot over his momentary embarrassment, and, as usual with him, thereaction led to a fatal breeziness. He prodded Ogden in hiswell-covered ribs, producing a yelp of protest from thatastounded youth.
　　"So this is Ogden! Well, well, well! You don't grow up, Ogden,but you do grow out. What are you--a perfect sixty-six?"The favourable impression which Mrs. Pett had formed of hernephew waned. She was shocked by this disrespectful attitudetowards the child she worshipped.
　　"Please do not disturb Ogden, James," she said stiffly. "He isnot feeling very well to-day. His stomach is weak.""Been eating too much?" said Jimmy cheerfully.
　　"I was just the same at his age. What he wants is half rationsand plenty of exercise.""Say!" protested Ogden.
　　"Just look at this," proceeded Jimmy, grasping a handful ofsuperfluous tissue around the boy's ribs. "All that ought to comeoff. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll buy a pair of flanneltrousers and a sweater and some sneakers, and I'll take him for arun up Riverside Drive this evening. Do him no end of good. And agood skipping-rope, too. Nothing like it. In a couple of weeksI'll have him as fit as a--""Ogden's case," said Mrs. Pett coldly, "which is verycomplicated, is in the hands of Doctor Briginshaw, in whom wehave every confidence."There was a silence, the paralysing effects of which Mr. Pettvainly tried to mitigate by shuffling his feet and coughing.
　　Mrs. Pett spoke.
　　"I hope that, now that you are here, James, you intend to settledown and work hard.""Indubitably. Like a beaver," said Jimmy, mindful of Mr. Pett'srecent warning. "The only trouble is that there seems to be alittle uncertainty as to what I am best fitted for. We talked itover in uncle Pete's office and arrived at no conclusion.""Can't you think of anything?" said Mr. Pett.
　　"I looked right through the telephone classified directory theother day--""The other day? But you only landed this morning.""I mean this morning. When I was looking up your address so thatI could go and see you," said Jimmy glibly." It seems a long timeago. I think the sight of all those fellows in your office hasaged me. I think the best plan would be for me to settle downhere and learn how to be an electrical engineer or something bymail. I was reading an advertisement in a magazine as we came upon the subway. I see they guarantee to teach you anything fromsheet metal working to poultry raising. The thing began 'You arestanding still because you lack training.' It seemed to me toapply to my case exactly. I had better drop them a line to-nightasking for a few simple facts about chickens."Whatever comment Mrs. Pett might have made on this suggestion waschecked by the entrance of Ann. From the window of her room Annhad observed the arrival of Jimmy and her uncle, and now, havingallowed sufficient time to elapse for the former to make Mrs.
　　Pett's acquaintance, she came down to see how things were going.
　　She was well satisfied with what she saw. A slight strain whichshe perceived in the atmosphere she attributed to embarrassmentnatural to the situation.
　　She looked at Jimmy enquiringly. Mrs. Pett had not informed herof Mr. Pett's telephone call, so Jimmy, she realised, had to beexplained to her. She waited for some one to say something.
　　Mr. Pett undertook the introduction.
　　"Jimmy, this is my niece, Ann Chester. This is Jimmy Crocker,Ann."Jimmy could not admire sufficiently the start of surprise whichshe gave. It was artistic and convincing.
　　"Jimmy Crocker!"Mr. Pett was on the point of mentioning that this was not thefirst time Ann had met Jimmy, but refrained. After all, thatinterview had happened five years ago. Jimmy had almost certainlyforgotten all about it. There was no use in making him feelunnecessarily awkward. It was up to Ann. If she wanted todisinter the ancient grievance, let her. It was no business ofhis.
　　"I thought you weren't coming over!" said Ann.
　　"I changed my mind."Mr. Pett, who had been gazing attentively at them, uttered anexclamation.
　　"I've got it! I've been trying all this while to think where itwas that I saw you before. It was on the _Atlantic_!"Ann caught Jimmy's eye. She was relieved to see that he was notdisturbed by this sudden development.
　　"Did you come over on the _Atlantic_, Mr. Crocker?" she said.
　　"Surely not? We crossed on her ourselves. We should have met.""Don't call me Mr. Crocker," said Jimmy. "Call me Jimmy. Yourmother's brother's wife's sister's second husband is my father.
　　Blood is thicker than water. No, I came over on the _Caronia_. Wedocked this morning.""Well, there was a fellow just like you on the _Atlantic_,"persisted Mr. Pett.
　　Mrs. Pett said nothing. She was watching Jimmy with a keen andsuspicious eye.
　　"I suppose I'm a common type," said Jimmy.
　　"You remember the man I mean," said Mr. Pett, innocentlyunconscious of the unfriendly thoughts he was encouraging in twoof his hearers. "He sat two tables away from us at meals. Youremember him, Nesta?""As I was too unwell to come to meals, I do not.""Why, I thought I saw you once talking to him on deck, Ann.""Really?" said Ann. "I don't remember any one who looked at alllike Jimmy.""Well," said Mr. Pett, puzzled. "It's very strange. I guess I'mwrong." He looked at his watch. "Well, I'll have to be gettingback to the office.""I'll come with you part of the way, uncle Pete," said Jimmy. "Ihave to go and arrange for my things to be expressed here.""Why not phone to the hotel?" said Mr. Pett. It seemed to Jimmyand Ann that he was doing this sort of thing on purpose. "Whichhotel did you leave them at?""No, I shall have to go there. I have some packing to do.""You will be back to lunch?" said Ann.
　　"Thanks. I shan't be gone more than half an hour."For a moment after they had gone, Ann relaxed, happy andrelieved. Everything had gone splendidly. Then a shock ranthrough her whole system as Mrs. Pett spoke. She spoke excitedly,in a lowered voice, leaning over to Ann.
　　"Ann! Did you notice anything? Did you suspect anything?"Ann mastered her emotion with an effort.
　　"Whatever do you mean, aunt Nesta?""About that young man, who calls himself Jimmy Crocker."Ann clutched the side of the chair.
　　"Who calls himself Jimmy Crocker? I don't understand."Ann tried to laugh. It seemed to her an age before she producedany sound at all, and when it came it was quite unlike a laugh.
　　"What put that idea into your head? Surely, if he says he isJimmy Crocker, it's rather absurd to doubt him, isn't it? Howcould anybody except Jimmy Crocker know that you were anxious toget Jimmy Crocker over here? You didn't tell any one, did you?"This reasoning shook Mrs. Pett a little, but she did not intendto abandon a perfectly good suspicion merely because it began toseem unreasonable.
　　"They have their spies everywhere," she said doggedly.
　　"Who have?""The Secret Service people from other countries. Lord Wisbeachwas telling me about it yesterday. He said that I ought tosuspect everybody. He said that an attempt might be made onWillie's invention at any moment now.""He was joking.""He was not. I have never seen any one so serious. He said that Iought to regard every fresh person who came into the house as apossible criminal.""Well, that guy's fresh enough," muttered Ogden from the settee.
　　Mrs. Pett started.
　　"Ogden! I had forgotten that you were there." She uttered a cryof horror, as the fact of his presence started a new train ofthought. "Why, this man may have come to kidnap you! I neverthought of that."Ann felt it time to intervene. Mrs. Pett was hovering much toonear the truth for comfort. "You mustn't imagine things, auntNesta. I believe it comes from writing the sort of stories youdo. Surely, it is impossible for this man to be an impostor. Howwould he dare take such a risk? He must know that you coulddetect him at any moment by cabling over to Mrs. Crocker to askif her step-son was really in America."It was a bold stroke, for it suggested a plan of action which, iffollowed, would mean ruin for her schemes, but Ann could notrefrain from chancing it. She wanted to know whether her aunt hadany intention of asking Mrs. Crocker for information, or whetherthe feud was too bitter for her pride to allow her to communicatewith her sister in any way. She breathed again as Mrs. Pettstiffened grimly in her chair.
　　"I should not dream of cabling to Eugenia.""I quite understand that," said Ann. "But an impostor would notknow that you felt like that, would he?""I see what you mean."Ann relaxed again. The relief was, however, only momentary.
　　"I cannot understand, though," said Mrs. Pett, "why your uncleshould have been so positive that he saw this young man on the_Atlantic_.""Just a chance resemblance, I suppose. Why, uncle Peter said hesaw the man whom he imagined was like Jimmy Crocker talking tome. If there had been any real resemblance, shouldn't I have seenit before uncle Peter?"Assistance came from an unexpected quarter.
　　"I know the chap uncle Peter meant," said Ogden. "He wasn't likethis guy at all."Ann was too grateful for the help to feel astonished at it. Hermind, dwelling for a mere instant on the matter, decided thatOgden must have seen her on deck with somebody else than Jimmy.
　　She had certainly not lacked during the voyage for those whosought her society.
　　Mrs. Pett seemed to be impressed.
　　"I may be letting my imagination run away with me," she said.
　　"Of course you are, aunt Nesta," said Ann thankfully. "You don'trealise what a vivid imagination you have got. When I was typingthat last story of yours, I was simply astounded at the ideas youhad thought of. I remember saying so to uncle Peter. You can'texpect to have a wonderful imagination like yours and not imaginethings, can you?"Mrs. Pett smiled demurely. She looked hopefully at her niece,waiting for more, but Ann had said her say.
　　"You are perfectly right, my dear child," she said when she wasquite sure the eulogy was not to be resumed. "No doubt I havebeen foolish to suspect this young man. But Lord Wisbeach's wordsnaturally acted more strongly on a mind like mine than they wouldhave done in the case of another woman.""Of course," said Ann.
　　She was feeling quite happy now. It had been tense while it hadlasted, but everything was all right now.
　　"And, fortunately," said Mrs. Pett, "there is a way by which wecan find out for certain if the young man is really JamesCrocker."Ann became rigid again.
　　"A way? What way?""Why, don't you remember, my dear, that Skinner has known JamesCrocker for years.""Skinner?"The name sounded familiar, but in the stress of the moment Anncould not identify it.
　　"My new butler. He came to me straight from Eugenia. It was hewho let us in when we called at her house. Nobody could knowbetter than he whether this person is really James Crocker ornot."Ann felt as if she had struggled to the limit of her endurance.
　　She was not prepared to cope with this unexpected blow. She hadnot the strength to rally under it. Dully she perceived that herschemes must be dismissed as a failure before they had had achance of success. Her accomplice must not return to the house tobe exposed. She saw that clearly enough. If he came back, hewould walk straight into a trap. She rose quickly. She must warnhim. She must intercept him before he arrived--and he mightarrive at any moment now.
　　"Of course," she said, steadying herself with an effort, "I neverthought of that. That makes it all simple. . . . I hope lunchwon't be late. I'm hungry."She sauntered to the door, but, directly she had closed it behindher, ran to her room, snatched up a hat, and rushed downstairsand out into Riverside Drive. Just as she reached the street,Jimmy turned the corner. She ran towards him, holding up herhands.
Chapter 14 Lord Wisbeach
    Jimmy halted in his tracks. The apparition had startled him. Hehad been thinking of Ann, but he had not expected her to boundout at him, waving her arms.
　　"What's the matter?" he enquired.
　　Ann pulled him towards a side-street.
　　"You mustn't go to the house. Everything has gone wrong.""Everything gone wrong? I thought I had made a hit. I have withyour uncle, anyway. We parted on the friendliest terms. We havearranged to go to the ball-game together to-morrow. He is goingto tell them at the office that Carnegie wants to see him.""It isn't uncle Peter. It's aunt Nesta.""Ah, there you touch my conscience. I was a little tactless, I'mafraid, with Ogden. It happened before you came into the room. Isuppose that is the trouble?""It has nothing do with that," said Ann impatiently. "It's muchworse. Aunt Nesta is suspicious. She has guessed that you aren'treally Jimmy Crocker.""Great Scott! How?""I tried to calm her down, but she still suspects. So now she hasdecided to wait and see if Skinner, the butler, knows you. If hedoesn't, she will know that she was right."Jimmy was frankly puzzled.
　　"I don't quite follow the reasoning. Surely it's a peculiar kindof test. Why should she think a man cannot be honest and trueunless her butler knows him? There must be hundreds of worthycitizens whom he does not know.""Skinner arrived from England a few days ago. Until then he wasemployed by Mrs. Crocker. Now do you understand?"Jimmy stopped. She had spoken slowly and distinctly, and therecould be no possibility that he had misunderstood her, yet hescarcely believed that he had heard her aright. How could a mannamed Skinner have been his step-mother's butler? Bayliss hadbeen with the family ever since they had arrived in London.
　　"Are you sure?""Of course, of course I'm sure. Aunt Nesta told me herself. Therecan't possibly be a mistake, because it was Skinner who let herin when she called on Mrs. Crocker. Uncle Peter told me about it.
　　He had a talk with the man in the hall and found that he was abaseball enthusiast--"A wild, impossible idea flashed upon Jimmy. It was so absurd thathe felt ashamed of entertaining it even for a moment. But strangethings were happening these times, and it might be . . .
　　"What sort of looking man is Skinner?""Oh, stout, clean-shaven. I like him. He's much more human than Ithought butlers ever were. Why?""Oh, nothing.""Of course, you can't go back to the house. You see that? Hewould say that you aren't Jimmy Crocker and then you would bearrested.""I don't see that. If I am sufficiently like Crocker for hisfriends to mistake me for him in restaurants, why shouldn't thisbutler mistake me, too?""But--?""And, consider. In any case, there's no harm done. If he fails torecognise me when he opens the door to us, we shall know that thegame is up: and I shall have plenty of time to disappear. If thelikeness deceives him, all will be well. I propose that we go tothe house, ring the bell, and when he appears, I will say 'Ah,Skinner! Honest fellow!' or words to that effect. He will eitherstare blankly at me or fawn on me like a faithful watchdog. Wewill base our further actions on which way the butler jumps."The sound of the bell died away. Footsteps were heard. Annreached for Jimmy's arm and--clutched it.
　　"Now!" she whispered.
　　The door opened. Next moment Jimmy's suspicion was confirmed.
　　Gaping at them from the open doorway, wonderfully respectable andbutlerlike in swallow-tails, stood his father. How he came to bethere, and why he was there, Jimmy did not know. But there hewas.
　　Jimmy had little faith in his father's talents as a man ofdiscretion. The elder Crocker was one of those simple, straightforward people who, when surprised, do not conceal theirsurprise, and who, not understanding any situation in which theyfind themselves, demand explanation on the spot. Swift andimmediate action was indicated on his part before his amazedparent, finding him on the steps of the one house in New Yorkwhere he was least likely to be, should utter words that wouldundo everything. He could see the name Jimmy trembling on Mr.
　　Crocker's lips.
　　He waved his hand cheerily.
　　"Ah, Skinner, there you are!" he said breezily. "Miss Chester wastelling me that you had left my step-mother. I suppose you sailedon the boat before mine. I came over on the _Caronia_. I supposeyou didn't expect to see me again so soon, eh?"A spasm seemed to pass over Mr. Crocker's face, leaving it calmand serene. He had been thrown his cue, and like the old actor hewas he took it easily and without confusion. He smiled arespectful smile.
　　"No, indeed, sir."He stepped aside to allow them to enter. Jimmy caught Ann's eyeas she passed him. It shone with relief and admiration, and itexhilarated Jimmy like wine. As she moved towards the stairs, hegave expression to his satisfaction by slapping his father on theback with a report that rang out like a pistol shot.
　　"What was that?" said Ann, turning.
　　"Something out on the Drive, I think," said Jimmy. "A carback-firing, I fancy, Skinner.""Very probably, sir."He followed Ann to the stairs. As he started to mount them, afaint whisper reached his ears.
　　"'At-a-boy!"It was Mr. Crocker's way of bestowing a father's blessing.
　　Ann walked into the drawing-room, her head high, triumph in theglance which she cast upon her unconscious aunt.
　　"Quite an interesting little scene downstairs, aunt Nesta," shesaid. "The meeting of the faithful old retainer and the youngmaster. Skinner was almost overcome with surprise and joy when hesaw Jimmy!"Mrs. Pett could not check an incautious exclamation.
　　"Did Skinner recognise--?" she began; then stopped herselfabruptly.
　　Ann laughed.
　　"Did he recognise Jimmy? Of course! He was hardly likely to haveforgotten him, surely? It isn't much more than a week since hewas waiting on him in London.""It was a very impressive meeting," said Jimmy. "Rather like thereunion of Ulysses and the hound Argos, of which this bright-eyedchild here--" he patted Ogden on the head, a proceeding violentlyresented by that youth--"has no doubt read in the course of hisresearches into the Classics. I was Ulysses, Skinner enacted therole of the exuberant dog."Mrs. Pett was not sure whether she was relieved or disappointedat this evidence that her suspicions had been without foundation.
　　On the whole, relief may be said to have preponderated.
　　"I have no doubt he was pleased to see you again. He must havebeen very much astonished.""He was!""You will be meeting another old friend in a minute or two," saidMrs. Pett.
　　Jimmy had been sinking into a chair. This remark stopped him inmid-descent.
　　"Another!"Mrs. Pett glanced at the clock.
　　"Lord Wisbeach is coming to lunch.""Lord Wisbeach!" cried Ann. "He doesn't know Jimmy.""Eugenia informed me in London that he was one of your bestfriends, James."Ann looked helplessly at Jimmy. She was conscious again of thatfeeling of not being able to cope with Fate's blows, of nothaving the strength to go on climbing over the barriers whichFate placed in her path.
　　Jimmy, for his part, was cursing the ill fortune that had broughtLord Wisbeach across his path. He saw clearly that it only neededrecognition by one or two more intimates of Jimmy Crocker to makeAnn suspect his real identity. The fact that she had seen himwith Bayliss in Paddington Station and had fallen into the errorof supposing Bayliss to be his father had kept her fromsuspecting until now; but this could not last forever. Heremembered Lord Wisbeach well, as a garrulous, irrepressiblechatterer who would probably talk about old times to such anextent as to cause Ann to realise the truth in the first fiveminutes.
　　The door opened.
　　"Lord Wisbeach," announced Mr. Crocker.
　　"I'm afraid I'm late, Mrs. Pett," said his lordship.
　　"No. You're quite punctual. Lord Wisbeach, here is an old friendof yours, James Crocker."There was an almost imperceptible pause. Then Jimmy steppedforward and held out his hand.
　　"Hello, Wizzy, old man!""H-hello, Jimmy!"Their eyes met. In his lordship's there was an expression ofunmistakable relief, mingled with astonishment. His face, whichhad turned a sickly white, flushed as the blood poured back intoit. He had the appearance of a man who had had a bad shock and isjust getting over it. Jimmy, eyeing him curiously, was notsurprised at his emotion. What the man's game might be, he couldnot say; but of one thing he was sure, which was that this wasnot Lord Wisbeach, but--on the contrary--some one he had neverseen before in his life.
　　"Luncheon is served, madam!" said Mr. Crocker sonorously from thedoorway.
Chapter 15 A Little Business Chat
    It was not often that Ann found occasion to rejoice at thepresence in her uncle's house of the six geniuses whom Mrs. Petthad installed therein. As a rule, she disliked them individuallyand collectively. But to-day their company was extraordinarilywelcome to her. They might have their faults, but at least theirpresence tended to keep the conversation general and prevent itbecoming a duologue between Lord Wisbeach and Jimmy on thesubject of old times. She was still feeling weak from thereaction consequent upon the slackening of the tension of heremotions on seeing Lord Wisbeach greet Jimmy as an oldacquaintance. She had never hoped that that barrier would besurmounted. She had pictured Lord Wisbeach drawing back with apuzzled frown on his face and an astonished "But this is notJimmy Crocker." The strain had left her relieved, but in no moodfor conversation, and she replied absently to the remarks ofHoward Bemis, the poet, who sat on her left. She looked round thetable. Willie Partridge was talking to Mrs. Pett about thedifference between picric acid and trinitrotoluene, than which apleasanter topic for the luncheon table could hardly be selected,and the voice of Clarence Renshaw rose above all other competingnoises, as he spoke of the functions of the trochaic spondee.
　　There was nothing outwardly to distinguish this meal from anyother which she had shared of late in that house.
　　The only thing that prevented her relief being unmixed was thefact that she could see Lord Wisbeach casting furtive glances atJimmy, who was eating with the quiet concentration of one who,after days of boarding-house fare, finds himself in the presenceof the masterpieces of a chef. In the past few days Jimmy hadconsumed too much hash to worry now about anything like a furtiveglance. He had perceived Lord Wisbeach's roving eye, and had nodoubt that at the conclusion of the meal he would find occasionfor a little chat. Meanwhile, however, his duty was towards histissues and their restoration. He helped himself liberally from adish which his father offered him.
　　He became aware that Mrs. Pett was addressing him.
　　"I beg your pardon?""Quite like old times," said Mrs. Pett genially. Her suspicionshad vanished completely since Lord Wisbeach's recognition of thevisitor, and remorse that she should have suspected him made herunwontedly amiable. "Being with Skinner again," she explained.
