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Bennett? It’s such fun to see people running around, not knowing
who is the thief. I’m sure I feel quite privileged, in this instance.”
Bob growled beneath his breath. He was handsome enough certainly
for a matinee hero. He was tall and lithe and had such clean-cut
features. The temperamental young thing regarded him with thrilling
approval. He entirely realized her ideal of a social burglar. It seemed
almost too good to be true.
“I knew you were different from other men,” she said. “Something
told me from the very first; perhaps it was the way you tangoed. I
expected you would ask me to trot, but you didn’t.” Reprovingly.
“Suppose you were otherwise engaged?” Glancing toward the
brooch.
“Not the way you think!” said Bob gloomily, looking more striking
than ever in that melancholy pose. It seemed to harmonize with a
crime-stained career.
“Of course,” murmured Dolly, “it was you who got Mrs. Templeton
Blenfield’s wonderful emeralds?”
“It was not,” answered Bob curtly.
“You were at that costume ball where she lost them?”
“Suppose I was?” he snapped. Yes, snapped! There is a limit to
human endurance.
“And you were at Mrs. Benton Briscoe’s when a tiara mysteriously
disappeared?”
“Well, I’m hanged!” said Bob, staring at her.
“Oh, I hope not—that is, I hope you won’t be, some day,” answered
Dolly. “Are you going to ‘fess up?’ You’d better. Maybe I won’t betray
you—yet. Maybe I won’t at all, if you’re real nice.”
“Oh!” said Bob. Whereupon she smiled at him sweetly, just as if to
say it was nice and exciting to have a great, big, bold (and wildly
handsome) society-highwayman in her power. Why, she could send
him to jail, if she wanted to. She had but to lift a little finger and he
would have to jump. The consciousness of guilty knowledge and
power she possessed made her glow all over. She didn’t really know
though, yet, whether she would be kind or severe.
“Do you operate alone, or with accomplices?” she asked, after a few
moments’ pleasurable anticipations.
“I beg pardon?” Bob was again gazing uneasily toward the door.
“Got any pals?” She tried to talk the way they do in the thief-books.
“No, I haven’t,” snapped Bob. That truth pact made it necessary to
answer the most silly questions.
“Well, I didn’t know but you had,” murmured the temperamental
young thing. “I heard a dog barking and that made me think you
might have them. You’re sure you didn’t let anybody into the
house?”
“I didn’t.”
Miss Dolly snuggled herself together more cozily. She seemed about
to ask some more questions. Perhaps she would want to know if he
had let anybody out, and then he would have to tell her—
“Look here,” said Bob desperately. “Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you,
but—this—this isn’t exactly proper. Me here, like this, and you—”
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” answered Miss Dolly with wonderful assurance.
“I can quite take care of myself.”
“But—but—” more desperately—“if I should be discovered?—Can’t
you see, for your own sake—?”
“My own sake?” The big innocent eyes opened wider. “In that case,
of course, I’d tell them the truth.”
“The truth!” How he hated the word! “You mean that I—?” Glancing
toward the brooch.
“Of course!” Tranquilly.
Bob tried to consider. He could see what would happen to him, if
they were interrupted. It certainly was a most preposterous
conversation, anyhow. Besides, it wasn’t the place or the time for a
conversation of any kind. He had just about made up his mind that
he would go, whether she screamed or not, and take the
consequences, however disagreeable they might be, when—
“Well, trot along,” said Miss Dolly graciously. “I suppose you’ve got a
lot of work to do to-night and it’s rather unkind to detain you. Only
pick up the brooch before you go.” He obeyed. “Now put it on the
dresser and leave it there. Hard to do that, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t.” Savagely.
“Well, you can go now. By the way, Mrs. Vanderpool has a big
bronze-colored diamond surrounded by wonderful pink pearls. It’s an
antique and—would adorn a connoisseur’s collection.”
“But I tell you I am not—”
“My! How stupid, to keep on saying that! But, of course, you must
really be very clever. Society-highwaymen always are. Good night.
So glad I was thinking of something else and forgot to lock the
door!”
Bob went to the door and she considerately waited until he had
reached it; then she put out a hand and pushed a convenient button
which shut off the light. Bob opened the door but closed it quickly
again. He fancied he saw some one out there in the hall, a shadowy
form in the distance, but was not absolutely sure.
“Aren’t you gone?” said the temperamental young thing.
“S-sh!” said Bob.
For some moments there was silence, thrilling enough, even for her.
Then Bob gently opened the door once more, though very slightly,
and peered out of the tiniest crack, but he failed to see any one
now, so concluded he must have been mistaken. The shadows were
most deceptive. Anyhow, there was more danger in staying than in
going, so he slid out and closed the door. At the same moment he
heard a very faint click. It seemed to come from the other side of
the hall. He didn’t like that, he told himself, and waited to make sure
no one was about. The ensuing silence reassured him somewhat;
and the “click,” he argued, might have come from the door he
himself had closed.
The temperamental young thing, holding her breath, heard him now
move softly but swiftly away. She listened, nothing happened. Then
she stretched her young form luxuriously and pondered on the
delirious secret that was all hers. A secret that made Bob her slave!
