The City of Masks Part 16

"Thank the Lord I had sense enough to engage a private detective and not to call in the police, as you suggested. That would have been the limit.

I've a notion to hunt that boy up and tell him the whole rotten story."

"Go ahead and do it," invited Stuyvie, his eyes narrowing, "and I will do a little telling myself. There is one thing in particular your wife would give her ears to hear about you. It will simplify matters tremendously. Go ahead and tell him."

Mr. Carpenter appeared to be reflecting. His inflamed sullen eyes a.s.sumed a misty, faraway expression.

"For two cents I'd tell you to go to h.e.l.l," he said, after a long silence.

"Boy!" called Mr. Smith-Parvis loftily, signalling a pa.s.sing bell-hop.

"Go and get me some small change for this nickel."

Mr. Carpenter's face relaxed into a sickly grin. "Can't you take a joke?" he inquired peevishly.

"Never mind," said Stuyvie to the bell-boy. "I sha'n't need it after all."

"What I'd like to know," mused Mr. Carpenter, later on, "is how in thunder the New York police department got wind of all this."

Mr. Smith-Parvis, Junior, wiped a fine moisture from his brow, and said: "I forgot to mention that I had to give that plain-clothes man fifty dollars to keep him from going to old man Cricklewick with the whole blooming story. It seems that he got it from your bally private detective."

"Good!" said the other brightly. "You got off cheap," he added quickly, catching the look in Stuyvie's eye.

"I did it to spare Cricklewick a whole lot of embarra.s.sment," said the younger man stiffly.

"I don't get you."

"He never could look me in the face again if he found out I was the man he was panning so unmercifully the other night at our own dinner table."

He wiped his brow again. "'Gad, he'd never forgive himself."

Which goes to prove that Stuyvie was more considerate of the feelings of others than one might have credited him with being.

Mrs. Millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,--an idiosyncrasy, it may be said, that brought her into contact with a great many of them in the course of a twelvemonth. The last one to leave her without giving the customary week's notice had remained in her employ longer than any of his predecessors. A most astonis.h.i.+ng discrepancy appeared in their statements as to the exact length of time he was in her service. Mrs.

Millidew maintained that he was with her for exactly three weeks; the chauffeur swore to high heaven that it was three centuries.

She had Thomas Trotter up before her.

"You have been recommended to me by Mr. Cricklewick," she said, regarding him with a critical eye. "No other reference is necessary, so don't go fumbling in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What is your name?"

She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows.

"Thomas Trotter, madam."

"How tall are you?"

"Six feet."

"I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him.

Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam."

"You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you."

"Are you speaking of livery, madam?"

"I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't be buying new uniforms every two weeks. I don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. Mr. Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter of fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin. You couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man. I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English chauffeur, and--you _are_ English, aren't you?"

"Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for you. I never, under any circ.u.mstances, wear livery,--I beg your pardon, I should say a uniform."

"You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking.

"Wear livery," said he, succinctly.

"That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you worked for me. Now, see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon--"

"I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted politely, favouring her with his never-failing smile. Her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is as far as I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know."

"I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are quite a good-looking fellow. The last man I had looked like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white pants. I--Don't you think you could be persuaded to put it on if I,--well, if I added five dollars a week to your wages?

I like your looks. You look as if you might have been a soldier."

Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew. That's quite different, you see."

"Suppose I take you on trial for a couple of weeks," she ventured, surrendering to his smile and the light in his unservile eyes.

Considering the matter settled, she went on brusquely: "How old are you, Trotter?"

"Thirty."

"Are you married? I never employ married men. Their wives are always having babies or operations or something disagreeable and unnecessary."

"I am not married, Mrs. Millidew."

"Who was your last employer in England?"

"His Majesty King George the Fifth," said Trotter calmly.

Her eyes bulged. "What?" she cried. Then her eyes narrowed. "And do you mean to tell me you didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?"

"I wore a uniform, madam."

"Umph! America has spoiled you, I see. That's always the way.

Independence is a curse. Have you ever been arrested? Wait! Don't answer. I withdraw the question. You would only lie, and that is a bad way to begin."

"I lie only when it is absolutely necessary, Mrs. Millidew. In police courts, for example."

"Good! Now, you are young, good looking and likely to be spoiled. It must be understood in the beginning, Trotter, that there is to be no foolishness with women." She regarded him severely.

"No foolishness whatsoever," said he humbly, raising his eyes to heaven.

"How long were you employed in your last job--ah, situation?"