　　"It must remind you of London."Jimmy caught his father's expressionless eye.
　　"Skinner's," he said handsomely, "is a character one cannot helpbut respect. His nature expands before one like some beautifulflower."The dish rocked in Mr. Crocker's hand, but his face remainedimpassive.
　　"There is no vice in Skinner," proceeded Jimmy. "His heart is theheart of a little child."Mrs. Pett looked at this paragon of the virtues in rather astartled way. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was beinglaughed at. She began to dislike Jimmy again.
　　"For many years Skinner has been a father to me," said Jimmy.
　　"Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty storytell, Or kiss the place to make it well? Skinner."For all her suspense, Ann could not help warming towards anaccomplice who carried off an unnerving situation with such aflourish. She had always regarded herself with a fair degree ofcomplacency as possessed of no mean stock of courage andresource, but she could not have spoken then without betrayingher anxiety. She thought highly of Jimmy, but all the same shecould not help wishing that he would not make himself quite soconspicuous. Perhaps--the thought chilled her--perhaps he wascreating quite a new Jimmy Crocker, a character which would causeSkinner and Lord Wisbeach to doubt the evidence of their eyes andbegin to suspect the truth. She wished she could warn him tosimmer down, but the table was a large one and he and she were atopposite ends of it.
　　Jimmy, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying himself. He felt thathe was being the little ray of sunshine about the home and makinga good impression. He was completely happy. He liked the food, heliked seeing his father buttle, and he liked these amazing freakswho were, it appeared, fellow-inmates with him of this highlydesirable residence. He wished that old Mr. Pett could have beenpresent. He had conceived a great affection for Mr. Pett, andregistered a mental resolve to lose no time in weaning him fromhis distressing habit of allowing the office to interfere withhis pleasures. He was planning a little trip to the Polo Grounds,in which Mr. Pett, his father, and a number of pop bottles wereto be his companions, when his reverie was interrupted by asudden cessation of the buzz of talk. He looked up from hisplate, to find the entire company regarding Willie Partridgeopen-mouthed. Willie, with gleaming eyes, was gazing at a smalltest-tube which he had produced from his pocket and placed besidehis plate.
　　"I have enough in this test-tube," said Willie airily, "to blowhalf New York to bits."The silence was broken by a crash in the background. Mr. Crockerhad dropped a chafing-dish.
　　"If I were to drop this little tube like that," said Willie,using the occurrence as a topical illustration, "we shouldn't behere.""Don't drop it," advised Jimmy. "What is it?""Partridgite!"Mrs. Pett had risen from the table, with blanched face.
　　"Willie, how can you bring that stuff here? What are you thinkingof?"Willie smiles a patronising smile.
　　"There is not the slightest danger, aunt Nesta. It cannot explodewithout concussion. I have been carrying it about with me all themorning."He bestowed on the test-tube the look a fond parent might givehis favourite child. Mrs. Pett was not reassured.
　　"Go and put it in your uncle's safe at once. Put it away.""I haven't the combination.""Call your uncle up at once at the office and ask him.""Very well. If you wish it, aunt Nesta. But there is no danger.""Don't take that thing with you," screamed Mrs. Pett, as he rose.
　　"You might drop it. Come back for it.""Very well."Conversation flagged after Willie's departure. The presence ofthe test-tube seemed to act on the spirits of the company afterthe fashion of the corpse at the Egyptian banquet. Howard Bemis,who was sitting next to it, edged away imperceptibly till henearly crowded Ann off her chair. Presently Willie returned. Hepicked up the test-tube, put it in his pocket with a certainjauntiness, and left the room again.
　　"Now, if you hear a sudden bang and find yourself disappearingthrough the roof," said Jimmy, "that will be it."Willie returned and took his place at the table again. But thespirit had gone out of the gathering. The voice of ClarenceRenshaw was hushed, and Howard Bemis spoke no more of theinfluence of Edgar Lee Masters on modern literature. Mrs. Pettleft the room, followed by Ann. The geniuses drifted away one byone. Jimmy, having lighted a cigarette and finished his coffee,perceived that he was alone with his old friend, Lord Wisbeach,and that his old friend Lord Wisbeach was about to becomeconfidential.
　　The fair-haired young man opened the proceedings by going to thedoor and looking out. This done, he returned to his seat andgazed fixedly at Jimmy.
　　"What's your game?" he asked.
　　Jimmy returned his gaze blandly.
　　"My game?" he said. "What do you mean?""Can the coy stuff," urged his lordship brusquely. "Talk senseand talk it quick. We may be interrupted at any moment. What'syour game? What are you here for?"Jimmy raised his eyebrows.
　　"I am a prodigal nephew returned to the fold.""Oh, quit your kidding. Are you one of Potter's lot?""Who is Potter?""You know who Potter is.""On the contrary. My life has never been brightened by so much asa sight of Potter.""Is that true?""Absolutely.""Are you working on your own, then?""I am not working at all at present. There is some talk of mylearning to be an Asparagus Adjuster by mail later on.""You make me sick," said Lord Wisbeach. "Where's the sense oftrying to pull this line of talk. Why not put your cards on thetable? We've both got in here on the same lay, and there's no usefighting and balling the thing up.""Do you wish me to understand," said Jimmy, "that you are not myold friend, Lord Wisbeach?""No. And you're not my old friend, Jimmy Crocker.""What makes you think that?""If you had been, would you have pretended to recognise meupstairs just now? I tell you, pal, I was all in for a second,till you gave me the high sign."Jimmy laughed.
　　"It would have been awkward for you if I really had been JimmyCrocker, wouldn't it?""And it would have been awkward for you if I had really been LordWisbeach.""Who are you, by the way?""The boys call me Gentleman Jack.""Why?" asked Jimmy, surprised.
　　Lord Wisbeach ignored the question.
　　"I'm working with Burke's lot just now. Say, let's be sensibleabout this. I'll be straight with you, straight as a string.""Did you say string or spring?""And I'll expect you to be straight with me.""Are we to breathe confidences into each other's ears?"Lord Wisbeach went to the door again and submitted the passage toa second examination.
　　"You seem nervous," said Jimmy.
　　"I don't like that butler. He's up to something.""Do you think he's one of Potter's lot?""Shouldn't wonder. He isn't on the level, anyway, or why did hepretend to recognise you as Jimmy Crocker?""Recognition of me as Jimmy Crocker seems to be the acid test ofhonesty.""He was in a tight place, same as I was," said Lord Wisbeach. "Hecouldn't know that you weren't really Jimmy Crocker until you puthim wise--same as you did me--by pretending to know him." Helooked at Jimmy with grudging admiration. "You'd got your nervewith you, pal, coming in here like this. You were taking bigchances. You couldn't have known you wouldn't run up against someone who really knew Jimmy Crocker. What would you have done ifthis butler guy had really been on the level?""The risks of the profession!""When I think of the work I had to put in," said Lord Wisbeach,"it makes me tired to think of some one else just walking in hereas you did.""What made you choose Lord Wisbeach as your alias?""I knew that I could get away with it. I came over on the boatwith him, and I knew he was travelling round the world and wasn'tgoing to stay more than a day in New York. Even then I had to gosome to get into this place. Burke told me to get hold of oldChester and get a letter of introduction from him. And here youcome along and just stroll in and tell them you have come tostay!" He brooded for a moment on the injustice of things.
　　"Well, what are you going to do about it, Pal?""About what?""About us both being here? Are you going to be sensible and workin with me and divvy up later on, or are you going to riskspoiling everything by trying to hog the whole thing? I'll besquare with you. It isn't as if there was any use in trying tobluff each other. We're both here for the same thing. You want toget hold of that powder stuff, that Partridgite, and so do I.""You believe in Partridgite, then?""Oh, can it," said Lord Wisbeach disgustedly. "What's the use?
　　Of course I believe in it. Burke's had his eye on the thing for ayear. You've heard of Dwight Partridge, haven't you? Well, thisguy's his son. Every one knows that Dwight Partridge was workingon an explosive when he died, and here's his son comes along witha test-tube full of stuff which he says could blow this city tobits. What's the answer? The boy's been working on the old man'sdope. From what I've seen of him, I guess there wasn't much moreto be done on it, or he wouldn't have done it. He's pretty welldead from the neck up, as far as I can see. But that doesn'talter the fact that he's got the stuff and that you and I havegot to get together and make a deal. If we don't, I'm not sayingyou mightn't gum my game, just as I might gum yours; but where'sthe sense in that? It only means taking extra chances. Whereas ifwe sit in together, there's enough in it for both of us. You knowas well as I do that there's a dozen markets which'll bid againsteach other for stuff like that Partridgite. If you're worryingabout Burke giving you a square deal, forget it. I'll fix Burke.
　　He'll treat you nice, all right."Jimmy ground the butt of his cigarette against his plate.
　　"I'm no orator, as Brutus is; but, as you know me all, a plain,blunt man. And, speaking in the capacity of a plain, blunt man, Irise to reply--Nothing doing.""What? You won't come in?"Jimmy shook his head.
　　"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Wizzy, if I may still call youthat, but your offer fails to attract. I will not get together orsit in or anything else. On the contrary, I am about to go toMrs. Pett and inform her that there is a snake in her Eden.""You're not going to squeal on me?""At the top of my voice."Lord Wisbeach laughed unpleasantly.
　　"Yes, you will," he said. "How are you going to explain why yourecognised me as an old pal before lunch if I'm a crook afterlunch. You can't give me away without giving yourself away. IfI'm not Lord Wisbeach, then you're not Jimmy Crocker."Jimmy sighed. "I get you. Life is very complex, isn't it?"Lord Wisbeach rose.
　　"You'd better think it over, son," he said. "You aren't going toget anywhere by acting like a fool. You can't stop me going afterthis stuff, and if you won't come in and go fifty-fifty, you'llfind yourself left. I'll beat you to it."He left the room, and Jimmy, lighting a fresh cigarette,addressed himself to the contemplation of this new complicationin his affairs. It was quite true what Gentleman Jack or Joe orwhatever the "boys" called him had said. To denounce him meantdenouncing himself. Jimmy smoked thoughtfully. Not for the firsttime he wished that his record during the past few years had beenof a snowier character. He began to appreciate what must havebeen the feelings of Dr. Jekyll under the handicap of hisdisreputable second self, Mr. Hyde.
Chapter 16 Mrs. Pett Takes Precautions
    Mrs. Pett, on leaving the luncheon-table, had returned to thedrawing-room to sit beside the sick-settee of her stricken child.
　　She was troubled about Ogden. The poor lamb was not at allhimself to-day. A bowl of clear soup, the midday meal prescribedby Doctor Briginshaw, lay untasted at his side.
　　She crossed the room softly, and placed a cool hand on her son'saching brow.
　　"Oh, Gee," said Ogden wearily.
　　"Are you feeling a little better, Oggie darling?""No," said Ogden firmly. "I'm feeling a lot worse.""You haven't drunk your nice soup.""Feed it to the cat.""Could you eat a nice bowl of bread-and-milk, precious?""Have a heart," replied the sufferer.
　　Mrs. Pett returned to her seat, sorrowfully. It struck her as anodd coincidence that the poor child was nearly always like thison the morning after she had been entertaining guests; she put itdown to the reaction from the excitement working on ahighly-strung temperament. To his present collapse the brutalbehaviour of Jerry Mitchell had, of course, contributed. Everydrop of her maternal blood boiled with rage and horror whenevershe permitted herself to contemplate the excesses of the lateJerry. She had always mistrusted the man. She had never liked hisface--not merely on aesthetic grounds but because she had seemedto detect in it a lurking savagery. How right events had provedthis instinctive feeling. Mrs. Pett was not vulgar enough todescribe the feeling, even to herself, as a hunch, but a hunch ithad been; and, like every one whose hunches have proved correct,she was conscious in the midst of her grief of a certaincomplacency. It seemed to her that hers must be an intelligenceand insight above the ordinary.
　　The peace of the early afternoon settled upon the drawing-room.
　　Mrs. Pett had taken up a book; Ogden, on the settee, breathedstentorously. Faint snores proceeded from the basket in thecorner where Aida, the Pomeranian, lay curled in refreshingsleep. Through the open window floated sounds of warmth andSummer.
　　Yielding to the drowsy calm, Mrs. Pett was just nodding into apleasant nap, when the door opened and Lord Wisbeach came in.
　　Lord Wisbeach had been doing some rapid thinking. Rapid thoughtis one of the essentials in the composition of men who are knownas Gentleman Jack to the boys and whose livelihood is won only bya series of arduous struggles against the forces of Society andthe machinations of Potter and his gang. Condensed into capsuleform, his lordship's meditations during the minutes after he hadleft Jimmy in the dining-room amounted to the realisation thatthe best mode of defence is attack. It is your man who knows howto play the bold game on occasion who wins. A duller schemer thanLord Wisbeach might have been content to be inactive after such aconversation as had just taken place between himself and Jimmy.
　　His lordship, giving the matter the concentrated attention of histrained mind, had hit on a better plan, and he had come to thedrawing-room now to put it into effect.
　　His entrance shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Aida, who hadbeen gurgling apoplectically, sprang snarling from the basket,and made for the intruder open-mouthed. Her shrill barking rangthrough the room.
　　Lord Wisbeach hated little dogs. He hated and feared them. Manymen of action have these idiosyncrasies. He got behind a chairand said "There, there." Aida, whose outburst was mere sound andfury and who had no intention whatever of coming to blows,continued the demonstration from a safe distance, till Mrs. Pett,swooping down, picked her up and held her in her lap, where sheconsented to remain, growling subdued defiance. Lord Wisbeachcame out from behind his chair and sat down warily.
　　"Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Pett?""Certainly, Lord Wisbeach."His lordship looked meaningly at Ogden.
　　"In private, you know."He then looked meaningly at Mrs. Pett.
　　"Ogden darling," said Mrs. Pett, "I think you had better go toyour room and undress and get into bed. A little nice sleep mightdo you all the good in the world."With surprising docility, the boy rose.
　　"All right," he said.
　　"Poor Oggie is not at all well to-day," said Mrs. Pett, when hewas gone. "He is very subject to these attacks. What do you wantto tell me, Lord Wisbeach?"His lordship drew his chair a little closer.
　　"Mrs. Pett, you remember what I told you yesterday?""Of course.""Might I ask what you know of this man who has come here callinghimself Jimmy Crocker?"Mrs. Pett started. She remembered that she had used almost thatvery expression to Ann. Her suspicions, which had been lulled bythe prompt recognition of the visitor by Skinner and LordWisbeach, returned. It is one of the effects of a successfulhunch that it breeds other hunches. She had been right aboutJerry Mitchell; was she to be proved right about the self-styledJimmy Crocker?
　　"You have seen your nephew, I believe?""Never. But--""That man," said Lord Wisbeach impassively, "is not your nephew."Mrs. Pett thrilled all down her spine. She had been right.
　　"But you--""But I pretended to recognise him? Just so. For a purpose. Iwanted to make him think that I suspected nothing.""Then you think--?""Remember what I said to you yesterday.""But Skinner--the butler--recognised him?""Exactly. It goes to prove that what I said about Skinner wascorrect. They are working together. The thing is self-evident.
　　Look at it from your point of view. How simple it is. This manpretends to an intimate acquaintance with Skinner. You take thatas evidence of Skinner's honesty. Skinner recognises this man.
　　You take that as proof that this man is really your nephew. Thefact that Skinner recognised as Jimmy Crocker a man who is notJimmy Crocker condemns him.""But why did you--?""I told you that I pretended to accept this man as the real JimmyCrocker for a purpose. At present there is nothing that you cando. Mere impersonation is not a crime. If I had exposed him whenwe met, you would have gained nothing beyond driving him from thehouse. Whereas, if we wait, if we pretend to suspect nothing, weshall undoubtedly catch him red-handed in an attempt on yournephew's invention.""You are sure that that is why he has come?""What other reason could he have?""I thought he might be trying to kidnap Ogden."Lord Wisbeach frowned thoughtfully. He had not taken thisconsideration into account.
　　"It is possible," he said. "There have been several attemptsmade, have there not, to kidnap your son?""At one time," said Mrs. Pett proudly, "there was not a child inAmerica who had to be more closely guarded. Why, the kidnappershad a special nick-name for Oggie. They called him the LittleNugget.""Of course, then, it is quite possible that that may be the man'sobject. In any case, our course must be the same. We must watchevery move he makes." He paused. "I could help--pardon mysuggesting it--I could help a great deal more if you were toinvite me to live in the house. You were kind enough to ask me tovisit you in the country, but it will be two weeks before you goto the Country, and in those two weeks--""You must come here at once, Lord Wisbeach. To-night. To-day.""I think that would be the best plan.""I cannot tell you how grateful I am for all you are doing.""You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Pett," said Lord Wisbeach withfeeling, "that it is surely only right that I should try to makesome return. Let us leave it at this then. I will come hereto-night and will make it my business to watch these two men. Iwill go and pack my things and have them sent here.""It is wonderful of you, Lord Wisbeach.""Not at all," replied his lordship. "It will be a pleasure."He held out his hand, drawing it back rapidly as the dog Aidamade a snap at it. Substituting a long-range leave-taking for themore intimate farewell, he left the room.
　　When he had gone, Mrs. Pett remained for some minutes, thinking.
　　She was aflame with excitement. She had a sensational mind, andit had absorbed Lord Wisbeach's revelations eagerly. Heradmiration for his lordship was intense, and she trusted himutterly. The only doubt that occurred to her was whether, withthe best intentions in the world, he would be able unassisted tofoil a pair of schemers so distant from each other geographicallyas the man who called himself Jimmy Crocker and the man who hadcalled himself Skinner. That was a point on which they had nottouched, the fact that one impostor was above stairs, the otherbelow. It seemed to Mrs. Pett impossible that Lord Wisbeach, forall his zeal, could watch Skinner without neglecting Jimmy orfoil Jimmy without taking his attention off Skinner. It wasmanifestly a situation that called for allies. She felt that shemust have further assistance.
　　To Mrs. Pett, doubtless owing to her hobby of writing sensationalfiction, there was a magic in the word detective which was sharedby no other word in the language. She loved detectives--theirkeen eyes, their quiet smiles, their Derby hats. When they cameon the stage, she leaned forward in her orchestra chair; whenthey entered her own stories, she always wrote with a greaterzest. It is not too much to say that she had an almost spiritualattachment for detectives, and the idea of neglecting to employone in real life, now that circumstances had combined to renderhis advent so necessary, struck her as both rash and inartistic.
　　In the old days, when Ogden had been kidnapped, the only thingwhich had brought her balm had been the daily interviews with thedetectives. She ached to telephone for one now.
　　The only consideration that kept her back was a regard for LordWisbeach's feelings. He had been so kind and so shrewd that tosuggest reinforcing him with outside assistance must infalliblywound him deeply. And yet the situation demanded the services ofa trained specialist. Lord Wisbeach had borne himself duringtheir recent conversation in such a manner as to leave no doubtthat he considered himself adequate to deal with the mattersingle-handed: but admirable though he was he was not aprofessional exponent of the art of espionage. He needed to behelped in spite of himself.
　　A happy solution struck Mrs. Pett. There was no need to tell him.
　　She could combine the installation of a detective with the nicestrespect for her ally's feelings by the simple process of engagingone without telling Lord Wisbeach anything about it.
　　The telephone stood at her elbow, concealed--at the expressrequest of the interior decorator who had designed the room--inthe interior of what looked to the casual eye like a stuffed owl.
　　On a table near at hand, handsomely bound in morocco to resemblea complete works of Shakespeare, was the telephone book. Mrs.
　　Pett hesitated no longer. She had forgotten the address of thedetective agency which she had employed on the occasion of thekidnapping of Ogden, but she remembered the name, and also thename of the delightfully sympathetic manager or proprietor orwhatever he was who had listened to her troubles then.
　　She unhooked the receiver, and gave a number.
　　"I want to speak to Mr. Sturgis," she said.
　　"Oh, Mr. Sturgis," said Mrs. Pett. "I wonder if you couldpossibly run up here--yes, now. This is Mrs. Peter Pett speaking.
　　You remember we met some years ago when I was Mrs. Ford. Yes, themother of Ogden Ford. I want to consult--You will come up atonce? Thank you so much. Good-bye."Mrs. Pett hung up the receiver.
Chapter 17 Miss Trimble, Detective
    Downstairs, in the dining-room, Jimmy was smoking cigarettes andreviewing in his mind the peculiarities of the situation, whenAnn came in.