Abjectly her slave! Like the servant of the lamp! She could compel
him to turn somersaults if she wanted to.
Bob awoke with a slight headache, which, however, didn’t surprise
him any. He only wondered his head didn’t ache more. People came
down to breakfast almost any time, and sometimes they didn’t come
down at all but sipped coffee in their rooms, continental-fashion. It
was late when Bob got up, so a goodly number of the guests—the
exceptions including Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence—were down by the
time he sauntered into the big sun-room, where breakfast was
served to all with American appetites.
The temperamental little thing managed accidentally (?) to
encounter him at the doorway before he got into the room with the
others. He shivered slightly when he saw her, though she looked
most attractive in her rather bizarre way. Bob gazed beyond her,
however, to a vision in the window. “Vision!” That just described
what Miss Gwendoline looked like, with the sunlight on her and
making an aureole of her glorious fair hair. Of course one could put
an adjective or two, before the “vision”—such as “beautiful,” or
something even stronger—without being accused of extravagance.
The little dark thing, uttering some platitude, followed Bob’s look,
but she didn’t appear jealous. She hadn’t quite decided how much
latitude to give Bob. That young gentleman noticed that the
hammer-thrower, looking like one of those stalwart, masculine tea-
passers in an English novel, was not far from Miss Gwendoline. His
big fingers could apparently handle delicate china as well as mighty
iron balls or sledges. He comported himself as if his college
education had included a course at Tuller’s in Oxford Street, in
London, where six-foot guardsmen are taught to maneuver among
spindle-legged tables and to perform almost impossible feats without
damage to crockery.
Miss Dolly now maneuvered so as to draw Bob aside in the hall to
have a word or two before he got to bacon and eggs. What she said
didn’t improve his appetite.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” she began in a low voice.
He asked why, though not because he really cared to know.
“After that hint of mine!” she explained reproachfully. “About Mrs.
Vanderpool’s bronze diamond, I mean!”
“I fear I do not understand you,” said Bob coldly.
She bent nearer. “Of course I thought it would disappear,” she
murmured. “I expected you to execute one of those clever coups,
and so I went purposely to Mrs. Vanderpool’s room on some pretext
this morning to learn if it was gone. But it wasn’t. I cleverly led the
conversation up to it and she showed it to me.”
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Did you think she wouldn’t have it to
show you? That it had found its way to my pockets?”
“Of course,” she answered. “And you are quite sure you haven’t it,
after all?” she asked suspiciously.
“How could I, when you saw—”
“Oh, you might have substituted a counterfeit brooch just like it for
—”
Bob groaned. “You certainly have absorbed those plays,” he
remarked.
“I expected a whole lot of things would be gone,” she went on, “and,
apparently,” with disappointment, “no one has missed anything. It’s
quite tame. Did you get discouraged because you failed to land the
‘loot’—is that the word?—in my case? And did you then just go
prosaically to bed?”
“I certainly went to bed, though there was nothing prosaic about the
procedure.”
“And yet what a dull night it must have been for you!”
“I shouldn’t call it that.”
“No?” She shifted the conversation. “Who do you suppose has
come? Dickie Donnelly. Said he had arrived in town on some
business and took advantage of the opportunity to make a little call
on me. Incidentally, he seems interested in you. Said he would make
it a point to see you after you got down. He’s out on the veranda
smoking now, I guess. He wanted to talk to me but I made an
excuse to shoo him away. He isn’t half so exciting as you are, you
know. I’m quite positive now I couldn’t marry him and annex his old
chimneys to ours, for all the world. Chimneys are such commonplace
means to a livelihood, Mr. Bennett, don’t you think? They are so ugly
and dependable. Not at all romantic and precarious! They just
smoke and you get richer. There isn’t a single thrill in a whole forest
of chimneys. But I mustn’t really keep you from your breakfast any
longer,” she added with sudden sedulousness. “I’ve quite planned
what we’re going to do to-day.”
“You have?” With a slight accent on the first word.
“Yes,” she assured him quietly. “So run along now.”
The slave, glad to get away, started to obey, when—“One moment!”
said Miss Dolly as if seized with an afterthought. “Dickie asked about
you so particularly that it occurred to me that— Well, do you think
he harbors any suspicions?”
“Suspicions?”
“Yes; do you imagine he, too, by any chance, may have guessed—
you know?” And Dolly again drew closer, her eyes beaming with new
excitement.
Bob looked disagreeable, but he had to reply. “I’m sure he doesn’t
think what you do,” he answered ill-humoredly.
Dolly looked relieved, but still slightly dubious. She didn’t appear to
notice that lack of appreciation in Bob’s manner for her interest in
his welfare. “Well, you’d better see him,” she said in the tone of one
who had already established herself to the post of secret adviser.
“He’s bent on an interview with you. Says it’s business. And speaking
about business, what business could he possibly have in that dinky
little town? Unless he wanted to buy the whole village! His conduct
is, to say the least, slightly mysterious. Dickie may prove a factor to
be reckoned with.”
