The City of Masks Part 34

"Compose yourself," broke in de Bosky, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. "If he should attempt to annoy you here, I--I myself will take him in hand. Have no fear. You may depend on me."

He was interrupted at this juncture by a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned page who pa.s.sed the table, murmuring the name of Mrs. Sparflight.

Spangler's is an exceptional place. Pages do not bawl out one's name as if calling an "extra." On the contrary, in quiet, repressed tones they politely inquire at each table for the person wanted. Mr. Spangler was very particular about this. He came near to losing his license years before simply because a page had meandered through the restaurant bellowing the name of a gentleman whose influence was greater at City Hall than it was at his own fireside,--from which, by the way, he appears to have strayed on the night in question.

"Dear me," cried the Marchioness, her agitation increasing. "No one knows I am here. How on earth--Here, boy!"

A note was delivered to her. It was from Thomas Trotter. Her face brightened as she glanced swiftly through the scrawl.

"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "It is from Mr. Trotter. He is waiting outside with his automobile."

She pa.s.sed the note to Jane, whose colour deepened. De Bosky drew a deep breath of relief, and, cheered beyond measure by her rea.s.suring words, strode off, his head erect, his white teeth showing in a broad smile.

Trotter wrote: "It is raining cats and dogs. I have the car outside. The family is at the theatre. Don't hurry. I can wait until 10:15. If you are not ready to come away by that time, you will find my friend Joe Glimm hanging about in front of the cafe,--drenched to the skin, I'll wager. You will recall him as the huge person I introduced to you recently as from Constantinople. Just put yourselves under his wing if anything happens. He is jolly well able to protect you. I know who's in there, but don't be uneasy. He will not dare molest you."

"Shall I keep it for you?" asked Jane, her eyes s.h.i.+ning.

"I fancy it was intended for you, my dear," said the other drily.

"How very interesting," observed Mr. Hendricks, who occasionally offered some such remark as his contribution to the gaiety of the evening. He had found it to be a perfectly safe shot, even when fired at random.

In the meantime, Mr. McFaddan had come to the conclusion that the young man at the next table but one was obnoxious. It isn't exactly the way Mr. McFaddan would have put it, but as he would have put it less elegantly, it is better to supply him with a word out of stock.

The das.h.i.+ng young woman upon whom Stuyvesant lavished his bold and significant glances happened to be Mrs. McFaddan, whose scant twelve months as a wife gave her certain privileges and a distinction that properly would have been denied her hearth-loving predecessor who came over from Ireland to marry Con McFaddan when he was promoted to the position of foreman in the works,--and who, true to her estate of muliebrity, produced four of the most exemplary step-children that any second wife could have discovered if she had gone storking over the entire city.

Cornelius had married his stenographer. It was not his fault that she happened to be a very pretty young woman, nor could he be held responsible for the fact that he was approximately thirty years of age on the day she was born. Any way you look at it, she was his wife and dependent on him for some measure of protection.

And Mr. McFaddan, being an influence, sent for the proprietor of the cafe himself, and whispered to him. Whereupon, Mr. Spangler, considering the side on which his bread was b.u.t.tered, whispered back that it should be attended to at once.

"And," pursued Mr. McFaddan, purple with suppressed rage, "if you don't, I will."

A minute or two later, one of the waiters approached young Mr.

Smith-Parvis and informed him that he was wanted outside at once.

Stuyvesant's heart leaped. He at once surmised that Miss Emsdale, repentant and envious, had come off her high horse and was eager to get away from the dull, prosaic and stupidly respectable old "parties" over in the corner. Conceivably she had taken a little more champagne than was good for her. He got up immediately, and without so much as a word of apology to his host, made his way eagerly, though unsteadily, to the entrance-hall.

He expected Miss Emsdale to follow; he was already framing in his beaddled brain the jolly little lecture he would give her when--

A red-faced person jostled him in a most annoying manner.