　　"Oh, there you are," said Ann. "I thought you must have goneupstairs.""I have been having a delightful and entertaining conversationwith my old chum, Lord Wisbeach.""Good gracious! What about?""Oh, this and that.""Not about old times?""No, we did not touch upon old times.""Does he still believe that you are Jimmy Crocker? I'm sonervous," said Ann, "that I can hardly speak.""I shouldn't be nervous," said Jimmy encouragingly. "I don't seehow things could be going better.""That's what makes me nervous. Our luck is too good to last. Weare taking such risks. It would have been bad enough withoutSkinner and Lord Wisbeach. At any moment you may make some fatalslip. Thank goodness, aunt Nesta's suspicions have been squashedfor the time being now that Skinner and Lord Wisbeach haveaccepted you as genuine. But then you have only seen them for afew minutes. When they have been with you a little longer, theymay get suspicious themselves. I can't imagine how you managed tokeep it up with Lord Wisbeach. I should have thought he would becertain to say something about the time when you were supposed tobe friends in London. We simply mustn't strain our luck. I wantyou to go straight to aunt Nesta now and ask her to let Jerrycome back.""You still refuse to let me take Jerry's place?""Of course I do. You'll find aunt Nesta upstairs.""Very well. But suppose I can't persuade her to forgive Jerry?""I think she is certain to do anything you ask. You saw howfriendly she was to you at lunch. I don't see how anything canhave happened since lunch to change her.""Very well. I'll go to her now.""And when you have seen her, go to the library and wait for me.
　　It's the second room along the passage outside here. I havepromised to drive Lord Wisbeach down to his hotel in my car. Imet him outside just now and he tells me aunt Nesta has invitedhim to stay here, so he wants to go and get his things ready. Ishan't be twenty minutes. I shall come straight back."Jimmy found himself vaguely disquieted by this piece ofinformation.
　　"Lord Wisbeach is coming to stay here?""Yes. Why?""Oh, nothing. Well, I'll go and see Mrs. Pett."No traces of the disturbance which had temporarily ruffled thepeace of the drawing-room were to be observed when Jimmy reachedit. The receiver of the telephone was back on its hook, Mrs. Pettback in her chair, the dog Aida back in her basket. Mrs. Pett,her mind at ease now that she had taken the step of summoning Mr.
　　Sturgis, was reading a book, one of her own, and was absorbed init. The dog Aida slumbered noisily.
　　The sight of Jimmy, however, roused Mrs. Pett from her literarycalm. To her eye, after what Lord Wisbeach had revealed there wassomething sinister in the very way in which he walked into theroom. He made her flesh creep. In "A Society Thug" (Mobbs andStifien, $1.35 net, all rights of translation reserved, includingthe Scandinavian) she had portrayed just such a man--smooth,specious, and formidable. Instinctively, as she watched Jimmy,her mind went back to the perfectly rotten behaviour of her ownMarsden Tuke (it was only in the last chapter but one that theymanaged to foil his outrageous machinations), and it seemed toher that here was Tuke in the flesh. She had pictured him, sheremembered, as a man of agreeable exterior, the better calculatedto deceive and undo the virtuous; and the fact that Jimmy was apresentable-looking young man only made him appear viler in hereyes. In a word, she could hardly have been in less suitableframe of mind to receive graciously any kind of a request fromhim. She would have suspected ulterior motives if he had askedher the time.
　　Jimmy did not know this. He thought that she eyed him a triflefrostily, but he did not attribute this to any suspicion of him.
　　He tried to ingratiate himself by smiling pleasantly. He couldnot have made a worse move. Marsden Tuke's pleasant smile hadbeen his deadliest weapon. Under its influence deluded people hadtrusted him alone with their jewellery and what not.
　　"Aunt Nesta," said Jimmy, "I wonder if I might ask you a personalfavour."Mrs. Pett shuddered at the glibness with which he brought out thefamiliar name. This was superTuke. Marsden himself, scoundrel ashe was, could not have called her "Aunt Nesta" as smoothly asthat.
　　"Yes?" she said at last. She found it difficult to speak.
　　"I happened to meet an old friend of mine this morning. He wasvery sorry for himself. It appears that--for excellent reasons,of course--you had dismissed him. I mean Jerry Mitchell."Mrs. Pett was now absolutely appalled. The conspiracy seemed togrow more complicated every moment. Already its ramificationsembraced this man before her, a trusted butler, and her husband'slate physical instructor. Who could say where it would end? Shehad never liked Jerry Mitchell, but she had never suspected himof being a conspirator. Yet, if this man who called himself JimmyCrocker was an old friend of his, how could he be anything else?
　　"Mitchell," Jimmy went on, unconscious of the emotions which hisevery word was arousing in his hearer's bosom, "told me aboutwhat happened yesterday. He is very depressed. He said he couldnot think how he happened to behave in such an abominable way. Heentreated me to put in a word for him with you. He begged me totell you how he regretted the brutal assault, and asked me tomention the fact that his record had hitherto been blameless."Jimmy paused. He was getting no encouragement, and seemed to bemaking no impression whatever. Mrs. Pett was sitting bolt uprightin her chair in a stiffly defensive sort of way. She had theappearance of being absolutely untouched by his eloquence. "Infact," he concluded lamely, "he is very sorry."There was silence for a moment.
　　"How do you come to know Mitchell?" asked Mrs. Pett.
　　"We knew each other when I was over here working on the_Chronicle_. I saw him fight once or twice. He is an excellentfellow, and used to have a right swing that was a pippin--Ishould say extremely excellent. Brought it up from the floor, youknow.""I strongly object to prize-fighters," said Mrs. Pett, "and I wasopposed to Mitchell coming into the house from the first.""You wouldn't let him come back, I suppose?" queried Jimmytentatively.
　　"I would not. I would not dream of such a thing.""He's full of remorse, you know.""If he has a spark of humanity, I have no doubt of it."Jimmy paused. This thing was not coming out as well as it mighthave done. He feared that for once in her life Ann was about tobe denied something on which she had set her heart. Thereflection that this would be extremely good for her competed forprecedence in his mind with the reflection that she wouldprobably blame him for the failure, which would be unpleasant.
　　"He is very fond of Ogden really.""H'm," said Mrs. Pett.
　　"I think the heat must have made him irritable. In his normalstate he would not strike a lamb. I've known him to do it.""Do what?""Not strike lambs.""Isch," said Mrs. Pett--the first time Jimmy had ever heard thatremarkable monosyllable proceed from human lips. He tookit--rightly--to be intended to convey disapproval, scepticism,and annoyance. He was convinced that this mission was going to beone of his failures.
　　"Then I may tell him," he said, "that it's all right?""That what is all right?""That he may come back here?""Certainly not."Mrs. Pett was not a timid woman, but she could not restrain ashudder as she watched the plot unfold before her eyes. Hergratitude towards Lord Wisbeach at this point in the proceedingsalmost became hero-worship. If it had not been for him and hisrevelations concerning this man before her, she would certainlyhave yielded to the request that Jerry Mitchell be allowed toreturn to the house. Much as she disliked Jerry, she had beenfeeling so triumphant at the thought of Jimmy Crocker coming toher in spite of his step-mother's wishes and so pleased at havingunexpectedly got her own way that she could have denied himnothing that he might have cared to ask. But now it was as if,herself unseen, she were looking on at a gang of conspiratorshatching some plot. She was in the strong strategic position ofthe person who is apparently deceived, but who in reality knowsall.
　　For a moment she considered the question of admitting Jerry tothe house. Evidently his presence was necessary to theconsummation of the plot, whatever it might be, and it occurredto her that it might be as well, on the principle of giving theschemers enough rope to hang themselves with, to let him comeback and play his part. Then she reflected that, with theself-styled Jimmy Crocker as well as the fraudulent Skinner inthe house, Lord Wisbeach and the detective would have their handsquite full enough. It would be foolish to complicate matters.
　　She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Mr. Sturgis would bearriving soon, if he had really started at once from his office,as he had promised. She drew comfort from the imminence of hiscoming. It would be pleasant to put herself in the hands of anexpert.
　　Jimmy had paused, mid-way to the door, and was standing there asif reluctant to accept her answer to his plea.
　　"It would never occur again. What happened yesterday, I mean. Youneed not be afraid of that.""I am not afraid of that," responded Mrs. Pett tartly.
　　"If you had seen him when I did--""When did you? You landed from the boat this morning, you went toMr. Pett's office, and then came straight up here with him. I aminterested to know when you did see Mitchell?"She regretted this thrust a little, for she felt it might put theman on his guard by showing that she suspected something but shecould not resist it, and it pleased her to see that her companionwas momentarily confused.
　　"I met him when I was going for my luggage," said Jimmy.
　　It was just the way Marsden Tuke would have got out of it. Tukewas always wriggling out of corners like that. Mrs. Pett's horrorof Jimmy grew.
　　"I told him, of course," said Jimmy, "that you had very kindlyinvited me to stay with you, and he told me all, about histrouble and implored me to plead for him. If you had seen himwhen I did, all gloom and repentance, you would have been sorryfor him. Your woman's heart--"Whatever Jimmy was about to say regarding Mrs. Pett's woman'sheart was interrupted by the opening of the door and the deep,respectful voice of Mr. Crocker.
　　"Mr. Sturgis."The detective entered briskly, as if time were money with him--asindeed it was, for the International Detective Agency, of whichhe was the proprietor, did a thriving business. He was a gaunt,hungry-looking man of about fifty, with sunken eyes and thinlips. It was his habit to dress in the height of fashion, for oneof his favourite axioms was that a man might be a detective andstill look a gentleman, and his appearance was that of theindividual usually described as a "popular clubman." That is tosay, he looked like a floorwalker taking a Sunday stroll. Hisprosperous exterior deceived Jimmy satisfactorily, and the latterleft the room little thinking that the visitor was anything butan ordinary caller.
　　The detective glanced keenly at him as he passed. He made apractice of glancing keenly at nearly everything. It cost nothingand impressed clients.
　　"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Sturgis," said Mrs. Pett." Won'tyou sit down?"Mr. Sturgis sat down, pulled up the knees of his trousers thathalf-inch which keeps them from bagging and so preserves thegentlemanliness of the appearance, and glanced keenly at Mrs.
　　Pett.
　　"Who was that young man who just went out?""It is about him that I wished to consult you, Mr. Sturgis."Mr. Sturgis leaned back, and placed the tips of his fingerstogether.
　　"Tell me how he comes to be here.""He pretends that he is my nephew, James Crocker.""Your nephew? Have you never seen your nephew?""Never. I ought to tell you, that a few years ago my sistermarried for the second time. I disapproved of the marriage, andrefused to see her husband or his son--he was a widower. A fewweeks ago, for private reasons, I went over to England, wherethey are living, and asked my sister to let the boy come here towork in my husband's office. She refused, and my husband and Ireturned to New York. This morning I was astonished to get atelephone call from Mr. Pett from his office, to say that JamesCrocker had unexpectedly arrived after all, and was then at theoffice. They came up here, and the young man seemed quitegenuine. Indeed, he had an offensive jocularity which would bequite in keeping with the character of the real James Crocker,from what I have heard of him."Mr. Sturgis nodded.
　　"Know what you mean. Saw that thing in the paper," he saidbriefly. "Yes?""Now, it is very curious, but almost from the start I was uneasy.
　　When I say that the young man seemed genuine, I mean that hecompletely deceived my husband and my niece, who lives with us.
　　But I had reasons, which I need not go into now, for being on myguard, and I was suspicious. What aroused my suspicion was thefact that my husband thought that he remembered this young man asa fellow-traveller of ours on the _Atlantic_, on our return voyage,while he claimed to have landed that morning on the _Caronia_.""You are certain of that, Mrs. Pett? He stated positively that hehad landed this morning?""Yes. Quite positively. Unfortunately I myself had no chance ofjudging the truth of what he said, as I am such a bad sailor thatI was seldom out of my stateroom from beginning to end of thevoyage. However, as I say, I was suspicious. I did not see how Icould confirm my suspicions, until I remembered that my newbutler, Skinner, had come straight from my sister's house.""That is the man who just admitted me?""Exactly. He entered my employment only a few days ago, havingcome direct from London. I decided to wait until Skinner shouldmeet this young man. Of course, when he first came into thehouse, he was with my husband, who opened the door with his key,so that they did not meet then.""I understand," said Mr. Sturgis, glancing keenly at the dogAida, who had risen and was sniffing at his ankles. "You thoughtthat if Skinner recognised this young man, it would be proof ofhis identity?""Exactly.""Did he recognise him?""Yes. But wait. I have not finished. He recognised him, and forthe moment I was satisfied. But I had had my suspicions ofSkinner, too. I ought to tell you that I had been warned againsthim by a great friend of mine, Lord Wisbeach, an English peerwhom we have known intimately for a very long time. He is one ofthe Shropshire Wisbeaches, you know.""No doubt," said Mr. Sturgis.
　　"Lord Wisbeach used to be intimate with the real Jimmy Crocker.
　　He came to lunch to-day and met this impostor. He pretended torecognise him, in order to put him off his guard, but after lunchhe came to me here and told me that in reality he had never seenhim before in his life, and that, whoever else he might be, hewas certainly not James Crocker, my nephew."She broke off and looked at Mr. Sturgis expectantly. Thedetective smiled a quiet smile.
　　"And even that is not all. There is another thing. Mr. Pett usedto employ as a physical instructor a man named Jerry Mitchell.
　　Yesterday I dismissed him for reasons it is not necessary to gointo. To-day--just as you arrived in fact--the man who callshimself Jimmy Crocker was begging me to allow Mitchell to returnto the house and resume his work here. Does that not strike youas suspicious, Mr. Sturgis?"The detective closed his eyes, and smiled his quiet smile again.
　　He opened his eyes, and fixed them on Mrs. Pett.
　　"As pretty a case as I have come across in years," he said. "Mrs.
　　Pett, let me tell you something. It is one of my peculiaritiesthat I never forget a face. You say that this young man pretendsto have landed this morning from the _Caronia_? Well, I saw himmyself more than a week ago in a Broadway _cafe_.""You did?""Talking to--Jerry Mitchell. I know Mitchell well by sight."Mrs. Pett uttered an exclamation.
　　"And this butler of yours--Skinner. Shall I tell you somethingabout him? You perhaps know that when the big detective agencies,Anderson's and the others, are approached in the matter oftracing a man who is wanted for anything they sometimes ask thesmaller agencies like my own to work in with them. It saves timeand widens the field of operations. We are very glad to doAnderson's service, and Anderson's are big enough to be able toafford to let us do it. Now, a few days ago, a friend of mine inAnderson's came to me with a sheaf of photographs, which had beensent to them from London. Whether some private client in Londonor from Scotland Yard I do not know. Nor do I know why theoriginal of the photograph was wanted. But Anderson's had beenasked to trace him and make a report. My peculiar gift forremembering faces has enabled me to oblige the Anderson peopleonce or twice before in this way. I studied the photographs verycarefully, and kept two of them for reference. I have one with menow." He felt in his pockets. "Do you recognise it?"Mrs. Pett stared at the photograph. It was the presentment of astout, good-humoured man of middle-age, whose solemn gaze dwelton the middle distance in that fixed way which a man achievesonly in photographs.
　　"Skinner!""Exactly," said Mr. Sturgis, taking the photograph from her andputting it back in his pocket. "I recognised him directly heopened the door to me.""But--but I am almost certain that Skinner is the man who let mein when I called on my sister in London.""_Almost_," repeated the detective. "Did you observe him veryclosely?""No. I suppose I did not.""The type is a very common one. It would be very easy indeed fora clever crook to make himself up as your sister's butler closelyenough to deceive any one who had only seen the original once andfor a short time then. What their game is I could not say atpresent, but, taking everything into consideration, there can beno doubt whatever that the man who calls himself your nephew andthe man who calls himself your sister's butler are workingtogether, and that Jerry Mitchell is working in with them. As Isay, I cannot tell you what they are after at present, but thereis no doubt that your unexpected dismissal of Mitchell must haveupset their plans. That would account for the eagerness to gethim back into the house again.""Lord Wisbeach thought that they were trying to steal my nephew'sexplosive. Perhaps you have read in the papers that my nephew,Willie Partridge, has completed an explosive which is morepowerful than any at present known. His father--you have heard ofhim, of course--Dwight Partridge."Mr. Sturgis nodded.
　　"His father was working on it at the time of his death, andWillie has gone on with his experiments where he left off. To-dayat lunch he showed us a test-tube full of the explosive. He putit in my husband's safe in the library. Lord Wisbeach isconvinced that these scoundrels are trying to steal this, but Icannot help feeling that this is another of those attempts tokidnap my son Ogden. What do you think?""It is impossible to say at this stage of the proceedings. All wecan tell is that there is some plot going on. You refused, ofcourse, to allow Mitchell to come back to the house?""Yes. You think that was wise?""Undoubtedly. If his absence did not handicap them, they wouldnot be so anxious to have him on the spot.""What shall we do?""You wish me to undertake the case?""Of course."Mr. Sturgis frowned thoughtfully.
　　"It would be useless for me to come here myself. By bad luck theman who pretends to be your nephew has seen me. If I were to cometo stay here, he would suspect something. He would be on hisguard." He pondered with closed eyes. "Miss Trimble," heexclaimed.
　　"I beg your pardon.""You want Miss Trimble. She is the smartest worker in my office.
　　This is precisely the type of case she could handle toperfection.""A woman?" said Mrs. Pett doubtfully.
　　"A woman in a thousand," said Mr. Sturgis. "A woman in amillion.""But physically would a woman be--?""Miss Trimble knows more about jiu-jitsu than the Japaneseprofessor who taught her. At one time she was a Strong Woman insmall-time vaudeville. She is an expert revolver-shot. I am notworrying about Miss Trimble's capacity to do the work. I am onlywondering in what capacity it would be best for her to enter thehouse. Have you a vacancy for a parlour-maid?""I could make one.""Do so at once. Miss Trimble is at her best as a parlour-maid.
　　She handled the Marling divorce case in that capacity. Have you atelephone in the room?"Mrs. Pett opened the stuffed owl. The detective got in touch withhis office.
　　"Mr. Sturgis speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone.
　　. . . Miss Trimble? I am speaking from Mrs. Pett's on RiversideDrive. You know the house? I want you to come up at once. Take ataxi. Go to the back-door and ask to see Mrs. Pett. Say you havecome about getting a place here as a maid. Understand? Right.
　　Say, listen, Miss Trimble. Hello? Yes, don't hang up for amoment. Do you remember those photographs I showed you yesterday?
　　Yes, the photographs from Anderson's. I've found the man. He'sthe butler here. Take a look at him when you get to the house.
　　Now go and get a taxi. Mrs. Pett will explain everything when youarrive." He hung up the receiver. "I think I had better go now,Mrs. Pett. It would not do for me to be here while these fellowsare on their guard. I can safely leave the matter to MissTrimble. I wish you good afternoon."After he had gone, Mrs. Pett vainly endeavoured to interestherself again in her book, but in competition with the sensationsof life, fiction, even though she had written it herself, hadlost its power and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble mustbe walking to the house instead of journeying thither in ataxi-cab. But a glance at the clock assured her that only fiveminutes had elapsed since the detective's departure. She went tothe window and looked out. She was hopelessly restless.
　　At last a taxi-cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman gotout and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble, shecertainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shoulderedperson, and even at that distance it was possible to perceivethat she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination.
　　The next moment she had turned down the side-street in thedirection of the back-premises of Mrs. Pett's house: and a fewminutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself.
　　"A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person of thename of Trimble." A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she listenedto his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butlershould be a scoundrel. "She says that you desired her to call inconnection with a situation.""Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlour-maid. I willsend her down to you when I have finished speaking to her.""Very good, madam."There seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defiance in MissTrimble's manner as she entered the room. The fact was that MissTrimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property,and rich people's houses always affected her adversely. Mr.
　　Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him.
　　A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett's visitor as she lookedround at the achievements of the interior decorator, who hadlavished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At thisclose range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distantview which Mrs. Pett had had of her from the window. Her face wasnot only shrewd and determined: it was menacing. She had thickeyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering eyes looked outlike dangerous beasts in undergrowth: and the impressive effectof these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eyelooked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort ofroving commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs.
　　Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling. As to the restof the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubbyand aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look ofthe closed door of a subway express when you have just missed thetrain. It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs.
　　Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curiousweakness as she looked at a female of the species so muchdeadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and camenear feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom thisdynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to openthe conversation.
　　Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She alwayspreferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, andwords flew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs.
　　Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part herteeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave anadditional touch of menace to her speech.
　　"Dafternoon," said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backedconvulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as ifsomebody had thrown a brick at her.
　　"Good afternoon," she said faintly.
　　"Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'rme. Came here squick scould.""I beg your pardon?""Squick scould. Got slow taxi.""Oh, yes."Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like asearchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on hercompanion's face.
　　"Whass trouble?" The right eye rested for a moment on amagnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again.
　　"Not s'prised y'have trouble. All rich people 've trouble. Noth'
　　t'do with their time 'cept get 'nto trouble."She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
　　"You--ah--appear to dislike the rich," said Mrs. Pett, as nearlyin her grand manner as she could contrive.
