The City of Masks Part 40

Swiftly they stole through the door and past the landing. Sc.r.a.ps of conversation from below reached their ears. Jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm. She recognized the voice of Mr. Alfred Chambers.

"De Bosky will do the rest," whispered the clockmaker, as they were joined by the musician at the far end of the stock-room. "I must return to the shop. He will suspect at once if I am not at work when he appears,--for appear he will, you may be sure."

He was gone in a second. De Bosky led them into the adjoining room and pointed to a tall step-ladder over in the corner. A trap-door in the ceiling was open, and blackness loomed beyond.

"Go up!" commanded the agitated musician, addressing Trotter. "It is an air-chamber. Don't break your head on the rafters. Follow close behind, Lady Jane. I will hold the ladder. Close the trap after you,--and do not make a sound after you are once up there. This is the jolliest moment of my life! I was never so thrilled. It is beautiful! It is ravis.h.i.+ng! s.h.!.+

Don't utter a word, I command you! We will foil him,--we will foil old Scotland Yard. Be quick! Splendid! You are wonderful, Mademoiselle. Such courage,--such grace,--such--s.h.!.+ I take the ladder away! Ha, he will never suspect. He--"

"But how the deuce are we to get down from here?" groaned Trotter in a penetrating whisper from aloft.

"You can't get down,--but as he can't get up, why bother your head about that? Close the trap!"

"Oh-h!" shuddered Jane, in an ecstasy of excitement. She was kneeling behind her companion, peering down through the square little opening into which he had drawn her a moment before.

Trotter cautiously lowered the trap-door,--and they were in Stygian darkness. She repeated the exclamation, but this time it was a sharp, quick gasp of dismay.

For a long time they were silent, listening for sounds from below. At last he arose to his feet. His head came in contact with something solid. A smothered groan escaped his lips.

"Good Lord!-- Be careful, dear! There's not more than four feet head-room. Sit still till I find a match."

"Are you hurt? What a dreadful b.u.mp it was. I wonder if he could have heard?"

"They heard it in heaven," he replied, feeling his head.

"How dark it is," she shuddered. "Don't you dare move an inch from my side, Eric. I'll scream."

He laughed softly. "By Jove, it's rather a jolly lark, after all. A wonderful place this is for sweethearts." He dropped down beside her.

After a time, she whispered: "You mentioned a match, Eric."

"So I did," said he, and proceeded to go through the pocket in which he was accustomed to carry matches. "Thunderation! The box is empty."

She was silent for a moment. "I really don't mind, dear."

"I remember saying this morning that I never have any luck on Friday,"

said he resignedly. "But," he added, a happy note in his voice, "I never dreamed there was such luck as this in store for me."

CHAPTER XVIII

FRIDAY FOR BAD LUCK

SPEAKING of Friday and the mystery of luck. Luck is supposed to s.h.i.+ft in one direction or another on the sixth day of every week in the year. It is supposed to s.h.i.+ft for everybody. A great many people are either too ignorant or too supercilious to acknowledge this vast and oppressive truth, however. They regard Friday as a plain, ordinary day, and go on being fatuously optimistic.

On the other hand, when it comes Friday, the capable and the far-seeing are p.r.o.ne to accept it as it was intended by the Creator, who, from confidential reports, paused on the sixth day (as we reckon it) of his labours and looked back on what already had been accomplished. He was dissatisfied. He set to work again. Right then and there Friday became an unlucky day, according to a great many philosophers. If the Creator had stopped then and let well-enough alone, there wouldn't have been any cause for complaint. He would have failed to create Adam (an afterthought), and the human race, lacking existence, would not have been compelled to put up with life,--which is a mess, after all.

If more people would pause to consider the futility of living between Thursday and Sat.u.r.day, a great deal of woe and misfortune might be avoided.

For example, when Mrs. Smith-Parvis called on Mrs. McFaddan on the Monday of the week that is now making history through these pages, she completely overlooked the fact that there was a Friday still to be reckoned with.