"Look sharp there," said Stuyvie thickly. "Watch where you're going."

"Steady, sir,--steady!" came in a hushed, agitated voice from Mr.

Spangler, who appeared to be addressing himself exclusively to the red-faced person. "Let me manage it,--please."

"Who the devil is this bally old blighter?" demanded Stuyvie loudly.

"Leave him to me, Spangler," said the red-faced man. "I have a few choice words I--"

"Here! Confound you! Keep off of my toes, you fool! I say, Spangler, what's the matter with you? Throw him out! He's--"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"

"I ought to knock your block off," said Mr. McFaddan, without raising his voice. As his face was within six inches of Stuyvesant's nose, the young man had no difficulty whatever in hearing what he said, and yet it should not be considered strange that he failed to understand. In all fairness, it must be said that he was bewildered. Under the circ.u.mstances any one would have been bewildered. Being spoken to in that fas.h.i.+on by a man you've never seen before in your life is, to say the least, surprising. "I'll give you ten seconds to apologize."

"Ap--apologize? Confound you, what do you mean? You're drunk."

"I said ten seconds," growled Cornelius.

"And then what?" gulped Stuyvie.

"A swat on the nose," said Mr. McFaddan.

At no point in the course of this narrative has there been either proof or a.s.sertion that Smith-Parvis, Junior, possessed the back-bone of a caterpillar. It has been stated, however, that he was a young man of considerable bulk. We have a.s.sumed, correctly, that this rather impressive physique masked a craven spirit. As a matter of fact, he was such a prodigious coward that he practised all manner of "exercises" in order to develop something to inspire in his fellow-men the belief that he would be a pretty tough customer to tackle.

Something is to be said for his method. It has been successfully practised by man ever since the day that Solomon, in all his glory, arrayed himself so sumptuously that the whole world hailed him as the wisest man extant.

Stuyvie took great pride in revealing his well-developed arms; it was not an uncommon thing for him to ask you to feel his biceps, or his back muscles, or the cords in his thigh; he did a great deal of strutting in his bathing suit at such places as Atlantic City, Southampton and Newport. In a way, it paid to advertise.

Now when Mr. McFaddan, a formidable-looking person, made that emphatic remark, Stuyvesant realized that there was no escape. He was trapped.

Panic seized him. In sheer terror he struck blindly at the awful, reddish thing that filled his vision.

He talked a good deal about it afterwards, explaining in a casual sort of way just how he had measured the distance and had picked out the point of the fat man's jaw. He even went so far as to say that he felt sorry for the poor devil even before he delivered the blow.

The fact of the matter is, Stuyvie's wild, terrified swing,--delivered with the eyes not only closed but covered by the left arm,--landed squarely on Mr. McFaddan's jaw. And when the aggressor, after a moment or two of suspense, opened his eyes and lowered his arm, expecting to find his adversary's fist on its irresistible approach toward his nose, there was no Mr. McFaddan in sight;--at least, he was not where he had been the moment before.

Mr. McFaddan lay in a crumpled heap against a chair, ten feet away.

Stuyvie was suddenly aware that some one was a.s.sisting him into his coat, and that several men were hustling him toward the door.

"Get out,--quick!" said one, who turned out to be the agitated Mr.

Spangler. "Before he gets up. He is a terrible man."

By this time they were in the vestibule.

"I will not tell him who you are," Mr. Spangler was saying. "I will give you another name,--Jones or anything. He must never know who you are."

"What's the difference?" chattered Stuyvie. "He's--he's dead, isn't he?"

CHAPTER XVI

SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND

IT was raining hard. Stuyvesant, thoroughly alarmed and not at all elated by his astonis.h.i.+ng conquest, halted in dismay. The pelting torrent swept up against the side of the canvas awning that extended to the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost afloat.

Headlights of automobiles drawn up to the curb blazed dimly through the screen of water. He peered out beyond the narrow opening left for pedestrians and groaned.