　　Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been asmall fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashedit flat.
　　"Hate 'em! Sogelist!""I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman wasbeginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.
　　"Sogelist! No use f'r idle rich. Ev' read B'nard Shaw? Huh? OrUpton Sinclair? Uh? Read'm. Make y'think a bit. Well, y'haven'ttold me whasser trouble."Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse whichhad caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which hadhad more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious,she had never been confronted with a detective like this. Thegalling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged adetective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not forsuavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you throughclenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money thanone who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, isincompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people,subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the moreefficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found whois not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down herresentment at her visitor's tone, and tried to concentrate hermind on the fact that this was a business matter and that whatshe wanted was results rather than fair words. She found iteasier to do this when looking at the other's face. It was acapable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise ofaction. Miss Trimble having ceased temporarily to speak, hermouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it lookedmore efficient than anything else of its size in existence.
　　"I want you," said Mrs. Pett, "to come here and watch some men--""Men! Thought so! Wh' there's trouble, always men't bottom'f it!""You do not like men?""Hate 'em! Suff-gist!" She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett.
　　Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow.
　　"You S'porter of th' Cause?"Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strongopinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at thatmoment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing withthis woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme.
　　"A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be mynephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch himvery carefully.""Whassiz game?""I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my sonOgden.""I'll fix'm," said the fair Trimble confidently. "Say, thatbutler 'f yours. He's a crook!"Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent ather work.
　　"Have you found that out already?""D'rectly saw him." Miss Trimble opened her purse." Go' one 'fhis photographs here. Brought it from office. He's th' man that'swanted 'll right.""Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man,the one who pretends to be my nephew.""Sure. I'll fix 'm."She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catchwith vicious emphasis.
　　"There is another possibility," said Mrs. Pett. "My nephew, Mr.
　　William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it isquite likely that these men are here to try to steal it.""Sure. Men'll do anything. If y' put all the men in th' world inth' cooler, wouldn't be 'ny more crime."She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket andremoving the last remains of sleep from her system by a series ofcalisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her ofmasculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy inthe dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of hervisitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who wouldlightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whomMan, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, wouldgo out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mysteryover in her mind, when her visitor spoke.
　　"Well, gimme th' rest of th' dope," said Miss Trimble.
　　"I beg your pardon?""More facts. Spill 'm!""Oh, I understand," said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on abrief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had causedher to desire skilled assistance.
　　"Lor' W'sbeach?" said Miss Trimble, breaking the story. "Who'she?""A very great friend of ours.""You vouch f'r him pers'n'lly? He's all right, uh? Not a crook,huh?""Of course he is not!" said Mrs. Pett indignantly. "He's a greatfriend of mine.""All right. Well, I guess thass 'bout all, huh? I'll be goingdownstairs 'an starting in.""You can come here immediately?""Sure. Got parlour-maid rig round at m' boarding-house roundcorner. Come back with it 'n ten minutes. Same dress I used whenI w's working on th' Marling D'vorce case. D'jer know th'
　　Marlings? Idle rich! Bound t' get 'nto trouble. I fixed 'm. Well,g'bye. Mus' be going. No time t' waste."Mrs. Pett leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome.
　　Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the hallto inspect a fine statue which stood at the foot of the stairs.
　　It was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. Shesnorted.
　　"Idle rich!" she muttered scornfully. "Brrh!"The portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction ofthe back stairs. She fixed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr.
　　Crocker met it, and quailed. He had that consciousness of guiltwhich philosophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why thiswoman's gaze should disturb him so thoroughly, he could not havesaid. She was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothingabout him. Yet he quailed.
　　"Say," said Miss Trimble. "I'm c'ming here 's parlour-maid.""Oh, ah?" said Mr. Crocker, feebly.
　　"Grrrh!" observed Miss Trimble, and departed.
Chapter 18 The Voice Prom The Past
    The library, whither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs.
　　Pett, was a large room on the ground floor, looking out on thestreet which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It hadFrench windows, opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in ahigh stone wall with a small gate in it, the general effect ofthese things being to create a resemblance to a country houserather than to one in the centre of the city. Mr. Pett's townresidence was full of these surprises.
　　In one corner of the room a massive safe had been let into thewall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of thewall-space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts andsizes, which filled the shelves and overflowed into a smallgallery, reached by a short flight of stairs and running alongthe north side of the room over the door.
　　Jimmy cast a glance at the safe, behind the steel doors of whichhe presumed the test-tube of Partridgite which Willie had carriedfrom the luncheon-table lay hid: then transferred his attentionto the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothingwhich gave promise of whiling away entertainingly the momentswhich must elapse before the return of Ann. Jimmy's tastes inliterature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modernfiction, and Mr. Pett did not appear to possess a single volumethat had been written later than the eighteenth century--andmostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing-desk near thewindow, on which he had caught sight of a standing shelf full ofbooks of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random andopened it.
　　He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man Pettappeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would neverhave suspected it, to look at him. Jimmy had just resignedhimself, after another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil,when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in therow so unexpected that he had to look again to verify thediscovery.
　　He had been perfectly right. There it was, in gold letters.
　　THE LONELY HEARTBYANN CHESTERHe extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Evennow he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair thebenefit of the doubt, and assume that some one else of the samename had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy'scharacter--one of his many defects--that he loathed and scornedminor poetry and considered minor poets, especially whenfeminine, an unnecessary affliction. He declined to believe thatAnn, his Ann, a girl full of the finest traits of character, thegirl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative strangerto break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Crocker, couldalso be capable of writing The Lonely Heart and other poems. Heskimmed through the first one he came across, and shuddered. Itwas pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they filled up pageswith in the magazines when the detective story did not run longenough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters readalone to other long-haired blighters in English suburbandrawing-rooms. It was the sort of stuff which--to be brief--gavehim the Willies. No, it could not be Ann who had written it.
　　The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There wasan inscription on the title page.
　　"To my dearest uncle Peter, with love from the author, AnnChester."The room seemed to reel before Jimmy's eyes. He felt as if afriend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as ifsome loved one had smitten him over the back of the head with asandbag. For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotionto Ann wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in someterrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hithertoideal character.
　　Then his eye fell upon the date on the title page, and a strongspasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he lovedher still. This frightful volume had been published five yearsago.
　　A wave of pity swept over Jimmy. He did not blame her now. Shehad been a mere child five years ago, scarcely old enough todistinguish right from wrong. You couldn't blame her for writingsentimental verse at that age. Why, at a similar stage in his owncareer he had wanted to be a vaudeville singer. Everything mustbe excused to Youth. It was with a tender glow of affectionateforgiveness that he turned the pages.
　　As he did so a curious thing happened to him. He began to havethat feeling, which every one has experienced at some time orother, that he had done this very thing before. He was almostconvinced that this was not the first time he had seen that poemon page twenty-seven entitled "A Lament." Why, some of the linesseemed extraordinarily familiar. The people who understood thesethings explained this phenomenon, he believed, by some stuffabout the cells of the brain working simultaneously or something.
　　Something about cells, anyway. He supposed that that must be it.
　　But that was not it. The feeling that he had read all this beforegrew instead of vanishing, as is generally the way on theseoccasions. He _had_ read this stuff before. He was certain of it.
　　But when? And where? And above all why? Surely he had not done itfrom choice.
　　It was the total impossibility of his having done it from choicethat led his memory in the right direction. There had only been ayear or so in his life when he had been obliged to read thingswhich he would not have read of his own free will, and that hadbeen when he worked on the _Chronicle_. Could it have been thatthey had given him this book of poems to review? Or--?
　　And then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken allthis time to make the first part of the journey, finished therest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew.
　　And with the illumination came dismay. Worse than dismay. Horror.
　　"Gosh!" said Jimmy.
　　He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their firstmeeting in London that he had seen hair like Ann's before. Themists rolled away and he saw everything clear and stark. He knewwhat had happened at that meeting five years before, to which shehad so mysteriously alluded. He knew what she had meant thatevening on the boat, when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker withhaving cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into beingabout his temples. He could remember that interview now, asclearly as if it had happened five minutes ago instead of fiveyears. He could recall the article for the _Sunday Chronicle_ whichhe had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto withwhich he had written it. He had had a boy's undisciplined senseof humour in those days, the sense of humour which riots like ayoung colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes. He shudderedat the recollection of the things he had hammered out sogleefully on his typewriter down at the _Chronicle_ office. Hefound himself recoiling in disgust from the man he had been, theman who could have done a wanton thing like that withoutcompunction or ruth. He had read extracts from the article to anappreciative colleague. . . .
　　A great sympathy for Ann welled up in him. No wonder she hatedthe memory of Jimmy Crocker.
　　It is probable that remorse would have tortured him even further,had he not chanced to turn absently to page forty-six and read apoem entitled "Love's Funeral." It was not a long poem, and hehad finished it inside of two minutes; but by that time a changehad come upon his mood of self-loathing. He no longer felt like aparticularly mean murderer. "Love's Funeral" was like a tonic.
　　It braced and invigourated him. It was so unspeakably absurd, sopoor in every respect. All things, he now perceived, had workedtogether for good. Ann had admitted on the boat that it was hissatire that had crushed out of her the fondness for this sort ofthing. If that was so, then the part he had played in her lifehad been that of a rescuer. He thought of her as she was now andas she must have been then to have written stuff like this, andhe rejoiced at what he had done. In a manner of speaking the Annof to-day, the glorious creature who went about the placekidnapping Ogdens, was his handiwork. It was he who had destroyedthe minor poetry virus in her.
　　The refrain of an old song came to him.
　　"You made me what I am to-day!
　　I hope you're satisfied!"He was more than satisfied. He was proud of himself.
　　He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm,somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of hisdeed of kindness. To Ann Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sortof blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his realidentity--or not until he had succeeded by assiduous toil, as hehoped he would, in neutralising that prejudice of the distantpast.
　　A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the bookquickly back into its place. Ann came in, and shut the doorbehind her.
　　"Well?" she said eagerly.
　　Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her andthinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood therepurged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know howher nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Ann who stoodthere, not the author of "The Lonely Heart.""Did you ask her?""Yes. But--"Ann's face fell.
　　"Oh! She won't let him come back?""She absolutely refused. I did my best.""I know you did."There was a silence.
　　"Well, this settles it," said Jimmy. "Now you will have to let mehelp you."Ann looked troubled.
　　"But it's such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you.
　　Isn't impersonation a criminal offence?""What does it matter? They tell me prisons are excellent placesnowadays. Concerts, picnics--all that sort of thing. I shan'tmind going there. I have a nice singing-voice. I think I will tryto make the glee-club.""I suppose we are breaking the law," said Ann seriously. "I toldJerry that nothing could happen to us except the loss of hisplace to him and being sent to my grandmother to me, but I'mbound to say I said that just to encourage him. Don't you thinkwe ought to know what the penalty is, in case we are caught?""It would enable us to make our plans. If it's a life sentence, Ishouldn't worry about selecting my future career.""You see," explained Ann, "I suppose they would hardly send me toprison, as I'm a relation--though I would far rather go therethan to grandmother's. She lives all alone miles away in thecountry, and is strong on discipline--but they might do all sortsof things to you, in spite of my pleadings. I really think youhad better give up the idea, I'm afraid my enthusiasm carried meaway. I didn't think of all this before.""Never. This thing goes through, or fails over my dead body. Whatare you looking for?"Ann was deep in a bulky volume which stood on a lectern by thewindow.
　　"Catalogue," she said briefly, turning the pages. "Uncle Peterhas heaps of law books. I'll look up kidnapping. Here we are. LawEncyclopedia. Shelf X. Oh, that's upstairs. I shan't be aminute."She ran to the little staircase, and disappeared. Her voice camefrom the gallery.
　　"Here we are. I've got it.""Shoot," said Jimmy.
　　"There's such a lot of it," called the voice from above. "Pagesand pages. I'm just skimming. Wait a moment."A rustling followed from the gallery, then a sneeze.
　　"This is the dustiest place I was ever in," said the voice. "It'sinches deep everywhere. It's full of cigarette ends, too. I musttell uncle. Oh, here it is. Kidnapping--penalties--""Hush" called Jimmy. "There's some one coming."The door opened.
　　"Hello," said Ogden, strolling in. "I was looking for you. Didn'tthink you would be here.""Come right in, my little man, and make yourself at home," saidJimmy.
　　Ogden eyed him with disfavour.
　　"You're pretty fresh, aren't you?""This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley.""Eh? Who's he?""Oh, a gentleman who knew what was what."Ogden closed the door.
　　"Well, I know what's what, too. I know what you are for onething." He chuckled. "I've got your number all right.""In what respect?"Another chuckle proceeded from the bulbous boy.
　　"You think you're smooth, don't you? But I'm onto you, JimmyCrocker. A lot of Jimmy Crocker you are. You're a crook. Get me?
　　And I know what you're after, at that. You're going to try tokidnap me."From the corner of his eye Jimmy was aware of Ann's startledface, looking over the gallery rail and withdrawn hastily. Nosound came from the heights, but he knew that she was listeningintently.
　　"What makes you think that?"Ogden lowered himself into the depths of his favourite easychair, and, putting his feet restfully on the writing-desk, metJimmy's gaze with a glassy but knowing eye.
　　"Got a cigarette?" he said.
　　"I have not," said Jimmy. "I'm sorry.""So am I.""Returning, with your permission, to our original subject," saidJimmy, "what makes you think that I have come here to kidnapyou?"Ogden yawned.
　　"I was in the drawing-room after lunch, and that guy LordWisbeach came in and said he wanted to talk to mother privately.
　　Mother sent me out of the room, so of course I listened at thedoor.""Do you know where little boys go who listen to privateconversations?" said Jimmy severely.
　　"To the witness-stand generally, I guess. Well, I listened, and Iheard this Lord Wisbeach tell mother that he had only pretendedto recognise you as Jimmy Crocker and that really he had neverseen you before in his life. He said you were a crook and thatthey had got to watch you. Well, I knew then why you had comehere. It was pretty smooth, getting in the way you did. I've gotto hand it to you."Jimmy did not reply. His mind was occupied with the contemplationof this dashing counter-stroke on the part of Gentleman Jack. Hecould hardly refrain from admiring the simple strategy with whichthe latter had circumvented him. There was an artistry about themove which compelled respect.
　　"Well, now, see here," said Ogden, "you and I have got to gettogether on this proposition. I've been kidnapped twice before,and the only guys that made anything out of it were thekidnappers. It's pretty soft for them. They couldn't have got acent without me, and they never dreamed of giving me a rake-off.
　　I'm getting good and tired of being kidnapped for other people'sbenefit, and I've made up my mind that the next guy that wants mehas got to come across. See? My proposition is fifty-fifty. Ifyou like it, I'm game to let you go ahead. If you don't like it,then the deal's off, and you'll find that you've a darned poorchance of getting me. When I was kidnapped before, I was just akid, but I can look after myself now. Well, what do you say?"Jimmy found it hard at first to say anything. He had neverproperly understood the possibilities of Ogden's characterbefore. The longer he contemplated him, the more admirable Ann'sscheme appeared. It seemed to him that only a resolute keeper ofa home for dogs would be adequately equipped for dealing withthis remarkable youth.
　　"This is a commercial age," he said.
　　"You bet it is," said Ogden. "My middle name is business. Say,are you working this on your own, or are you in with BuckMaginnis and his crowd?""I don't think I know Mr. Maginnis.""He's the guy who kidnapped me the first time. He's a rough-neck.
　　Smooth Sam Fisher got away with me the second time. Maybe you'rein with Sam?""No.""No, I guess not. I heard that he had married and retired frombusiness. I rather wish you were one of Buck's lot. I like Buck.
　　When he kidnapped me, I lived with him and he gave me a swelltime. When I left him, a woman came and interviewed me about itfor one of the Sunday papers. Sob stuff. Called the piece 'EvenKidnappers Have Tender Hearts Beneath A Rough Exterior.' I've gotit upstairs in my press-clipping album. It was pretty bad slush.
　　Buck Maginnis hasn't got any tender heart beneath his roughexterior, but he's a good sort and I liked him. We used to shootcraps. And he taught me to chew. I'd be tickled to death to haveBuck get me again. But, if you're working on your own, all right.
　　It's all the same to me, provided you meet me on the terms.""You certainly are a fascinating child.""Less of it, less of it. I've troubles enough to bear withouthaving you getting fresh. Well, what about it? Talk figures. If Ilet you take me away, do we divvy up or don't we? That's allyou've got to say.""That's easily settled. I'll certainly give you half of whateverI get."Ogden looked wistfully at the writing-desk.
　　"I wish I could have that in writing. But I guess it wouldn'tstand in law. I suppose I shall have to trust you.""Honour among thieves.""Less of the thieves. This is just a straight businessproposition. I've got something valuable to sell, and I'm darnedif I'm going to keep giving it away. I've been too easy. I oughtto have thought of this before. All right, then, that's settled.
　　Now it's up to you. You can think out the rest of it yourself."He heaved himself out of the chair, and left the room. Ann,coming down from the gallery, found Jimmy meditating. He lookedup at the sound of her step.
　　"Well, that seems to make it pretty easy for us, doesn't it?" hesaid. "It solves the problem of ways and means.""But this is awful. This alters everything. It isn't safe for youto stay here. You must go away at once. They've found you out.
　　You may be arrested at any moment.""That's a side-issue. The main point is to put this thingthrough. Then we can think about what is going to happen to me.""But can't you see the risk you're running?""I don't mind. I want to help you.""I won't let you.""You must.""But do be sensible. What would you think of me if I allowed youto face this danger--?""I wouldn't think any differently of you. My opinion of you is afixed thing. Nothing can alter it. I tried to tell you on theboat, but you wouldn't let me. I think you're the most perfect,wonderful girl in all the world. I've loved you since the firstmoment I saw you. I knew who you were when we met for half aminute that day in London. We were utter strangers, but I knewyou. You were the girl I had been looking for all my life. GoodHeavens, you talk of risks. Can't you understand that just beingwith you and speaking to you and knowing that we share this thingtogether is enough to wipe out any thought of risk? I'd doanything for you. And you expect me to back out of this thingbecause there is a certain amount of danger!"Ann had retreated to the door, and was looking at him with wideeyes. With other young men and there had been many--who had saidmuch the same sort of thing to her since her _debutante_ days shehad been cool and composed--a little sorry, perhaps, but in nodoubt as to her own feelings and her ability to resist theirpleadings. But now her heart was racing, and the conviction hadbegun to steal over her that the cool and composed Ann Chesterwas in imminent danger of making a fool of herself. Quitesuddenly, without any sort of warning, she realised that therewas some quality in Jimmy which called aloud to somecorresponding quality in herself--a nebulous something that madeher know that he and she were mates. She knew herself hard toplease where men were concerned. She could not have describedwhat it was in her that all the men she had met, the men withwhom she had golfed and ridden and yachted, had failed tosatisfy: but, ever since she had acquired the power ofself-analysis, she had known that it was something which was asolid and indestructible part of her composition. She could nothave put into words what quality she demanded in man, but she hadalways known that she would recognise it when she found it: andshe recognised it now in Jimmy. It was a recklessness, anirresponsibility, a cheerful dare-devilry, the complement to herown gay lawlessness.
　　"Ann!" said Jimmy.
　　"It's too late!"She had not meant to say that. She had meant to say that it wasimpossible, out of the question. But her heart was running awaywith her, goaded on by the irony of it all. A veil seemed to havefallen from before her eyes, and she knew now why she had beendrawn to Jimmy from the very first. They were mates, and she hadthrown away her happiness.
　　"I've promised to marry Lord Wisbeach!"Jimmy stopped dead, as if the blow had been a physical one.
　　"You've promised to marry Lord Wisbeach!""Yes.""But--but when?""Just now. Only a few minutes ago. When I was driving him to hishotel. He had asked me to marry him before I left for England,and I had promised to give him his answer when I got back. Butwhen I got back, somehow I couldn't make up my mind. The daysslipped by. Something seemed to be holding me back. He pressed meto say that I would marry him, and it seemed absurd to go onrefusing to be definite, so I said I would.""You can't love him? Surely you don't--?"Ann met his gaze frankly.
　　"Something seems to have happened to me in the last few minutes,"she said, "and I can't think clearly. A little while ago itdidn't seem to matter much. I liked him. He was good-looking andgood-tempered. I felt that we should get along quite well and beas happy as most people are. That seemed as near perfection asone could expect to get nowadays, so--well, that's how it was.""But you can't marry him! It's out of the question!""I've promised.""You must break your promise.""I can't do that.""You must!""I can't. One must play the game."Jimmy groped for words. "But in this case you mustn't--it'sawful--in this special case--" He broke off. He saw the trap hewas in. He could not denounce that crook without exposinghimself. And from that he still shrank. Ann's prejudice againstJimmy Crocker might have its root in a trivial and absurdgrievance, but it had been growing through the years, and whocould say how strong it was now?
