Under Cover Part 28

Ethel asked rather eagerly, "But this R. J., Mr. Denby, what is he?"

"I've heard of him," Michael answered. "Some man at the club told me about him, but I very soon sized that matter up. If you want to know my opinion, Ethel, R. J. is the bogey man of the Customs. If they suspect an inspector he receives a postal signed R. J., and telling him to watch out. It's a great scheme, which I recommend to the heads of big business corporations. I don't believe in R. J."

Ethel looked up at Denby brightly. "But you really believe in him, don't you?"

"I only know," he told her, "that R. J. has many enemies because he has made many discoveries. Unquestionably he does exist for all Mr.

Harrington's unbelief. He's supposed to be one of these impossible secret service agents, travelling incognito all over the globe. He is known only by his initials. Some people call him the storm-petrel, always in the wake of trouble. Where there is intrigue among nations, diplomatic tangles, if the j.a.ps steal a fortification plan, or a German cross-country aeroplane is sent to drop a bomb on the Singer Building, R.J. is supposed to be there to catch it."

"What an awfully unpleasant position," Nora shuddered.

"Think of a man deliberately choosing a job like that!" Monty commented.

"So," Denby continued, "when a friend of mine in Paris told me that R.J.

had been requested by the government to investigate Customs frauds, I knew there would be more danger in the smuggling game than ever. I warned Mrs. Harrington because I did not want to see her humiliated by exposure."

"That's mighty good of you, Denby," Michael said appreciatively; "but all the same I don't see how--supposing she had slipped in without any fuss some stuff she had bought in Paris or London and ought to have declared--I don't see how if they didn't know it, they could blackmail her."

"That's the simplest part of it," Denby a.s.sured him. "The clerk in the kind of store your wife would patronize is most often a government spy, unofficially, and directly after he has a.s.sured the purchaser that it is so simple to smuggle, and one can hide things so easily, he has cabled the United States Customs what you bought and how much it cost."

"They do that?" said Michael indignantly. "I never did trust Frenchmen, the sneaks. I've no doubt that the _heure de l'aperitif_ was introduced by an American."

Miss Cartwright had been watching Denby closely. There was forced upon her the unhappy conviction that this explanation of the difficulties of smuggling was in a sense his way of boasting of a difficulty he had overcome. And she alone of all who were listening had the key to this.

It was imperative--for the dread of Taylor and his threats had eaten into her soul--to gain more explicit information. Her manner was almost coquettish as she asked him:

"Tell me truly, Mr. Denby, didn't you smuggle something, just one tiny little scarf-pin, for example?"

"Nothing," he returned. "What makes you think I did?"

"It seemed to me," she said boldly, "that your fear that Mrs. Harrington might be caught was due to the fear suspicion might fall on you."

Denby looked at her curiously. He had never seen Ethel Cartwright in this mood. He wondered at what she was driving.

"It does sound plausible," he admitted.

"Then 'fess up," Michael urged. "Come on, Denby, what did you bring in?"

"Myself and Monty," Denby returned, "and he isn't dutiable. All the smuggling that our party did was performed by Monty out of regard for you."

"I still remain unconvinced," Ethel Cartwright declared obstinately. "I think it was two thoughts for yourself and one for Alice."

"Now, Denby," Michael cried jocularly, "you're among friends. Where have you hidden the swag?"

"Do tell us," Nora entreated. "It'd be so nice if you were a criminal and had your picture in the rogues' gallery. The only criminals I know are those who just run over people in their motors, and that gets so commonplace. Do tell us how you started on a life of crime."

"Nora!" Monty cried reprovingly. Things were increasing his nervousness to a horrible extent. Why wouldn't they leave smuggling alone?

"I'm not interested in your endeavors," Nora said superciliously.

"You're only a sort of petty larceny smuggler with your silver hair-brushes. Mr. Denby does things on a bigger scale. You're safe with us, Mr. Denby," she reminded him.

"I know," he answered, "so safe that if I had any dark secrets to reveal I'd proclaim them with a loud voice."

"That's always the way," Nora complained. "Every time I meet a man who seems exciting he turns out to be just a nice man--I hate nice men." She crossed over to the agitated Monty.

"Mr. Denby is a great disappointment to me, too," Ethel Cartwright confessed. "Couldn't you invent a new way to smuggle?"

"It wasn't for lack of inventive powers," he a.s.sured her, "it was just respect for the law."

"I didn't know we had any left in America," Michael observed, and then added, "but then you've lived a lot abroad, Denby."

"Mr. Denby must be rewarded with a cigarette," Ethel declared, bringing the silver box from the mantel and offering him one. "A cigarette, Mr.

Denby?"

"Thanks, no," he answered, "I prefer to roll my own if you don't mind."

It seemed that the operation of rolling a cigarette was amazingly interesting to the girl. Her eager eyes fastened themselves intently on a worn pigskin pouch he carried.

"Can't you do it with one hand?" she asked disappointedly; "just like cowboys do in plays?"

"It seems I'm doomed to disappoint you," he smiled. "I find two hands barely sufficient."

"Sometime you must roll me one," she said. "Will you?"

"With pleasure," he returned, lighting his own.

"But you don't smoke," Alice objected.

"Ah, but I've been tempted," she confessed archly.

"The only thing that makes my life worth living is yielding to temptation," Nora observed.

"That's not a bad idea," Michael said rising. "I'm tempted to take a small drink. Who'll yield with me and split a pint of Brut Imperial?"

"That's your last drink to-night," his wife warned him.

"I'm not likely to forget it," he said ruefully. "My wife," he told the company, "thinks I'm a restaurant, and closes me up at one sharp."

"Let's have some bridge," Mrs. Harrington suggested. "Ethel, what do you say?"

"I've given it up," she answered.

"Why, you used to love it," Nora a.s.serted, surprised.

"I've come to think all playing for money is horrible," Ethel returned, thinking to what trouble Amy's gambling had brought her.

"Me too," Michael chimed in. "Unless stocks go up, or the Democratic party goes down, I'll be broke soon. How about a game of pool?"

"I'd love to," Nora said. "I've been dying to learn."