True, she had in mind a day somewhat more remote when, after coming face to face with the blooming Mrs. McFaddan who happened to open her own front door,--it being Maggie's day out,--she had been compelled to subst.i.tute herself in person for the cards she meant to leave. Mrs.

McFaddan had cordially sung out to her from the front stoop, over the head of the shocked footman, that she was at home and would Mrs.

Smith-Parvis please step in.

Thursday, two weeks hence, was the day Mrs. Smith-Parvis had in mind.

She had not been in the McFaddan parlour longer than a minute and a half before she realized that an invitation by word of mouth would do quite as well as an expensively engraved card by post. There was nothing formal about Mrs. McFaddan. She was sorry that Con wasn't home; he would hate like poison to have missed seeing Mrs. Smith-Parvis when she did them the honour to call. But Con was not likely to be in before seven,--he was that busy, poor man,--and it would be asking too much of Mrs. Smith-Parvis to wait till then.

So, the lady from the upper East Side had no hesitancy in asking the lady from the lower West Side to dine with her on Thursday the nineteenth.

"I am giving a series of informal dinners, Mrs. McFad-_dan_," she explained graciously.

"They're the nicest kind," returned Mrs. McFaddan, somewhat startled by the p.r.o.nunciation of her husband's good old Irish name. She knew little or nothing of French, but somehow she rather liked the emphasis, crisply nasal, her visitor put upon the final syllable. Before the visit came to an end, she was mentally repeating her own name after Mrs. Smith-Parvis, and wondering whether Con would stand for it.

"What date did you say?" she inquired, abruptly breaking in on a further explanation. The reply brought a look of disappointment to her face. "We can't come," she said flatly. "We're leaving on Sat.u.r.day this week for Was.h.i.+ngton to be gone till the thirtieth. Important business, Con says."

Mrs. Smith-Parvis thought quickly. Was.h.i.+ngton, eh?

"Could you come on Friday night of this week, Mrs. McFad-_dan_?"

"We could," said the other. "Don't you worry about Con cooking up an excuse for not coming, either. He does just about what I tell him."

"Splendid!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, arising. "Friday at 8:30."

"Have plenty of fish," said Mrs. McFaddan gaily.

"Fish?" faltered the visitor.

"It's Friday, you know."

Greatly to Mrs. Smith-Parvis's surprise,--and in two or three cases, irritation,--every one she asked to meet the McFaddans on Friday accepted with alacrity. She asked the Dodges, feeling confident that they couldn't possibly be had on such short notice,--and the same with the Bittinger-Stuarts. They _did_ have previous engagements, but they promptly cancelled them. It struck her as odd,--and later on significant,--that, without exception, every woman she asked said she was just dying for a chance to have a little private "talk" with the notorious Mr. McFaddan.

People who had never arrived at a dinner-party on time in their lives, appeared on Friday at the Smith-Parvis home all the way from five to fifteen minutes early.

The Cricklewicks were not asked. Mr. Smith-Parvis remembered in time that the Irish hate the English, and it wouldn't do at all.

Mr. McFaddan and his wife were the last to arrive. They were so late that not only the hostess but most of her guests experienced a sharp fear that they wouldn't turn up at all. There were side glances at the clock on the mantel, surrept.i.tious squints at wrist-watches, and a queer, unnatural silence while the big clock in the upper hall chimed a quarter to nine.

"Really, my dear," said Mrs. Dodge, who had the New York record for tardiness,--an hour and three-quarters, she claimed,--"I can't understand people being late for a dinner,--unless, of course, they mean to be intentionally rude."

"I can't imagine what can have happened to them," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis nervously.

"Accident on the Subway, no doubt," drawled Mr. Bittinger-Stuart, and instantly looked around in a startled sort of way to see if there was any cause for repenting the sarcasm.

"Where is Stuyvesant?" inquired Mrs. Millidew the elder, who had arrived a little late. She had been obliged to call a taxi-cab at the last moment on account of the singular defection of her new chauffeur,--who, she proclaimed on entering, was to have his walking papers in the morning. Especially as it was raining pitchforks.

"He is dressing, my dear," explained Stuyvesant's mother, with a maternal smile of apology.