　　Ann came a step towards him, then paused doubtfully. Then, as ifmaking up her mind, she drew near and touched his sleeve.
　　"I'm sorry," she said.
　　There was a silence.
　　"I'm sorry!"She moved away. The door closed softly behind her. Jimmy scarcelyknew that she had gone. He sat down in that deep chair which wasMr. Pett's favourite, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Andthen, how many minutes or hours later he did not know, the sharpclick of the door-handle roused him. He sprang from the chair.
　　Was it Ann, come back?
　　It was not Ann. Round the edge of the door came inquiringly thefair head of Lord Wisbeach.
　　"Oh!" said his lordship, sighting Jimmy.
　　The head withdrew itself.
　　"Come here!" shouted Jimmy.
　　The head appeared again.
　　"Talking to me?""Yes, I was talking to you."Lord Wisbeach followed his superstructure into the room. He wasoutwardly all that was bland and unperturbed, but there was awary look in the eye that cocked itself at Jimmy, and he did notmove far from the door. His fingers rested easily on the handlebehind him. He did not think it probable that Jimmy could haveheard of his visit to Mrs. Pett, but there had been somethingmenacing in the latter's voice, and he believed in safety first.
　　"They told me Miss Chester was here," he said by way of relaxingany possible strain there might be in the situation.
　　"And what the devil do you want with Miss Chester, you slimy,crawling second-story-worker, you damned, oily yegg?" enquiredJimmy.
　　The sunniest optimist could not have deluded himself into thebelief that the words were spoken in a friendly and genialspirit. Lord Wisbeach's fingers tightened on the door-handle, andhe grew a little flushed about the cheek-bones.
　　"What's all this about?" he said.
　　"You infernal crook!"Lord Wisbeach looked anxious.
　　"Don't shout like that! Are you crazy? Do you want people tohear?"Jimmy drew a deep breath.
　　"I shall have to get further away from you," he said morequietly. "There's no knowing what may happen if I don't. I don'twant to kill you. At least, I do, but I had better not."He retired slowly until brought to a halt by the writing-desk. Tothis he anchored himself with a firm grip. He was extremelyanxious to do nothing rash, and the spectacle of Gentleman Jackinvited rashness. He leaned against the desk, clutching itssolidity with both hands. Lord Wisbeach held steadfastly to thedoor-handle. And in this tense fashion the interview proceeded.
　　"Miss Chester," said Jimmy, forcing himself to speak calmly, "hasjust been telling me that she has promised to marry you.""Quite true," said Lord Wisbeach. "It will be announcedto-morrow." A remark trembled on his lips, to the effect that herelied on Jimmy for a fish-slice, but prudence kept it unspoken.
　　He was unable at present to understand Jimmy's emotion. Why Jimmyshould object to his being engaged to Ann, he could not imagine.
　　But it was plain that for some reason he had taken the thing toheart, and, dearly as he loved a bit of quiet fun, Lord Wisbeachdecided that the other was at least six inches too tall and fiftypounds too heavy to be bantered in his present mood by one of hisown physique. "Why not?""It won't be announced to-morrow," said Jimmy. "Because byto-morrow you will be as far away from here as you can get, ifyou have any sense.""What do you mean?""Just this. If you haven't left this house by breakfast timeto-morrow, I shall expose you."Lord Wisbeach was not feeling particularly happy, but he laughedat this.
　　"You!""That's what I said.""Who do you think you are, to go about exposing people?""I happen to be Mrs. Pett's nephew, Jimmy Crocker."Lord Wisbeach laughed again.
　　"Is that the line you are going to take?""It is.""You are going to Mrs. Pett to tell her that you are JimmyCrocker and that I am a crook and that you only pretended torecognise me for reasons of your own?""Just that.""Forget it!" Lord Wisbeach had forgotten to be alarmed in hisamusement. He smiled broadly. "I'm not saying it's not good stuffto pull, but it's old stuff now. I'm sorry for you, but I thoughtof it before you did. I went to Mrs. Pett directly after lunchand sprang that line of talk myself. Do you think she'll believeyou after that? I tell you I'm ace-high with that dame. Youcan't queer me with her.""I think I can. For the simple reason that I really am JimmyCrocker.""Yes, you are.""Exactly. Yes, I am."Lord Wisbeach smiled tolerantly.
　　"It was worth trying the bluff, I guess, but it won't work. Iknow you'd be glad to get me out of this house, but you've got tomake a better play than that to do it.""Don't deceive yourself with the idea that I'm bluffing. Lookhere." He suddenly removed his coat and threw it to LordWisbeach. "Read the tailor's label inside the pocket. See thename. Also the address. 'J. Crocker. Drexdale House. GrosvenorSquare. London.'"Lord Wisbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed. Hisface turned a little sallower, but he still fought against hisgrowing conviction.
　　"That's no proof.""Perhaps not. But, when you consider the reputation of the tailorwhose name is on the label, it's hardly likely that he would bestanding in with an impostor, is it? If you want real proof, Ihave no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the_Chronicle_ who can identify me. Or are you convinced already?"Lord Wisbeach capitulated.
　　"I don't know what fool game you think you're playing, but Ican't see why you couldn't have told me this when we were talkingafter lunch.""Never mind. I had my reasons. They don't matter. What matters isthat you are going to get out of here to-morrow. Do youunderstand that?""I get you.""Then that's about all, I think. Don't let me keep you.""Say, listen." Gentleman Jack's voice was plaintive. "I think youmight give a fellow a chance to get out good. Give me time tohave a guy in Montreal send me a telegram telling me to go upthere right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the copson me at once. The old lady knows I've got business in Canada.
　　You don't need to be rough on a fellow."Jimmy pondered this point.
　　"All right. I don't object to that.""Thanks.""Don't start anything, though.""I don't know what you mean."Jimmy pointed to the safe.
　　"Come, come, friend of my youth. We have no secrets from eachother. I know you're after what's in there, and you know that Iknow. I don't want to harp on it, but you'll be spending to-nightin the house, and I think you had better make up your mind tospend it in your room, getting a nice sleep to prepare you foryour journey. Do you follow me, old friend?""I get you.""That will be all then, I think. Wind a smile around your neckand recede."The door slammed. Lord Wisbeach had restrained his feelingssuccessfully during the interview, but he could not deny himselfthat slight expression of them. Jimmy crossed the room and tookhis coat from the chair where the other had dropped it. As he didso a voice spoke.
　　"Say!"Jimmy spun round. The room was apparently empty. The thing wasbeginning to assume an uncanny aspect, when the voice spokeagain.
　　"You think you're darned funny, don't you?"It came from above. Jimmy had forgotten the gallery. He directedhis gaze thither, and perceived the heavy face of Ogden hangingover the rail like a gargoyle.
　　"What are you doing there?" he demanded.
　　"Listening.""How did you get there?""There's a door back here that you get to from the stairs. Ioften come here for a quiet cigarette. Say, you think yourselfsome josher, don't you, telling me you were a kidnapper! Youstrung me like an onion. So you're really Jimmy Crocker afterall? Where was the sense in pulling all that stuff about takingme away and divvying up the ransom? Aw, you make me tired!"The head was withdrawn, and Jimmy heard heavy steps followed bythe banging of a door. Peace reigned in the library.
　　Jimmy sat down in the chair which was Mr. Pett's favourite andwhich Ogden was accustomed to occupy to that gentleman'sdispleasure. The swiftness of recent events had left him a littledizzy, and he desired to think matters over and find out exactlywhat had happened.
　　The only point which appeared absolutely clear to him in a welterof confusing occurrences was the fact that he had lost the chanceof kidnapping Ogden. Everything had arranged itself sobeautifully simply and conveniently as regarded that ventureuntil a moment ago; but now that the boy had discovered hisidentity it was impossible for him to attempt it. He was loth toaccept this fact. Surely, even now, there was a way . . .
　　Quite suddenly an admirable plan occurred to him. It involved theco-operation of his father. And at that thought he realised witha start that life had been moving so rapidly for him since hisreturn to the house that he had not paid any attention at all towhat was really as amazing a mystery as any. He had been too busyto wonder why his father was there.
　　He debated the best method of getting in touch with him. It wasout of the question to descend to the pantry or wherever it wasthat his father lived in this new incarnation of his. Then thehappy thought struck him that results might be obtained by thesimple process of ringing the bell. It might produce some otherunit of the domestic staff. However, it was worth trying. He rangthe bell.
　　A few moments later the door opened. Jimmy looked up. It was nothis father. It was a dangerous-looking female of uncertain age,dressed as a parlour-maid, who eyed him with what seemed to hisconscience-stricken soul dislike and suspicion. She had atight-lipped mouth and beady eyes beneath heavy brows. Jimmy hadseldom seen a woman who attracted him less at first sight.
　　"Jer ring, S'?"Jimmy blinked and almost ducked. The words had come at him like aprojectile.
　　"Oh, ah, yes.""J' want anything, s'?"With an effort Jimmy induced his mind to resume its interruptedequilibrium.
　　"Oh, ah, yes. Would you mind sending Skinner the butler to me.""Y's'r."The apparition vanished. Jimmy drew out his handkerchief anddabbed at his forehead. He felt weak and guilty. He felt as if hehad just been accused of nameless crimes and had been unable todeny the charge. Such was the magic of Miss Trimble's eye--theleft one, which looked directly at its object. Conjecture pausesbaffled at the thought of the effect which her gaze might havecreated in the breasts of the sex she despised, had it beendouble instead of single-barrelled. But half of it had wasteditself on a spot some few feet to his right.
　　Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Crocker appeared,looking like a benevolent priest.
Chapter 19 Between Father And Son
    "Well, Skinner, my man," said Jimmy, "how goes it?"Mr. Crocker looked about him cautiously. Then his priestly mannerfell from him like a robe, and he bounded forward.
　　"Jimmy!" he exclaimed, seizing his son's hand and shaking itviolently. "Say, it's great seeing you again, Jim!"Jimmy drew himself up haughtily.
　　"Skinner, my good menial, you forget yourself strangely! You willbe getting fired if you mitt the handsome guest in this chummyfashion!" He slapped his father on the back. "Dad, this is great!
　　How on earth do you come to be here? What's the idea? Why thebuttling? When did you come over? Tell me all!"Mr. Crocker hoisted himself nimbly onto the writing-desk, and satthere, beaming, with dangling legs.
　　"It was your letter that did it, Jimmy. Say, Jim, there wasn'tany need for you to do a thing like that just for me.""Well, I thought you would have a better chance of being a peerwithout me around. By the way, dad, how did my step-mother takethe Lord Percy episode?"A shadow fell upon Mr. Crocker's happy face.
　　"I don't like to do much thinking about your step-mother," hesaid. "She was pretty sore about Percy. And she was pretty soreabout your lighting out for America. But, gee! what she must befeeling like now that I've come over, I daren't let myselfthink.""You haven't explained that yet. Why did you come over?""Well, I'd been feeling homesick--I always do over there in thebaseball season--and then talking with Pett made it worse--""Talking with Pett? Did you see him, then, when he was inLondon?""See him? I let him in!""How?""Into the house, I mean. I had just gone to the front door to seewhat sort of a day it was--I wanted to know if there had beenenough rain in the night to stop my having to watch that cricketgame--and just as I got there the bell rang. I opened the door.""A revoltingly plebeian thing to do! I'm ashamed of you, dad!
　　They won't stand for that sort of thing in the House of Lords!""Well, before I knew what was happening they had taken me for thebutler. I didn't want your step-mother to know I'd been openingdoors--you remember how touchy she was always about it so I justlet it go at that and jollied them along. But I just couldn'thelp asking the old man how the pennant race was making out, andthat tickled him so much that he offered me a job here as butlerif I ever wanted to make a change. And then your note came sayingthat you were going to New York, and--well, I couldn't helpmyself. You couldn't have kept me in London with ropes. I sneakedout next day and bought a passage on the _Carmantic_--she sailedthe Wednesday after you left--and came straight here. They gaveme this job right away." Mr. Crocker paused, and a holy light ofenthusiasm made his homely features almost beautiful. "Say, Jim,I've seen a ball-game every darned day since I landed! Say, twodays running Larry Doyle made home-runs! But, gosh! that guy Klemis one swell robber! See here!" Mr. Crocker sprang down from thedesk, and snatched up a handful of books, which he proceeded todistribute about the floor. "There were two men on bases in thesixth and What's-his-name came to bat. He lined one out tocentre-field--where this book is--and--""Pull yourself together, Skinner! You can't monkey about with theemployer's library like that." Jimmy restored the books to theirplaces. "Simmer down and tell me more. Postpone the gossip fromthe diamond. What plans have you made? Have you considered thefuture at all? You aren't going to hold down this buttling jobforever, are you? When do you go back to London?"The light died out of Mr. Crocker's face.
　　"I guess I shall have to go back some time. But how can I yet,with the Giants leading the league like this?""But did you just light out without saying anything?""I left a note for your step-mother telling her I had gone toAmerica for a vacation. Jimmy, I hate to think what she's goingto do to me when she gets me back!""Assert yourself, dad! Tell her that woman's place is the homeand man's the ball-park! Be firm!"Mr. Crocker shook his head dubiously.
　　"It's all very well to talk that way when you're three thousandmiles from home, but you know as well as I do, Jim, that yourstep-mother, though she's a delightful woman, isn't the sort youcan assert yourself with. Look at this sister of hers here. Iguess you haven't been in the house long enough to have noticed,but she's very like Eugenia in some ways. She's the boss allright, and old Pett does just what he's told to. I guess it's thesame with me, Jim. There's a certain type of man that's just bornto have it put over on him by a certain type of woman. I'm thatsort of man and your stepmother's that sort of woman. No, I guessI'm going to get mine all right, and the only thing to do is tokeep it from stopping me having a good time now."There was truth in what he said, and Jimmy recognised it. Hechanged the subject.
　　"Well, never mind that. There's no sense in worrying oneselfabout the future. Tell me, dad, where did you get all the'dinner-is-served, madam' stuff? How did you ever learn to be abutler?""Bayliss taught me back in London. And, of course, I've playedbutlers when I was on the stage."Jimmy did not speak for a moment.
　　"Did you ever play a kidnapper, dad?" he asked at length.
　　"Sure. I was Chicago Ed. in a crook play called 'This Way Out.'
　　Why, surely you saw me in that? I got some good notices."Jimmy nodded.
　　"Of course. I knew I'd seen you play that sort of part some time.
　　You came on during the dark scene and--""--switched on the lights and--""--covered the bunch with your gun while they were stillblinking! You were great in that part, dad.""It was a good part," said Mr. Crocker modestly. "It had fat. I'dlike to have a chance to play a kidnapper again. There's a lot ofpep to kidnappers.""You _shall_ play one again," said Jimmy. "I am putting on a littlesketch with a kidnapper as the star part.""Eh? A sketch? You, Jim? Where?""Here. In this house. It is entitled 'Kidnapping Ogden' and opensto-night."Mr. Crocker looked at his only son in concern. Jimmy appeared tohim to be rambling.
　　"Amateur theatricals?" he hazarded.
　　"In the sense that there is no pay for performing, yes. Dad, youknow that kid Ogden upstairs? Well, it's quite simple. I want youto kidnap him for me."Mr. Crocker sat down heavily. He shook his head.
　　"I don't follow all this.""Of course not. I haven't begun to explain. Dad, in your ramblesthrough this joint you've noticed a girl with glorious red-goldhair, I imagine?""Ann Chester?""Ann Chester. I'm going to marry her.""Jimmy!""But she doesn't know it yet. Now, follow me carefully, dad. Fiveyears ago Ann Chester wrote a book of poems. It's on that deskthere. You were using it a moment back as second-base orsomething. Now, I was working at that time on the _Chronicle_. Iwrote a skit on those poems for the Sunday paper. Do you begin tofollow the plot?""She's got it in for you? She's sore?""Exactly. Get that firmly fixed in your mind, because it's thesource from which all the rest of the story springs."Mr. Crocker interrupted.
　　"But I don't understand. You say she's sore at you. Well, how isit that you came in together looking as if you were good friendswhen I let you in this morning?""I was waiting for you to ask that. The explanation is that shedoesn't know that I am Jimmy Crocker.""But you came here saying that you were Jimmy Crocker.""Quite right. And that is where the plot thickens. I made Ann'sacquaintance first in London and then on the boat. I had foundout that Jimmy Crocker was the man she hated most in the world,so I took another name. I called myself Bayliss.""Bayliss!""I had to think of something quick, because the clerk at theshipping office was waiting to fill in my ticket. I had just beentalking to Bayliss on the phone and his was the only name thatcame into my mind. You know how it is when you try to think of aname suddenly. Now mark the sequel. Old Bayliss came to see meoff at Paddington. Ann was there and saw me. She said 'Goodevening, Mr. Bayliss' or something, and naturally old Baylissreplied 'What ho!' or words to that effect. The only way tohandle the situation was to introduce him as my father. I did so.
　　Ann, therefore, thinks that I am a young man named Bayliss whohas come over to America to make his fortune. We now come to thethird reel. I met Ann by chance at the Knickerbocker and took herto lunch. While we were lunching, that confirmed congenitalidiot, Reggie Bartling, who happened to have come over to Americaas well, came up and called me by my name. I knew that, if Anndiscovered who I really was, she would have nothing more to dowith me, so I gave Reggie the haughty stare and told him that hehad made a mistake. He ambled away--and possibly committedsuicide in his anguish at having made such a bloomer--leaving Anndiscussing with me the extraordinary coincidence of my beingJimmy Crocker's double. Do you follow the story of my life sofar?"Mr. Crocker, who had been listening with wrinkled brow and othersigns of rapt attention, nodded.
　　"I understand all that. But how did you come to get into thishouse?""That is reel four. I am getting to that. It seems that Ann, whois the sweetest girl on earth and always on the lookout to dosome one a kindness, had decided, in the interests of the boy'sfuture, to remove young Ogden Ford from his present sphere, wherehe is being spoiled and ruined, and send him down to a man onLong Island who would keep him for awhile and instil the firstprinciples of decency into him. Her accomplice in this admirablescheme was Jerry Mitchell.""Jerry Mitchell!""Who, as you know, got fired yesterday. Jerry was to have donethe rough work of the job. But, being fired, he was no longeravailable. I, therefore, offered to take his place. So here Iam.""You're going to kidnap that boy?""No. You are.""Me!""Precisely. You are going to play a benefit performance of yourworld-famed success, Chicago Ed. Let me explain further. Owing tocircumstances which I need not go into, Ogden has found out thatI am really Jimmy Crocker, so he refuses to have anything more todo with me. I had deceived him into believing that I was aprofessional kidnapper, and he came to me and offered to let mekidnap him if I would go fifty-fifty with him in the ransom!""Gosh!""Yes, he's an intelligent child, full of that sort of brightideas. Well, now he has found that I am not all his fancy paintedme, he wouldn't come away with me; and I want you to understudyme while the going is good. In the fifth reel, which will bereleased to-night after the household has retired to rest, youwill be featured. It's got to be tonight, because it has justoccurred to me that Ogden, knowing that Lord Wisbeach is a crook,may go to him with the same proposal that he made to me.""Lord Wisbeach a crook!""Of the worst description. He is here to steal that explosivestuff of Willie Partridge's. But as I have blocked that play, hemay turn his attention to Ogden.""But, Jimmy, if that fellow is a crook--how do you know he is?""He told me so himself.""Well, then, why don't you expose him?""Because in order to do so, Skinner my man, I should have toexplain that I was really Jimmy Crocker, and the time is not yetripe for that. To my thinking, the time will not be ripe till youhave got safely away with Ogden Ford. I can then go to Ann andsay 'I may have played you a rotten trick in the past, but I havedone you a good turn now, so let's forget the past!' So you seethat everything now depends on you, dad. I'm not asking you to doanything difficult. I'll go round to the boarding-house now andtell Jerry Mitchell about what we have arranged, and have himwaiting outside here in a car. Then all you will have to do is togo to Ogden, play a short scene as Chicago Ed., escort him to thecar, and then go back to bed and have a good sleep. Once Ogdenthinks you are a professional kidnapper, you won't have anydifficulty at all. Get it into your head that he wants to bekidnapped. Surely you can tackle this light and attractive job?
　　Why, it will be a treat for you to do a bit of character actingonce more!"Jimmy had struck the right note. His father's eyes began to gleamwith excitement. The scent of the footlights seemed to dilate hisnostrils.
　　"I was always good at that rough-neck stuff," he murmuredmeditatively. "I used to eat it!""Exactly," said Jimmy. "Look at it in the right way, and I amdoing you a kindness in giving you this chance."Mr. Crocker rubbed his cheek with his forefinger.
