The City of Masks Part 50

"Holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing for his cap. "It's--it's Mr. McFaddan or I'm a goat."

"You're a goat all right," declared McFaddan in a voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen and caused Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis to back sharply toward the steps leading to the street.

"Where's Julia?" roared the district boss, glaring balefully at Stuyvie.

"Get the key, Cricklewick,--quick. Let me out of here. I'll never have another chance like this. The dirty--"

"Calm yourself, McFaddan," pleaded Cricklewick. "Remember where you are--and who is upstairs. We can't have a row, you know. It--"

"What's the game, Mr. McFaddan?" inquired one of the policemen, very politely. "I hope we haven't disturbed a party or anything like that. We were sent over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this gentleman, who says--"

"They've got a young girl up there," broke in Stuyvesant. "She's been decoyed into a den of crooks and white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop downstairs. I've had her watched. I--"

"O'Flaherty," cried McFaddan, in a pleading voice, "will ye do me the favour of breaking this d.a.m.ned door down? I'll forgive ye for everything--yes, bedad, I'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed thing off its hinges."

"Ain't this guy straight?" demanded O'Flaherty, turning upon Stuyvesant.

"If he's been double-crossing us--"

"I shall report you to the Commissioner of Police," cried Stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate gave signs of yielding. "He is a friend of mine."

"He is a friend of Mr. McFaddan's also," said O'Flaherty, scratching his head dubiously. "I guess you'll have to explain, young feller."

"Ask him to explain," insisted Stuyvie.

"Permit me," interposed Cricklewick, in an agitated voice. "This is a private little fancy dress party. We--"

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Stuyvesant, coming closer to a real American being than he had ever been before in all his life. "It's old Cricklewick! Why, you old roue!"

"I--I--let me help you, McFaddan," cried Cricklewick suddenly. "If we all put our strength to the bally thing, it may give way. Now! All together!"

Julia came scuttling down the steps.

"Be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "Whatever are we to do? She's coming down--they're both coming down. They are going over to the Ritz for supper. The best man is giving a party. Oh, my soul! Can't you do anything, McFaddan?"

"Not until you unlock the gate," groaned McFaddan, perspiring freely.

"There she is!" cried Stuyvesant, pointing up the stairs. "Now, will you believe me?"

"Get out of sight, you!" whispered McFaddan violently, addressing the bewildered policemen. "Get back in the hall and don't breathe,--do you hear me? As for _you_--" Cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his arm checked the torrent.

Lady Jane was standing at the top of the steps, peering intently downward.

"What is it, Cricklewick?" she called out.

"Nothing, my lady,--nothing at all," the butler managed to say with perfect composure. "Merely a couple of newspaper reporters asking for--ahem--an interview. Stupid blighters! I--I sent them away in jolly quick order."

"Isn't that one of them still standing at the top of the steps?"

inquired she.

"It's--it's only the night-watchman," said McFaddan.

"Oh, I see. Send him off, please. Lord Temple and I are leaving at once, Cricklewick. Julia, will you help me with my wraps?"

She disappeared from view. Julia ran swiftly up the steps.

Stuyvesant, apparently alone in the hall outside, put his hand to his head.

"Did--did she say Lord Temple?"

"Beat it!" said McFaddan.

"The chap the papers have been--What the devil has she to do with Lord Temple?"

"I forgot to get the key from Julia, d.a.m.n it!" muttered McFaddan, suddenly trying the gate again.

"I say, Jane!" called out a strong, masculine voice from regions above.

"Are you nearly ready?"

Rapid footsteps came down the unseen stairway, and a moment later the erstwhile Thomas Trotter, as fine a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of Sundays, stopped on the landing.

"Will you see if there's a taxi waiting, Cricklewick?" he said. "Moody telephoned for one a few minutes ago. I'll be down in a second, Jane dear."

He dashed back up the stairs.

"Officer O'Flaherty!" called out Mr. McFaddan, in a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step downstairs and see if Lord Temple's taxi's outside?"

"What'll we do with this gazabo, Mr. McFaddan?"

"Was--is _that_ man--that chauffeur--was that Lord Temple?" sputtered Stuyvesant.

"Yes, it was," snapped McFaddan. "And ye'd better be careful how ye speak of your betters. Now, clear out. I wouldn't have Lady Jane Thorne know I lied to her for anything in the world."

"Lied? Lied about what?"

"When I said ye were a decent night-watchman," said McFaddan.

Stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street, puzzled and sick at heart.

He paused irresolutely just outside the entrance. If they were really the Lord Temple and the Lady Jane Thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau at City Hall had provided a small sensation for the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let them see that he was ready and willing to forget and forgive--

"Move on, now! Get a move, you!" ordered O'Flaherty, giving him a shove.

CHAPTER XXII

THE BEGINNING