　　"You'd want me to make up for the part?" he asked wistfully.
　　"Of course!""You want me to do it to-night?""At about two in the morning, I thought.""I'll do it, Jim!"Jimmy grasped his hand.
　　"I knew I could rely on you, dad."Mr. Crocker was following a train of thought.
　　"Dark wig . . . blue chin . . . heavy eyebrows . . . I guess Ican't do better than my old Chicago Ed. make-up. Say, Jimmy, howam I to get to the kid?""That'll be all right. You can stay in my room till the timecomes to go to him. Use it as a dressing-room.""How am I to get him out of the house?""Through this room. I'll tell Jerry to wait out on theside-street with the car from two o'clock on."Mr. Crocker considered these arrangements.
　　"That seems to be about all," he said.
　　"I don't think there's anything else.""I'll slip downtown and buy the props.""I'll go and tell Jerry."A thought struck Mr. Crocker.
　　"You'd better tell Jerry to make up, too. He doesn't want the kidrecognising him and squealing on him later."Jimmy was lost in admiration of his father's resource.
　　"You think of everything, dad! That wouldn't have occurred to me.
　　You certainly do take to Crime in the most wonderful way. Itseems to come naturally to you!"Mr. Crocker smirked modestly.
Chapter 20 Celestine Imparts Information
    Plit is only as strong as its weakest link. The best-laid schemesof mice and men gang agley if one of the mice is a mentaldefective or if one of the men is a Jerry Mitchell. . . .
　　Celestine, Mrs. Pett's maid--she who was really Maggie O'Tooleand whom Jerry loved with a strength which deprived him of eventhat small amount of intelligence which had been bestowed uponhim by Nature--came into the house-keeper's room at about teno'clock that night. The domestic staff had gone in a body to themoving-pictures, and the only occupant of the room was the newparlourmaid, who was sitting in a hard chair, readingSchopenhauer.
　　Celestine's face was flushed, her dark hair was ruffled, and hereyes were shining. She breathed a little quickly, and her lefthand was out of sight behind her back. She eyed the newparlour-maid doubtfully for a moment. The latter was a woman ofsomewhat unencouraging exterior, not the kind that invitesconfidences. But Celestine had confidences to bestow, and theexodus to the movies had left her in a position where she couldnot pick and choose. She was faced with the alternative oflocking her secret in her palpitating bosom or of revealing it tothis one auditor. The choice was one which no impulsive damsel inlike circumstances would have hesitated to make.
　　"Say!" said Celestine.
　　A face rose reluctantly from behind Schopenhauer. A gleaming eyemet Celestine's. A second eye no less gleaming glared at theceiling.
　　"Say, I just been talking to my feller outside," said Celestinewith a coy simper. "Say, he's a grand man!"A snort of uncompromising disapproval proceeded from thethin-lipped mouth beneath the eyes. But Celestine was too full ofher news to be discouraged.
　　"I'm strong fer Jer!" she said.
　　"Huh?" said the student of Schopenhauer.
　　"Jerry Mitchell, you know. You ain't never met him, have you?
　　Say, he's a grand man!"For the first time she had the other's undivided attention. Thenew parlour-maid placed her book upon the table.
　　"Uh?" she said.
　　Celestine could hold back her dramatic surprise no longer. Herconcealed left hand flashed into view. On the third fingerglittered a ring. She gazed at it with awed affection.
　　"Ain't it a beaut!"She contemplated its sparkling perfection for a moment inrapturous silence.
　　"Say, you could have knocked me down with a feather!" sheresumed. "He telephones me awhile ago and says to be outside theback door at ten to-night, because he'd something he wanted totell me. Of course he couldn't come in and tell it me here,because he'd been fired and everything. So I goes out, and therehe is. 'Hello, kid!' he says to me. 'Fresh!' I says to him.
　　'Say, I got something to be fresh about!' he says to me. And thenhe reaches into his jeans and hauls out the sparkler. 'What'sthat?' I says to him. 'It's an engagement ring,' he says to me.
　　'For you, if you'll wear it!' I came over so weak, I could havefell! And the next thing I know he's got it on my finger and--"Celestine broke off modestly. "Say, ain't it a beaut, honest!"She gave herself over to contemplation once more. "He says to mehow he's on Easy Street now, or will be pretty soon. I says tohim 'Have you got a job, then?' He says to me 'Now, I ain't got ajob, but I'm going to pull off a stunt to-night that's going tomean enough to me to start that health-farm I've told you about.'
　　Say, he's always had a line of talk about starting a health-farmdown on Long Island, he knowing all about training and health andeverything through having been one of them fighters. I asks himwhat the stunt is, but he won't tell me yet. He says he'll tellme after we're married, but he says it's sure-fire and he's goingto buy the license tomorrow."She paused for comment and congratulations, eyeing her companionexpectantly.
　　"Huh!" said the new parlour-maid briefly, and resumed herSchopenhauer. Decidedly hers was not a winning personality.
　　"Ain't it a beaut?" demanded Celestine, damped.
　　The new parlour-maid uttered a curious sound at the back of herthroat.
　　"He's a beaut!" she said cryptically.
　　She added another remark in a lower tone, too low for Celestine'sears. It could hardly have been that, but it sounded to Celestinelike:
　　"I'll fix 'm!"
Chapter 21 Chicago Ed.
　　Riverside Drive slept. The moon shone on darkened windows anddeserted sidewalks. It was past one o'clock in the morning. Thewicked Forties were still ablaze with light and noisy foxtrots;but in the virtuous Hundreds, where Mr. Pett's house stood,respectable slumber reigned. Only the occasional drone of apassing automobile broke the silence, or the love-sick cry ofsome feline Romeo patrolling a wall-top.
　　Jimmy was awake. He was sitting on the edge of his bed watchinghis father put the finishing touches to his make-up, which was ofa shaggy and intimidating nature. The elder Crocker had conceivedthe outward aspect of Chicago Ed., King of the Kidnappers, onbroad and impressive lines, and one glance would have been enoughto tell the sagacious observer that here was no white-souledcomrade for a nocturnal saunter down lonely lanes andout-of-the-way alleys.
　　Mr. Crocker seemed to feel this himself.
　　"The only trouble is, Jim," he said, peering at himself in theglass, "shan't I scare the boy to death directly he sees me?
　　Oughtn't I to give him some sort of warning?""How? Do you suggest sending him a formal note?"Mr. Crocker surveyed his repellent features doubtfully.
　　"It's a good deal to spring on a kid at one in the morning," hesaid. "Suppose he has a fit!""He's far more likely to give you one. Don't you worry aboutOgden, dad. I shouldn't think there was a child alive more equalto handling such a situation."There was an empty glass standing on a tray on thedressing-table. Mr. Crocker eyed this sadly.
　　"I wish you hadn't thrown that stuff away, Jim. I could have donewith it. I'm feeling nervous.""Nonsense, dad! You're all right! I had to throw it away. I'm onthe wagon now, but how long I should have stayed on with thatsmiling up at me I don't know. I've made up my mind never tolower myself to the level of the beasts that perish with thedemon Rum again, because my future wife has strong views on thesubject: but there's no sense in taking chances. Temptation isall very well, but you don't need it on your dressing-table. Itwas a kindly thought of yours to place it there, dad, but--""Eh? I didn't put it there.""I thought that sort of thing came in your department. Isn't itthe butler's job to supply drinks to the nobility and gentry?
　　Well, it doesn't matter. It is now distributed over theneighbouring soil, thus removing a powerful temptation from yourpath. You're better without it." He looked at his watch. "Well,it ought to be all right now." He went to the window. "There's anautomobile down there. I suppose it's Jerry. I told him to beoutside at one sharp and it's nearly half-past. I think you mightbe starting, dad. Oh, by the way, you had better tell Ogden thatyou represent a gentleman of the name of Buck Maginnis. It wasBuck who got away with him last time, and a firm friendship seemsto-have sprung up between them. There's nothing like coming witha good introduction."Mr. Crocker took a final survey of himself in the mirror.
　　"Gee I I'd hate to meet myself on a lonely road!"He opened the door, and stood for a moment listening.
　　From somewhere down the passage came the murmur of a muffledsnore.
　　"Third door on the left," said Jimmy. "Three--count 'em!--three.
　　Don't go getting mixed."Mr. Crocker slid into the outer darkness like a stout ghost, andJimmy closed the door gently behind him.
　　Having launched his indulgent parent safely on a career of crime,Jimmy switched off the light and returned to the window. Leaningout, he gave himself up for a moment to sentimental musings. Thenight was very still. Through the trees which flanked the housethe dimmed headlights of what was presumably Jerry Mitchell'shired car shone faintly like enlarged fire-flies. A boat of somedescription was tooting reflectively far down the river. Such wasthe seductive influence of the time and the scene that Jimmymight have remained there indefinitely, weaving dreams, had henot been under the necessity of making his way down to thelibrary. It was his task to close the French windows after hisfather and Ogden had passed through, and he proposed to remainhid in the gallery there until the time came for him to do this.
　　It was imperative that he avoid being seen by Ogden.
　　Locking his door behind him, he went downstairs. There were nosigns of life in the house. Everything was still. He found thestaircase leading to the gallery without having to switch on thelights.
　　It was dusty in the gallery, and a smell of old leather envelopedhim. He hoped his father would not be long. He lowered himselfcautiously to the floor, and, resting his head against aconvenient shelf, began to wonder how the interview betweenChicago Ed. and his prey was progressing.
　　* * * * *Mr. Crocker, meanwhile, masked to the eyes, had crept in fearfulsilence to the door which Jimmy had indicated. A good deal of thegay enthusiasm with which he had embarked on this enterprise hadebbed away from him. Now that he had become accustomed to thenovelty of finding himself once more playing a character part,his intimate respectability began to assert itself. It was onething to play Chicago Ed. at a Broadway theatre, but quite anotherto give a benefit performance like this. As he tip-toed along thepassage, the one thing that presented itself most clearly to himwas the appalling outcome of this act of his, should anything gowrong. He would have turned back, but for the thought that Jimmywas depending on him and that success would mean Jimmy'shappiness. Stimulated by this reflection, he opened Ogden's doorinch by inch and went in. He stole softly across the room.
　　He had almost reached the bed, and had just begun to wonder howon earth, now that he was there, he could open the proceedingstactfully and without alarming the boy, when he was saved thetrouble of pondering further on this problem. A light flashed outof the darkness with the suddenness of a bursting bomb, and avoice from the same general direction said "Hands up!"When Mr. Crocker had finished blinking and had adjusted his eyesto the glare, he perceived Ogden sitting up in bed with arevolver in his hand. The revolver was resting on his knee, andits muzzle pointed directly at Mr. Crocker's ample stomach.
　　Exhaustive as had been the thought which Jimmy's father had givento the possible developments of his enterprise, this was acontingency of which he had not dreamed. He was entirely at aloss.
　　"Don't do that!" he said huskily. "It might go off!""I should worry!" replied Ogden coldly. "I'm at the right end ofit. What are you doing here?" He looked fondly at the lethalweapon. "I got this with cigarette-coupons, to shoot rabbits whenwe went to the country. Here's where I get a chance at somethingpart-human.""Do you want to murder me?""Why not?"Mr. Crocker's make-up was trickling down his face in stickystreams. The mask, however, prevented Ogden from seeing thispeculiar phenomenon. He was gazing interestedly at his visitor.
　　An idea struck him.
　　"Say, did you come to kidnap me?"Mr. Crocker felt the sense of relief which he had sometimesexperienced on the stage when memory had failed him during ascene and a fellow-actor had thrown him the line. It would beexaggerating to say that he was himself again. He could never becompletely at his case with that pistol pointing at him; but hefelt considerably better. He lowered his voice an octave or so,and spoke in a husky growl.
　　"Aw, cheese it, kid. Nix on the rough stuff!""Keep those hands up!" advised Ogden.
　　"Sure! Sure!" growled Mr. Crocker. "Can the gun-play, bo! Say,you've soitanly grown since de last time we got youse!"Ogden's manner became magically friendly.
　　"Are you one of Buck Maginnis' lot?" he enquired almost politely.
　　"Dat's right!" Mr. Crocker blessed the inspiration which hadprompted Jimmy's parting words. "I'm wit Buck.""Why didn't Buck come himself?""He's woiking on anudder job!"To Mr. Crocker's profound relief Ogden lowered the pistol.
　　"I'm strong for Buck," he said conversationally. "We're old pals.
　　Did you see the piece in the paper about him kidnapping me lasttime? I've got it in my press-clipping album.""Sure," said Mr. Crocker.
　　"Say, listen. If you take me now, Buck's got to come across. Ilike Buck, but I'm not going to let myself be kidnapped for hisbenefit. It's fifty-fifty, or nothing doing. See?""I get you, kid.""Well, if that's understood, all right. Give me a minute to getsome clothes on, and I'll be with you.""Don't make a noise," said Mr. Crocker.
　　"Who's making any noise? Say, how did you get in here?""T'roo de libery windows.""I always knew some yegg would stroll in that way. It beats mewhy they didn't have bars fixed on them.""Dere's a buzz-wagon outside, waitin'.""You do it in style, don't you?" observed Ogden, pulling on hisshirt. "Who's working this with you? Any one I know?""Naw. A new guy.""Oh? Say, I don't remember you, if it comes to that.""You don't?" said Mr. Crocker a little discomposed.
　　"Well, maybe I wouldn't, with that mask on you. Which of thernare you?""Chicago Ed.'s my monaker.""I don't remember any Chicago Ed.""Well, you will after dis!" said Mr. Crocker, happily inspired.
　　Ogden was eyeing him with sudden suspicion.
　　"Take that mask off and let's have a look at you.""Nothing doin'.""How am I to know you're on the level?"Mr. Crocker played a daring card.
　　"All right," he said, making a move towards the door. "It's up toyouse. If you t'ink I'm not on de level, I'll beat it.""Here, stop a minute," said Ogden hastily, unwilling that apromising business deal should be abandoned in this summarymanner. "I'm not saying anything against you. There's no need tofly off the handle like that.""I'll tell Buck I couldn't get you," said Mr. Crocker, movinganother step.
　　"Here, stop! What's the matter with you?""Are youse comin' wit me?""Sure, if you get the conditions. Buck's got to slip me half ofwhatever he gets out of this.""Dat's right. Buck'll slip youse half of anyt'ing he gets.""All right, then. Wait till I've got this shoe on, and let'sstart. Now I'm ready.""Beat it quietly.""What did you think I was going to do? Sing?""Step dis way!" said Mr. Crocker jocosely.
　　They left the room cautiously. Mr. Crocker for a moment had asense of something missing. He had reached the stairs before herealised what it was. Then it dawned upon him that what waslacking was the applause. The scene had deserved a round.
　　Jimmy, vigilant in the gallery, heard the library door opensoftly and, peering over the rail, perceived two dim forms in thedarkness. One was large, the other small. They crossed the roomtogether.
　　Whispered words reached him.
　　"I thought you said you came in this way.""Sure.""Then why's the shutter closed?""I fixed it after I was in."There was a faint scraping sound, followed by a click. Thedarkness of the room was relieved by moonlight. The figurespassed through. Jimmy ran down from the gallery, and closed thewindows softly. He had just fastened the shutters, when from thepassage outside there came the unmistakeable sound of a footstep.
Chapter 22 In The Library
    Jimmy's first emotion on hearing the footstep was the crudeinstinct of self-preservation. All that he was able to think ofat the moment was the fact that he was in a questionable positionand one which would require a good deal of explaining away if hewere found, and his only sensation was a strong desire to avoiddiscovery. He made a silent, scrambling leap for the gallerystairs, and reached their shelter just as the door opened. Hestood there, rigid, waiting to be challenged, but apparently hehad moved in time, for no voice spoke. The door closed so gentlyas to be almost inaudible, and then there was silence again. Theroom remained in darkness, and it was this perhaps that firstsuggested to Jimmy the comforting thought that the intruder wasequally desirous of avoiding the scrutiny of his fellows. He hadtaken it for granted in his first panic that he himself was theonly person in that room whose motive for being there would nothave borne inspection. But now, safely hidden in the gallery, outof sight from the floor below, he had the leisure to consider thenewcomer's movements and to draw conclusions from them.
　　An honest man's first act would surely have been to switch on thelights. And an honest man would hardly have crept so stealthily.
　　It became apparent to Jimmy, as he leaned over the rail and triedto pierce the darkness, that there was sinister work afoot; andhe had hardly reached this conclusion when his mind took afurther leap and he guessed the identity of the soft-footedperson below. It could be none but his old friend Lord Wisbeach,known to "the boys" as Gentleman Jack. It surprised him that hehad not thought of this before. Then it surprised him that, afterthe talk they had only a few hours earlier in that very room,Gentleman Jack should have dared to risk this raid.
　　At this moment the blackness was relieved as if by the strikingof a match. The man below had brought an electric torch intoplay, and now Jimmy could see clearly. He had been right in hissurmise. It was Lord Wisbeach. He was kneeling in front of thesafe. What he was doing to the safe, Jimmy could not see, for theman's body was in the way; but the electric torch shone on hisface, lighting up grim, serious features quite unlike the amiableand slightly vacant mask which his lordship was wont to presentto the world. As Jimmy looked, something happened in the pool oflight beyond his vision. Gentleman Jack gave a mutteredexclamation of satisfaction, and then Jimmy saw that the door ofthe safe had swung open. The air was full of a penetrating smellof scorched metal. Jimmy was not an expert in these matters, buthe had read from time to time of modern burglars and theirmethods, and he gathered that an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, withits flame that cuts steel as a knife cuts cheese, had been atwork.
　　Lord Wisbeach flashed the torch into the open safe, plunged hishand in, and drew it out again, holding something. Handling thisin a cautious and gingerly manner, he placed it carefully in hisbreast pocket. Then he straightened himself. He switched off thetorch, and moved to the window, leaving the rest of hisimplements by the open safe. He unfastened the shutter, thenraised the catch of the window. At this point it seemed to Jimmythat the time had come to interfere.
　　"Tut, tut!" he said in a tone of mild reproof.
　　The effect of the rebuke on Lord Wisbeach was remarkable. Hejumped convulsively away from the window, then, revolving on hisown axis, flashed the torch into every corner of the room.
　　"Who's that?" he gasped.
　　"Conscience!" said Jimmy.
　　Lord Wisbeach had overlooked the gallery in his researches. Henow turned his torch upwards. The light flooded the gallery onthe opposite side of the room from where Jimmy stood. There was apistol in Gentleman Jack's hand now. It followed the torchuncertainly.
　　Jimmy, lying flat on the gallery floor, spoke again.
　　"Throw that gun away, and the torch, too," he said. "I've got youcovered!"The torch flashed above his head, but the raised edge of thegallery rail protected him.
　　"I'll give you five seconds. If you haven't dropped that gun bythen, I shall shoot!"As he began to count, Jimmy heartily regretted that he hadallowed his appreciation of the dramatic to lead him into thissituation. It would have been so simple to have roused the housein a prosaic way and avoided this delicate position. Suppose hisbluff did not succeed. Suppose the other still clung to hispistol at the end of the five seconds. He wished that he had madeit ten instead. Gentleman Jack was an enterprising person, as hisprevious acts had showed. He might very well decide to take achance. He might even refuse to believe that Jimmy was armed. Hehad only Jimmy's word for it. Perhaps he might be as deficient insimple faith as he had proved to be in Norman blood! Jimmylingered lovingly over his count.
　　"Four!" he said reluctantly.
　　There was a breathless moment. Then, to Jimmy's unspeakablerelief, gun and torch dropped simultaneously to the floor. In aninstant Jimmy was himself again.
　　"Go and stand with your face to that wall," he said crisply.
　　"Hold your hands up!""Why?""I'm going to see how many more guns you've got.""I haven't another.""I'd like to make sure of that for myself. Get moving!"Gentleman Jack reluctantly obeyed. When he had reached the wall,Jimmy came down. He switched on the lights. He felt in theother's pockets, and almost at once encountered something hardand metallic.
　　He shook his head reproachfully.
　　"You are very loose and inaccurate in your statements," he said.
　　"Why all these weapons? I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier!
　　Now you can turn around and put your hands down."Gentleman Jack's appeared to be a philosophical nature. Thechagrin consequent upon his failure seemed to have left him. Hesat on the arm of a chair and regarded Jimmy without apparenthostility. He even smiled a faint smile.
　　"I thought I had fixed you, he said. You must have been smarterthan I took you for. I never supposed you would get on to thatdrink and pass it up."Understanding of an incident which had perplexed him came toJimmy.
　　"Was it you who put that high-ball in my room? Was it doped?""Didn't you know?""Well," said Jimmy, "I never knew before that virtue got itsreward so darned quick in this world. I rejected that high-ballnot because I suspected it but out of pure goodness, because Ihad made up my mind that I was through with all that sort ofthing."His companion laughed. If Jimmy had had a more intimateacquaintance with the resourceful individual whom the "boys"called Gentleman Jack, he would have been disquieted by thatlaugh. It was an axiom among those who knew him well, that whenGentleman Jack chuckled in the reflective way, he generally hadsomething unpleasant up his sleeve.
　　"It's your lucky night," said Gentleman Jack.
　　"It looks like it.""Well, it isn't over yet.""Very nearly. You had better go and put that test-tube back inwhat is left of the safe now. Did you think I had forgotten it?""What test-tube?""Come, come, old friend! The one filled with Partridge'sexplosive, which you have in your breast-pocket."Gentleman Jack laughed again. Then he moved towards the safe.
　　"Place it gently on the top shelf," said Jimmy.
　　The next moment every nerve in his body was leaping andquivering. A great shout split the air. Gentleman Jack,apparently insane, was giving tongue at the top of his voice.
　　"Help! Help! Help!"The conversation having been conducted up to this point inundertones, the effect of this unexpected uproar was like anexplosion. The cries seemed to echo round the room and shake thevery walls. For a moment Jimmy stood paralysed, staring feebly;then there was a sudden deafening increase in the din. Somethingliving seemed to writhe and jump in his hand. He dropped itincontinently, and found himself gazing in a stupefied way at around, smoking hole in the carpet. Such had been the effect ofGentleman Jack's unforeseen outburst that he had quite forgottenthat he held the revolver, and he had been unfortunate enough atthis juncture to pull the trigger.
　　There was a sudden rush and a swirl of action. Something hitJimmy under the chin. He staggered back, and when he hadrecovered himself found himself looking into the muzzle of therevolver which had nearly blown a hole in his foot a moment back.
　　The sardonic face of Gentleman Jack smiled grimly over thebarrel.
　　"I told you the night wasn't over yet!" he said.
　　The blow under the chin had temporarily dulled Jimmy's mentality.
　　He stood, swallowing and endeavouring to pull himself togetherand to get rid of a feeling that his head was about to come off.
　　He backed to the desk and steadied himself against it.
　　As he did so, a voice from behind him spoke.
　　"Whassall this?"He turned his head. A curious procession was filing in throughthe open French window. First came Mr. Crocker, still wearing hishideous mask; then a heavily bearded individual with roundspectacles, who looked like an automobile coming through ahaystack; then Ogden Ford, and finally a sturdy,determined-looking woman with glittering but poorly co-ordinatedeyes, who held a large revolver in her unshaking right hand andlooked the very embodiment of the modern female who will stand nononsense. It was part of the nightmare-like atmosphere whichseemed to brood inexorably over this particular night that thisperson looked to Jimmy exactly like the parlour-maid who had cometo him in this room in answer to the bell and who had sent hisfather to him. Yet how could it be she? Jimmy knew little of thehabits of parlour-maids, but surely they did not wander aboutwith revolvers in the small hours?
　　While he endeavoured feverishly to find reason in this chaos, thedoor opened and a motley crowd, roused from sleep by the cries,poured in. Jimmy, turning his head back again to attend to thisinvasion, perceived Mrs. Pett, Ann, two or three of the geniuses,and Willie Partridge, in various stages of _negligee_ and babblingquestions.
　　The woman with the pistol, assuming instant and unquestioneddomination of the assembly, snapped out an order.
　　"Shutatdoor!"Somebody shut the door.
　　"Now, whassall this?" she said, turning to Gentleman Jack.
Chapter 23 Stirring Times For The Petts
    Gentleman Jack had lowered his revolver, and was standing waitingto explain all, with the insufferable look of the man who is justgoing to say that he has only done his duty and requires nothanks.
　　"Who are you?" he said.
　　"Nev' min' who I am!" said Miss Trimble curtly. "Siz Pett knowswho I am.""I hope you won't be offended, Lord Wisbeach," said Mrs. Pettfrom the group by the door. "I engaged a detective to help you. Ireally thought you could not manage everything by yourself. Ihope you do not mind.""Not at all, Mrs. Pett. Very wise.""I'm so glad to hear you say so.""An excellent move."Miss Trimble broke in on these amiable exchanges.
　　"Whassall this? Howjer mean--help me?""Lord Wisbeach most kindly offered to do all he could to protectmy nephew's explosive," said Mrs. Pett.
　　Gentleman Jack smiled modestly.
　　"I hope I have been of some slight assistance! I think I camedown in the nick of time. Look!" He pointed to the safe. "He hadjust got it open! Luckily I had my pistol with me. I covered him,and called for help. In another moment he would have got away."Miss Trimble crossed to the safe and inspected it with a frown,as if she disliked it. She gave a grunt and returned to her placeby the window.
　　"Made good job 'f it!" was her comment.
　　Ann came forward. Her face was glowing and her eyes shone.
　　"Do you mean to say that you found Jimmy breaking into the safe?
　　I never heard anything so absurd!"Mrs. Pett intervened.
　　"This is not James Crocker, Ann! This man is an impostor, whocame into the house in order to steal Willie's invention." Shelooked fondly at Gentleman Jack. "Lord Wisbeach told me so. Heonly pretended to recognise him this afternoon."A low gurgle proceeded from the open mouth of little Ogden. Theproceedings bewildered him. The scene he had overheard in thelibrary between the two men had made it clear to him that Jimmywas genuine and Lord Wisbeach a fraud, and he could notunderstand why Jimmy did not produce his proofs as before. He wasnot aware that Jimmy's head was only just beginning to clear fromthe effects of the blow on the chin. Ogden braced himself forresolute lying in the event of Jimmy calling him as a witness.
　　But he did not intend to have his little business propositiondragged into the open.
　　Ann was looking at Jimmy with horror-struck eyes. For the firsttime it came to her how little she knew of him and how verylikely it was--in the face of the evidence it was almostcertain--that he should have come to the house with the intentionof stealing Willie's explosive. She fought against it, but avoice seemed to remind her that it was he who had suggested theidea of posing as Jimmy Crocker. She could not help rememberinghow smoothly and willingly he had embarked on the mad scheme.
　　But had it been so mad? Had it not been a mere cloak for thisother venture? If Lord Wisbeach had found him in this room, withthe safe blown open, what other explanation could there be?
　　And then, simultaneously with her conviction that he was acriminal, came the certainty that he was the man she loved. Ithad only needed the spectacle of him in trouble to make her sure.
　　She came to his side with the vague idea of doing something tohelp him, of giving him her support. Once there, she found thatthere was nothing to do and nothing to say. She put her hand onhis, and stood waiting helplessly for she knew not what.
　　It was the touch of her fingers which woke Jimmy from his stupor.
　　He came to himself almost with a jerk. He had been mistily awareof what had been said, but speech had been beyond him. Now, quitesuddenly, he was a whole man once more. He threw himself into thedebate with energy.
　　"Good Heavens!" he cried. "You're all wrong. I found _him_ blowingopen the safe!"Gentleman Jack smiled superciliously.
　　"A likely story, what! I mean to say, it's a bit thin!""Ridiculous!" said Mrs. Pett. She turned to Miss Trimble with agesture. "Arrest that man!""Wait a mom'nt," replied that clear-headed maiden, picking herteeth thoughtfully with the muzzle of her revolver. "Wait mom'nt.
　　Gotta look 'nto this. Hear both these guys' st'ries.""Really," said Gentleman Jack suavely, "it seems somewhatabsurd--""Ney' mind how 'bsurd 't sounds," returned the fair Trimblerebukingly. "You close y'r face 'n lissen t' me. Thass all you'vegotta do.""I know you didn't do it!" cried Ann, tightening her hold onJimmy's arm.
　　"Less 'f it, please. Less 'f it!" Miss Trimble removed the pistolfrom her mouth and pointed it at Jimmy. "What've you to say? Talkquick!""I happened to be down there--""Why?" asked Miss Trimble, as if she had touched off a bomb.
　　Jimmy stopped short. He perceived difficulties in the way ofexplanation.
　　"I happened to be down there," he resumed stoutly, "and that mancame into the room with an electric torch and a blowpipe andbegan working on the safe--"The polished tones of Gentleman Jack cut in on his story.
　　"Really now, is it worth while?" He turned to Miss Trimble. "I camedown here, having heard a noise. I did not _happen_ to be here forsome unexplained purpose. I was lying awake and something attractedmy attention. As Mrs. Pett knows, I was suspicious of this worthyand expected him to make an attempt on the explosive at any moment:
　　so I took my pistol and crept downstairs. When I got here, the safewas open and this man making for the window."Miss Trimble scratched her chin caressingly with the revolver,and remained for a moment in thought. Then she turned to Jimmylike a striking rattlesnake.
　　"Y' gotta pull someth'g better th'n that," she said. "I got y'rnumber. Y're caught with th' goods.""No!" cried Ann.
　　"Yes!" said Mrs. Pett. "The thing is obvious.""I think the best thing I can do," said Gentleman Jack smoothly,"is to go and telephone for the police.""You think of everything, Lord Wisbeach," said Mrs. Pett.
　　"Not at all," said his lordship.
　　Jimmy watched him moving to the door. At the back of his mindthere was a dull feeling that he could solve the whole trouble ifonly he could remember one fact which had escaped him. Theeffects of the blow he had received still handicapped him. Hestruggled to remember, but without result. Gentleman Jack reachedthe door and opened it: and as he did so a shrill yapping,hitherto inaudible because of the intervening oak and the raisedvoices within, made itself heard from the passage outside.
　　Gentleman Jack closed the door with a hasty bang.
　　"I say that dog's out there!" he said plaintively.
　　The scratching of Aida's busy feet on the wood bore out hiswords. He looked about him, baffled.
　　"That dog's out there!" he repeated gloomily.
　　Something seemed to give way in Jimmy's brain. The simple factwhich had eluded him till now sprang into his mind.
　　"Don't let that man get out!" he cried. "Good Lord! I've onlyjust remembered. You say you found me breaking into the safe!
　　You say you heard a noise and came down to investigate! Well,then, what's that test-tube of the explosive doing in yourbreast-pocket?" He swung round to Miss Trimble. "You needn't takemy word or his word. There's a much simpler way of finding outwho's the real crook. Search us both." He began to turn out hispockets rapidly. "Look here--and here--and here! Now ask him todo the same!"He was pleased to observe a spasm pass across Gentleman Jack'shitherto composed countenance. Miss Trimble was eyeing the latterwith sudden suspicion.
　　"Thasso!" she said. "Say, Bill, I've f'gott'n y'r name--'sup toyou to show us! Less've a look 't what y' got inside there."Gentleman Jack drew himself up haughtily.
　　"I really could not agree to--"Mrs. Pett interrupted indignantly.
　　"I never heard of such a thing! Lord Wisbeach is an old friend--""Less'f it!" ordered Miss Trimble, whose left eye was now likethe left eye of a basilisk. "Y' _gotta_ show us, Bill, so b'
　　quick 'bout 't!"A tired smile played over Gentleman Jack's face. He was the boredaristocrat, mutely protesting against something that "wasn'tdone." He dipped his slender fingers into his pocket. Then,drawing out the test-tube, and holding it up, he spoke with adrawling calm for which even Jimmy could not help admiring him.
　　"All right! If I'm done, I'm done!"The sensation caused by his action and his words was of the kindusually described as profound. Mrs. Pett uttered a strangledshriek. Willie Partridge yelped like a dog. Sharp exclamationscame simultaneously from each of the geniuses.
　　Gentleman Jack waited for the clamour to subside. Then he resumedhis gentle drawl.
　　"But I'm not done," he explained. "I'm going out now through thatwindow. And if anybody tries to stop me, it will be his--orher--" he bowed politely to Miss Trimble--"last act in the world.
　　If any one makes a move to stop me, I shall drop this test-tubeand blow the whole damned place to pieces."If his first speech had made a marked impression on his audience,his second paralysed them. A silence followed as of the tomb.
　　Only the yapping of the dog Aida refused to be stilled.
　　"Y' stay where y' are!" said Miss Trimble, as the speaker movedtowards the window. She held the revolver poised, but for thefirst time that night--possibly for the first time in herlife--she spoke irresolutely. Superbly competent woman though shewas, here was a situation that baffled her.
　　Gentleman Jack crossed the room slowly, the test-tube held aloftbetween fore-finger and thumb. He was level with Miss Trimble,who had lowered her revolver and had drawn to one side, plainly ata loss to know how to handle this unprecedented crisis, when thedoor flew open. For an instant the face of Howard Bemis, thepoet, was visible.
　　"Mrs. Pett, I have telephoned--"Then another voice interrupted him.
　　"Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!"Through the opening the dog Aida, rejoicing in the removal of theobstacle, raced like a fur muff mysteriously endowed with legsand a tongue. She tore across the room to where Gentleman Jack'sankles waited invitingly. Ever since their first meeting she hadwanted a fair chance at those ankles, but some one had alwaysprevented her.
　　"Damn!" shouted Gentleman Jack.
　　The word was drowned in one vast cataclysm of noise. From everythroat in the room there proceeded a shout, a shriek, or someother variety of cry, as the test-tube, slipping from between thevictim's fingers, described a parabola through the air.
　　Ann flung herself into Jimmy's arms, and he held her tight. Heshut his eyes. Even as he waited for the end the thought flashedthrough his mind that, if he must die, this was the manner ofdeath which he would prefer.
　　The test-tube crashed on the writing-desk, and burst into amillion pieces. . . .
　　Jimmy opened his eyes. Things seemed to be much about the same asbefore. He was still alive. The room in which he stood was solidand intact. Nobody was in fragments. There was only one respectin which the scene differed from what it had been a momentbefore. Then, it had contained Gentleman Jack. Now it did not.
　　A great sigh seemed to sweep through the room. There was a longsilence. Then, from the direction of the street, came the roar ofa starting automobile. And at that sound the bearded man with thespectacles who had formed part of Miss Trimble's processionuttered a wailing cry.
　　"Gee! He's beat it in my bubble! And it was a hired one!"The words seemed to relieve the tension in the air. One by onethe company became masters of themselves once more. Miss Trimble,that masterly woman, was the first to recover. She raised herselffrom the floor--for with a confused idea that she would be saferthere she had flung herself down--and, having dusted her skirtwith a few decisive dabs of her strong left hand, addressedherself once more to business.
　　"I let 'm bluff me with a fake bomb!" she commented bitterly. Shebrooded on this for a moment. "Say, shut th't door 'gain, someone, and t'run this mutt out. I can't think with th't yappinggoing on."Mrs. Pett, pale and scared, gathered Aida into her arms. At thesame time Ann removed herself from Jimmy's. She did not look athim. She was feeling oddly shy. Shyness had never been a failingof hers, but she would have given much now to have beenelsewhere.
　　Miss Trimble again took charge of the situation. The sound of theautomobile had died away. Gentleman Jack had passed out of theirlives. This fact embittered Miss Trimble. She spoke withasperity.
　　"Well, _he's_ gone!" she said acidly. "Now we can get down t' casesagain. Say!" She addressed Mrs. Pett, who started nervously. Theexperience of passing through the shadow of the valley of death andof finding herself in one piece instead of several thousand hadrobbed her of all her wonted masterfulness. "Say, list'n t' me.
　　There's been a double game on here t'night. That guy that's jus'
　　gone was th' first part of th' entertainment. Now we c'n start th'
　　sec'nd part. You see these ducks?" She indicated with a wave of therevolver Mr. Crocker and his bearded comrade. "They've been tryingt' kidnap y'r son!"Mrs. Pett uttered a piercing cry.
　　"Oggie!""Oh, can it!" muttered that youth, uncomfortably. He foresawawkward moments ahead, and he wished to concentrate his facultiesentirely on the part he was to play in them. He looked sidewaysat Chicago Ed. In a few minutes, he supposed, Ed. would beattempting to minimise his own crimes, by pretending that he,Ogden, had invited him to come and kidnap him. Stout denial mustbe his weapon.
　　"I had m' suspicions," resumed Miss Trimble, "that someth'ng wasgoin' t' be pulled off to-night, 'nd I was waiting outside f'r itto break loose. This guy here," she indicated the beardedplotter, who blinked deprecatingly through his spectacles, "h'sbeen waiting on the c'rner of th' street for the last hour with'n automobile. I've b'n watching him right along. I was onto h'sgame! Well, just now out came the kid with this plug-ugly here."She turned to Mr. Crocker. "Say you! Take off th't mask. Let'shave a l'k at you!"Mr. Crocker reluctantly drew the cambric from his face.
　　"Goosh!" exclaimed Miss Trimble in strong distaste. "Say, 've yougot some kind of a plague, or wh't is it? Y'look like a colouredcomic supplement!" She confronted the shrinking Mr. Crocker andran a bony finger over his cheek. "Make-up!" she said, eyeing thestains disgustedly. "Grease paint! Goosh!""Skinner!" cried Mrs. Pett.
　　Miss Trimble scanned her victim more closely.
　　"So 't is, if y' do a bit 'f excavating." She turned on thebearded one. "'nd I guess all this shrubbery is fake, 'f you comedown to it!" She wrenched at the unhappy man's beard. It came offin her hands, leaving a square chin behind it. "If this ain't awig, y'll have a headache t'morrow," observed Miss Trimble,weaving her fingers into his luxuriant head-covering and pulling.
　　"Wish y' luck! Ah! 'twas a wig. Gimme those spect'cles." Shesurveyed the results of her handiwork grimly. "Say, Clarence,"she remarked, "y're a wise guy. Y' look handsomer with 'em on.
　　Does any one know _this_ duck?""It is Mitchell," said Mrs. Pett. "My husband's physicalinstructor."Miss Trimble turned, and, walking to Jimmy, tapped him meaninglyon the chest with her revolver.
　　"Say, this is gett'n interesting! This is where y' 'xplain, y'ngman, how 'twas you happened to be down in this room when th'tcrook who's just gone was monkeyin' with the safe. L'ks t' me asif you were in with these two."A feeling of being on the verge of one of those crises which dotthe smooth path of our lives came to Jimmy. To conceal hisidentity from Ann any longer seemed impossible. He was about tospeak, when Ann broke in.
　　"Aunt Nesta," she said, "I can't let this go on any longer. JerryMitchell isn't to blame. I told him to kidnap Ogden!"There was an awkward silence. Mrs. Pett laughed nervously.
　　"I think you had better go to bed, my dear child. You have had asevere shock. You are not yourself.""But it's true! I did tell him, didn't I, Jerry?""Say!" Miss Trimble silenced Jerry with a gesture. "You beat 'tback t' y'r little bed, honey, like y'r aunt says. Y' say y' toldthis guy t' steal th' kid. Well, what about this here Skinner? Y'
　　didn't tell _him_, did y'?""I--I--" Ann began confusedly. She was utterly unable to accountfor Skinner, and it made her task of explaining difficult.
　　Jimmy came to the rescue. He did not like to think how Ann wouldreceive the news, but for her own sake he must speak now. Itwould have required a harder-hearted man than himself to resistthe mute pleading of his father's grease-painted face. Mr.
　　Crocker was a game sport: he would not have said a word withoutthe sign from Jimmy, even to save himself from a night in prison,but he hoped that Jimmy would speak.
　　"It's perfectly simple," said Jimmy, with an attempt at airinesswhich broke down miserably under Miss Trimble's eye. "Perfectlysimple. I really am Jimmy Crocker, you know." He avoided Ann'sgaze. "I can't think what you are making all this fuss about.""Th'n why did y' sit in at a plot to kidnap this boy?""That, of course--ha, ha!--might seem at first sight to require alittle explanation.""Y' admit it, then?""Yes. As a matter of fact, I did have the idea of kidnappingOgden. Wanted to send him to a dogs' hospital, if you understandwhat I mean." He tried to smile a conciliatory smile, but,encountering Miss Trimble's left eye, abandoned the project. Heremoved a bead of perspiration from his forehead with hishandkerchief. It struck him as a very curious thing that thesimplest explanations were so often quite difficult to make.
　　"Before I go any further, I ought to explain one thing. Skinnerthere is my father."Mrs. Pett gasped.
　　"Skinner was my sister's butler in London.""In a way of speaking," said Jimmy, "that is correct. It's rathera long story. It was this way, you see. . . ."Miss Trimble uttered an ejaculation of supreme contempt.
　　"I n'ver saw such a lot of babbl'ng crooks in m' life! 't beatsme what y' hope to get pulling this stuff. Say!" She indicatedMr. Crocker. "This guy's wanted f'r something over in England.
　　We've got h's photographs 'n th' office. If y' ask me, he lit outwith the spoons 'r something. Say!" She fixed one of the geniuseswith her compelling eye. "'Bout time y' made y'rself useful. Go'ncall up th' Astorbilt on th' phone. There's a dame there that'sbeen making the enquiries f'r this duck. She told Anderson's--andAnderson's handed it on to us--to call her up any hour of the day'r night when they found him. You go get her on the wire and t'llher t' come right up here'n a taxi and identify him."The genius paused at the door.
　　"Whom shall I ask for?""Mrs. Crocker," snapped Miss Trimble. "Siz Bingley Crocker. Tellher we've found th' guy she's been looking for!"The genius backed out. There was a howl of anguish from thedoorway.
　　"I _beg_ your pardon!" said the genius.
　　"Can't you look where you're going!""I am exceedingly sorry--""Brrh!"Mr. Pett entered the room, hopping. He was holding one slipperedfoot in his hand and appeared to be submitting it to some form ofmassage. It was plain that the usually mild and gentle little manwas in a bad temper. He glowered round him at the companyassembled.
　　"What the devil's the matter here?" he demanded. "I stood it aslong as I could, but a man can't get a wink of sleep with thisnoise going on!""Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" barked Aida from the shelter of Mrs. Pett'sarms.
　　Mr. Pett started violently.
　　"Kill that dog! Throw her out! Do _something_ to her!"Mrs. Pett was staring blankly at her husband. She had never seenhim like this before. It was as if a rabbit had turned andgrowled at her. Coming on top of the crowded sensations of thenight, it had the effect of making her feel curiously weak. Inall her married life she had never known what fear was. She hadcoped dauntlessly with the late Mr. Ford, a man of a spiritedtemperament; and as for the mild Mr. Pett she had trampled onhim. But now she felt afraid. This new Peter intimidated her.
Chapter 24 Sensational Turning Of A Worm
    To this remarkable metamorphosis in Mr. Peter Pett several causeshad contributed. In the first place, the sudden dismissal ofJerry Mitchell had obliged him to go two days without thephysical exercises to which his system had become accustomed, andthis had produced a heavy, irritable condition of body and mind.
　　He had brooded on the injustice of his lot until he had almostworked himself up to rebellion. And then, as sometimes happenedwith him when he was out of sorts, a touch of gout came to add tohis troubles. Being a patient man by nature, he might have borneup against these trials, had he been granted an adequate night'srest. But, just as he had dropped off after tossing restlesslyfor two hours, things had begun to happen noisily in the library.
　　He awoke to a vague realisation of tumult below.
　　Such was the morose condition of his mind as the result of hismisfortune that at first not even the cries for help couldinterest him sufficiently to induce him to leave his bed. He knewthat walking in his present state would be painful, and hedeclined to submit to any more pain just because some partyunknown was apparently being murdered in his library. It was notuntil the shrill barking of the dog Aida penetrated right inamong his nerve-centres and began to tie them into knots that hefound himself compelled to descend. Even when he did so, it wasin no spirit of kindness. He did not come to rescue anybody or tointerfere between any murderer and his victim. He came in a feverof militant wrath to suppress Aida. On the threshold of thelibrary, however, the genius, by treading on his gouty foot, haddiverted his anger and caused it to become more general. He hadnot ceased to concentrate his venom on Aida. He wanted to assaileverybody.
　　"What's the matter here?" he demanded, red-eyed. "Isn't somebodygoing to tell me? Have I got to stop here all night? Who on earthis this?" He glared at Miss Trimble. "What's she doing with thatpistol?" He stamped incautiously with his bad foot, and emitted adry howl of anguish.
　　"She is a detective, Peter," said Mrs. Pett timidly.
　　"A detective? Why? Where did she come from?"Miss Trimble took it upon herself to explain.
　　"Mister Pett, siz Pett sent f'r me t' watch out so's nobodykidnapped her son.""Oggie," explained Mrs. Pett. "Miss Trimble was guarding darlingOggie.""Why?""To--to prevent him being kidnapped, Peter."Mr. Pett glowered at the stout boy. Then his eye was attracted bythe forlorn figure of Jerry Mitchell. He started.
　　"Was this fellow kidnapping the boy?" he asked.
　　"Sure," said Miss Trimble. "Caught h'm with th' goods. He w'swaiting outside there with a car. I held h'm and this other guyup w'th a gun and brought 'em back!""Jerry," said Mr. Pett, "it wasn't your fault that you didn'tbring it off, and I'm going to treat you right. You'd have doneit if nobody had butted in to stop you. You'll get the money tostart that health-farm of yours all right. I'll see to that. Nowyou run off to bed. There's nothing to keep you here.""Say!" cried Miss Trimble, outraged. "D'ya mean t' say y' aren'tgoing t' pros'cute? Why, aren't I tell'ng y' I caught h'mkidnapping th' boy?""I told him to kidnap the boy!" snarled Mr. Pett.
　　"Peter!"Mr. Pett looked like an under-sized lion as he faced his wife. Hebristled. The recollection of all that he had suffered from Ogdencame to strengthen his determination.
　　"I've tried for two years to get you to send that boy to a goodboarding-school, and you wouldn't do it. I couldn't stand havinghim loafing around the house any longer, so I told Jerry Mitchellto take him away to a friend of his who keeps a dogs' hospital onLong Island and to tell his friend to hold him there till he gotsome sense into him. Well, you've spoiled that for the momentwith your detectives, but it still looks good to me. I'll giveyou a choice. You can either send that boy to a boarding-schoolnext week, or he goes to Jerry Mitchell's friend. I'm not goingto have him in the house any longer, loafing in my chair andsmoking my cigarettes. Which is it to be?""But, Peter!""Well?""If I send him to a school, he may be kidnapped.""Kidnapping can't hurt him. It's what he needs. And, anyway, ifhe is I'll pay the bill and be glad to do it. Take him off to bednow. To-morrow you can start looking up schools. Great Godfrey!"He hopped to the writing-desk and glared disgustedly at the_debris_ on it. "Who's been making this mess on my desk? It's hard!
　　It's darned hard! The only room in the house that I ask to havefor my own, where I can get a little peace, and I find it turnedinto a beer-garden, and coffee or some damned thing spilled allover my writing-desk!""That isn't coffee, Peter," said Mrs. Pett mildly. This cave-manwhom she had married under the impression that he was a gentledomestic pet had taken all the spirit out of her. "It's Willie'sexplosive.""Willie's explosive?""Lord Wisbeach--I mean the man who pretended to be LordWisbeach--dropped it there.""Dropped it there? Well, why didn't it explode and blow the placeto Hoboken, then?"Mrs. Pett looked helplessly at Willie, who thrust his fingersinto his mop of hair and rolled his eyes.
　　"There was fortunately some slight miscalculation in my formula,uncle Peter," he said. "I shall have to look into it to-morrow.
　　Whether the trinitrotoluol--"Mr. Pett uttered a sharp howl. He beat the air with his clenchedfists. He seemed to be having a brain-storm.
　　"Has this--this _fish_ been living on me all this time--have I beensupporting this--this _buzzard_ in luxury all these years while hefooled about with an explosive that won't explode! He pointed anaccusing finger at the inventor. Look into it tomorrow, will you?
　　Yes, you can look into it to-morrow after six o'clock! Until thenyou'll be working--for the first time in your life--working in myoffice, where you ought to have been all along." He surveyed thecrowded room belligerently. "Now perhaps you will all go back tobed and let people get a little sleep. Go home!" he said to thedetective.
　　Miss Trimble stood her ground. She watched Mrs. Pett pass awaywith Ogden, and Willie Partridge head a stampede of geniuses, butshe declined to move.
　　"Y' gotta cut th' rough stuff, 'ster Pett," she said calmly. "Ineed my sleep, j'st 's much 's everyb'dy else, but I gotta stayhere. There's a lady c'ming right up in a taxi fr'm th' Astorbiltto identify this gook. She's after'm f'r something.""What! Skinner?""'s what he calls h'mself.""What's he done?""I d'no. Th' lady'll tell us that."There was a violent ringing at the front door bell.
　　"I guess that's her," said Miss Trimble. "Who's going to let 'rin? I can't go.""I will," said Ann.
　　Mr. Pett regarded Mr. Crocker with affectionate encouragement.
　　"I don't know what you've done, Skinner," he said, "but I'llstand by you. You're the best fan I ever met, and if I can keepyou out of the penitentiary, I will.""It isn't the penitentiary!" said Mr. Crocker unhappily.
　　A tall, handsome, and determined-looking woman came into theroom. She stood in the doorway, looking about her. Then her eyesrested on Mr. Crocker. For a moment she gazed incredulously athis discoloured face. She drew a little nearer, peering.
　　"D'yo 'dentify 'm, ma'am?" said Miss Trimble.
　　"Bingley!""Is 't th' guy y' wanted?""It's my husband!" said Mrs. Crocker.
　　"Y' can't arrest 'm f'r _that!_" said Miss Trimble disgustedly.
　　She thrust her revolver back into the hinterland of her costume.
　　"Guess I'll be beatin' it," she said with a sombre frown. She wasplainly in no sunny mood. "'f all th' hunk jobs I was ever on,this is th' hunkest. I'm told off 't watch a gang of crooks, andafter I've lost a night's sleep doing it, it turns out 't's anice, jolly fam'ly party!" She jerked her thumb towards Jimmy.
　　"Say, this guy says he's that guy's son. I s'pose it's allright?""That is my step-son, James Crocker."Ann uttered a little cry, but it was lost in Miss Trimble'sstupendous snort. The detective turned to the window.
　　"I guess I'll beat 't," she observed caustically, "before itturns out that I'm y'r l'il daughter Genevieve."
Chapter 25 Nearly Everybody Happy
    Mrs. Crocker turned to her husband.
　　"Well, Bingley?" she said, a steely tinkle in her voice.
　　"Well, Eugenia?" said Mr. Crocker.
　　A strange light was shining in Mr. Crocker's mild eyes. He hadseen a miracle happen that night. He had seen an even moreformidable woman than his wife dominated by an even meeker manthan himself, and he had been amazed and impressed by thespectacle. It had never even started to occur to him before, butapparently it could be done. A little resolution, a littledetermination . . . nothing more was needed. He looked at Mr.
　　Pett. And yet Mr. Pett had crumpled up Eugenia's sister withabout three firm speeches. It could be done. . . .
　　"What have you to say, Bingley?"Mr. Crocker drew himself up.
　　"Just this!" he said. "I'm an American citizen, and the way I'vefigured it out is that my place is in America. It's no goodtalking about it, Eugenia. I'm sorry if it upsets your plans, butI--am--not--going--back--to--London!" He eyed his speechless wifeunflatteringly. "I'm going to stick on here and see the pennantrace out. And after that I'm going to take in the World'sSeries."Mrs. Crocker opened her mouth to speak, closed it, re-opened it.
　　Then she found that she had nothing to say.
　　"I hope you'll be sensible, Eugenia, and stay on this side, andwe can all be happy. I'm sorry to have to take this stand, butyou tried me too high. You're a woman, and you don't know what itis to go five years without seeing a ball game; but take it fromme it's more than any real fan can stand. It nearly killed me,and I'm not going to risk it again. If Mr. Pett will keep me onas his butler, I'll stay here in this house. If he won't, I'llget another job somewhere. But, whatever happens, I stick to thisside!"Mr. Pett uttered a whoop of approval.
　　"There's always been a place for you in my house, old man!" hecried. "When I get a butler who--""But, Bingley! How can you be a butler?""You ought to watch him!" said Mr. Pett enthusiastically. "He's awonder! He can pull all the starchy stuff as if he'd lived withthe Duke of Whoosis for the last forty years, and then go rightoff and fling a pop-bottle at an umpire! He's all right!"The eulogy was wasted on Mrs. Crocker. She burst into tears. Itwas a new experience for her husband, and he watched herawkwardly, his resolute demeanour crumbling under this unexpectedassault.
　　"Eugenia!"Mrs. Crocker wiped her eyes.
　　"I can't stand it!" she sobbed. "I've worked and worked all theseyears, and now, just as success has nearly come--Bingley, _do_come back! It will only be for a little longer."Mr. Crocker stared.
　　"A little longer? Why, that Lord Percy Whipple business--I knowyou must have had excellent reasons for soaking him, Jimmy, butit did put the lid on it--surely, after that Lord Percy affairthere's no chance--?""There is! There is! It has made no difference at all! Lord Percycame to call next day with a black eye, poor boy!--and said thatJames was a sportsman and that he wanted to know him better! Hesaid he had never felt so drawn towards any one in his life andhe wanted him to show him how he made some blow which he called aright hook. The whole affair has simply endeared James to him,and Lady Corstorphine says that the Duke of Devizes read theaccount of the fight to the Premier that very evening and theyboth laughed till they nearly got apoplexy."Jimmy was deeply touched. He had not suspected such a sportingspirit in his antagonist.
　　"Percy's all right." he said enthusiastically. "Dad, you ought togo back. It's only fair.""But, Jimmy! Surely _you_ can understand? There's only a gameseparating the Giants and the Phillies, with the Braves comingalong just behind. And the season only half over!"Mrs. Crocker looked imploringly at him.
　　"It will only be for a little while, Bingley. Lady Corstorphine,who has means of knowing, says that your name is certain to be inthe next Honours List. After that you can come back as often asyou like. We could spend the summer here and the winter inEngland, or whatever you pleased."Mr. Crocker capitulated.
　　"All right, Eugenia. I'll come.""Bingley! We shall have to go back by the next boat, dear. Peopleare beginning to wonder where you are. I've told them that youare taking a rest in the country. But they will suspect somethingif you don't come back at once."Mr. Crocker's face wore a drawn look. He had never felt soattached to his wife as now, when she wept these unexpected tearsand begged favours of him with that unfamiliar catch in hervoice. On the other hand . . . A vision rose before him of thePolo Grounds on a warm afternoon. . . . He crushed it down.
　　"Very well," he said.
　　Mr. Pett offered a word of consolation.
　　"Maybe you'll be able to run over for the World's Series?"Mr. Crocker's face cleared.
　　"That's true.""And I'll cable you the scores every day, dad," said Jimmy.
　　Mrs. Crocker looked at him with a touch of disapproval cloudingthe happiness of her face.
　　"Are you staying over here, James? There is no reason why youshould not come back, too. If you make up your mind to changeyour habits--""I have made up my mind to change them. But I'm going to do it inNew York. Mr. Pett is going to give me a job in his office. I amgoing to start at the bottom and work my way still further down."Mr. Pett yapped with rapture. He was experiencing something ofthe emotion of the preacher at the camp-meeting who sees theSinners' Bench filling up. To have secured Willie Partridge, whomhe intended to lead gradually into the realms of high finance byway of envelope-addressing, was much. But that Jimmy, with achoice in the matter, should have chosen the office filled himwith such content that he only just stopped himself from dancingon his bad foot.
　　"Don't worry about me, dad. I shall do wonders. It's quite easyto make a large fortune. I watched uncle Pete in his office thismorning, and all he does is sit at a mahogany table and tell theoffice-boy to tell callers that he has gone away for the day. Ithink I ought to rise to great heights in that branch ofindustry. From the little I have seen of it, it seems to havebeen made for me!"
Chapter 26 Everybody Happy
 
    Jimmy looked at Ann. They were alone. Mr. Pett had gone back tobed, Mrs. Crocker to her hotel. Mr. Crocker was removing hismake-up in his room. A silence had followed their departure.
　　"This is the end of a perfect day!" said Jimmy.
　　Ann took a step towards the door.
　　"Don't go!"Ann stopped.
　　"Mr. Crocker!" she said.
　　"Jimmy," he corrected.
　　"Mr. Crocker!" repeated Ann firmly.
　　"Or Algernon, if you prefer it.""May I ask--" Ann regarded him steadily. "May I ask.""Nearly always," said Jimmy, "when people begin with that, theyare going to say something unpleasant.""May I ask why you went to all this trouble to make a fool of me?
　　Why could you not have told me who you were from the start?""Have you forgotten all the harsh things you said to me from timeto time about Jimmy Crocker? I thought that, if you knew who Iwas, you would have nothing more to do with me.""You were quite right.""Surely, though, you won't let a thing that happened five yearsago make so much difference?""I shall never forgive you!""And yet, a little while ago, when Willie's bomb was about to gooff, you flung yourself into my arms!"Ann's face flamed.
　　"I lost my balance.""Why try to recover it?"Ann bit her lip.
　　"You did a cruel, heartless thing. What does it matter how longago it was? If you were capable of it then--""Be reasonable. Don't you admit the possibility of reformation?
　　Take your own case. Five years ago you were a minor poetess. Nowyou are an amateur kidnapper--a bright, lovable girl at whoseapproach people lock up their children and sit on the key. As forme, five years ago I was a heartless brute. Now I am a soberserious business-man, specially called in by your uncle to helpjack up his tottering firm. Why not bury the dead past?
　　Besides--I don't want to praise myself, I just want to call yourattention to it--think what I have done for you. You admittedyourself that it was my influence that had revolutionised yourcharacter. But for me, you would now be doing worse than writepoetry. You would be writing _vers libre_. I saved you from that.
　　And you spurn me!""I hate you!" said Ann.
　　Jimmy went to the writing-desk and took up a small book.
　　"Put that down!""I just wanted to read you 'Love's Funeral!' It illustrates mypoint. Think of yourself as you are now, and remember that it isI who am responsible for the improvement. Here we are. 'Love'sFuneral.' 'My heart is dead. . . .' "Ann snatched the book from his hands and flung it away. It soaredup, clearing the gallery rails, and fell with a thud on thegallery floor. She stood facing him with sparkling eyes. Then shemoved away.
　　"I beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "I lost my temper.""It's your hair," said Jimmy soothingly. "You're bound to bequick-tempered with hair of that glorious red shade. You mustmarry some nice, determined fellow, blue-eyed, dark-haired,clean-shaven, about five foot eleven, with a future in business.
　　He will keep you in order.""Mr. Crocker!""Gently, of course. Kindly-lovingly. The velvet thingummy ratherthan the iron what's-its-name. But nevertheless firmly."Ann was at the door.
　　"To a girl with your ardent nature some one with whom you canquarrel is an absolute necessity of life. You and I areaffinities. Ours will be an ideally happy marriage. You would bemiserable if you had to go through life with a human doormat with'Welcome' written on him. You want some one made of sternerstuff. You want, as it were, a sparring-partner, some one withwhom you can quarrel happily with the certain knowledge that hewill not curl up in a ball for you to kick, but will be therewith the return wallop. I may have my faults--" He pausedexpectantly. Ann remained silent. "No, no!" he went on. "But I amsuch a man. Brisk give-and-take is the foundation of the happymarriage. Do you remember that beautiful line of Tennyson's--'Wefell out, my wife and I'? It always conjures up for me a visionof wonderful domestic happiness. I seem to see us in our old age,you on one side of the radiator, I on the other, warming our oldlimbs and thinking up snappy stuff to hand to eachother--sweethearts still! If I were to go out of your life now,you would be miserable. You would have nobody to quarrel with.
　　You would be in the position of the female jaguar of the Indianjungle, who, as you doubtless know, expresses her affection forher mate by biting him shrewdly in the fleshy part of the leg, ifshe should snap sideways one day and find nothing there."Of all the things which Ann had been trying to say during thisdiscourse, only one succeeded in finding expression. To hermortification, it was the only weak one in the collection.
　　"Are you asking me to marry you?""I am.""I won't!""You think so now, because I am not appearing at my best. You seeme nervous, diffident, tongue-tied. All this will wear off,however, and you will be surprised and delighted as you begin tounderstand my true self. Beneath the surface--I speakconservatively--I am a corker!"The door banged behind Ann. Jimmy found himself alone. He walkedthoughtfully to Mr. Pett's armchair and sat down. There was afeeling of desolation upon him. He lit a cigarette and began tosmoke pensively. What a fool he had been to talk like that! Whatgirl of spirit could possibly stand it? If ever there had been atime for being soothing and serious and pleading, it had beenthese last few minutes. And he talked like that!
　　Ten minutes passed. Jimmy sprang from his chair. He thought hehad heard a footstep. He flung the door open. The passage wasempty. He returned miserably to his chair. Of course she had notcome back. Why should she?
　　A voice spoke.
　　"Jimmy!"He leaped up again, and looked wildly round. Then he looked up.
　　Ann was leaning over the gallery rail.
　　"Jimmy, I've been thinking it over. There's something I want toask you. Do you admit that you behaved abominably five yearsago?""Yes!" shouted Jimmy.
　　"And that you've been behaving just as badly ever since?""Yes!""And that you are really a pretty awful sort of person?""Yes!""Then it's all right. You deserve it!""Deserve it?""Deserve to marry a girl like me. I was worried about it, but nowI see that it's the only punishment bad enough for you!" Sheraised her arm.
　　"Here's the dead past, Jimmy! Go and bury it! Good-night!"A small book fell squashily at Jimmy's feet. He regarded it dullyfor a moment. Then, with a wild yell which penetrated even to Mr.
　　Pett's bedroom and woke that sufferer just as he was dropping offto sleep for the third time that night he bounded for the gallerystairs.
　　At the further end of the gallery a musical laugh sounded, and adoor closed. Ann had gone.
The End