“That’s true enough,” assented Bob, and went in to breakfast.
The temperamental little thing gazed after him approvingly; she
quite gloried in her big burglar. It was so nice to know something no
one else knew, to be a little wiser than all the rest of the world,
including the police and the detective force! Bob must be terribly
resourceful and subtle, to have deceived them all so thoroughly. He
only seemed a little dense at times, just to keep up the deception. It
was a part of the role. He wouldn’t even let her, who knew his
secret, see under the surface and she liked him all the better for his
reticence. It lent piquancy to the situation and added zest to the
game. Dickie’s manner had certainly seemed to her unduly sober. He
appeared to have something on his mind, though of course he was
awfully eager and joyous about seeing her.
At the breakfast-table Bob only dallied with his hot rolls and took but
a few gulps of coffee. The monocle-man who sat near by noticed
that want of appetite.
“Don’t seem very keen for your feed this morning,” he observed
jocularly.
“No, not over-peckish,” answered Bob.
“Why not? You look—aw—fit enough!” Reaching for one of those
racks for unbuttered toast which Mrs. Ralston had brought home
with her from London.
“Headache, for one thing,” returned Bob. It was the truth, or part of
the truth. No one looked sympathetic, however. In fact, with the
exception of the monocle-man (Mrs. Ralston hadn’t yet come down),
every one in there made it apparent he or she desired as little as
possible of Mr. Bennett’s society. Bob soon got up, casting a last
bitter glance at Miss Gerald who seemed quite contented with her
stalwart, honest-looking hammer-thrower. And why not? His
character, Bob reflected, was unimpeachable. He looked so good and
honest and so utterly wholesome that Bob, who himself was tainted
with suspicion, wanted to get out of his presence. So Bob went out
to the porch, to hunt up Dickie and ascertain what was the matter
with him?
It didn’t take Bob long to learn what was worrying Dickie. He was
carrying the weight of a new and tremendous responsibility. He had
now become an emissary, a friend in need, to Clarence and the
commodore, who certainly needed one at this moment. It seemed
that Mrs. Clarence and Mrs. Dan had set detectives searching for
Gee-gee and Gid-up and they had succeeded in locating one of the
pair, partly by a freckle and a turned-up nose. The detectives must
have worked fast. They were assisted by the fact that foolish
Clarence had kept up an innocent and Platonic friendship with “Gee-
gee’s” chum, after that momentous evening when Bob had been
along. Now when a young man begins to hang around the vicinity of
a stage door in a big car, he is apt to make himself a subject for
remark and to become known, especially to the door-keeper who
takes a fatherly interest in his Shetland herd. As Gid-up and Gee-gee
were inseparable, it was but a step to place one by the other.
Detectives, Dickie informed Bob, had already interviewed the ladies.
They may have offered them money in exchange for information.
Mrs. Dan was very rich in her own name. She could outbid the
commodore. Gid-up might hesitate or refuse to supply or
manufacture information for filthy lucre, but Gee-gee was known to
be ambitious. She longed to soar. And here was a means to that
end. Quite a legitimate and customary one!
“Why, that girl would do anything to get herself talked about,” said
Dickie sadly, thinking of Dan, and incidentally, too, of Clarence.
“She’d manufacture information by the car-load. Out of a little,
teeny-weeny remnant of truth, she’d build a magnificent divorce
case. Think of the glorious publicity! Why, Gee-gee and one of the
manager-chaps would sit up nights to see how many columns they
could fill each day in the press. They’d make poor old Dan out worse
than Nero. They’d picture him as a monster. They’d give him claws.
And Clarence would come crawling after him like a slimy snake.
Incidentally, they’d throw in a few weeps for Gee-gee. And then
some more for Gid-up! Why, man, when I think of the mischief
you’ve done—”
“Me?” said Bob miserably, almost overwhelmed by this pathetic
picture Dickie had drawn. “But it wasn’t! It was Truth.” Dickie
snorted. “What do you want me to do? Commit suicide? Annihilate
truth? That would be one way of doing it. I’m sure I shouldn’t much
mind. Shall I poison Truth or blow its brains out? Or shall I take it
down to the lake and jump in with it? Do you think it has made me
very happy? What am I? What have I become? Where is my good
name?” He was thinking of what the temperamental little thing
considered him. “Say, do I look like a criminal?” he demanded,
confronting Dickie. The latter stared, then shrugged. Of course, if
Bob wanted to rave—? “Or a crazy man? Do I look crazy?” he
continued almost fiercely. “Well, there are people in there,” indicating
the house, “who think I am.” Dickie started slightly and looked
thoughtful. “You ask the judge, or the doctor, or—a lot of others. Ask
Miss Gwendoline Gerald,” he concluded bitterly.
Dickie shifted a leg. “It might not be a bad idea,” he said in a
peculiar tone, whose accent Bob didn’t notice, however. For some
moments the two young men sat moodily and silently side by side.
“Where are Dan and Clarence now?” asked Bob in a dull tone, after
a while.
“Gone to New York. Hustled there early this morning after some
hurry-up messages gave an inkling of what was going on. I’m to do
my best at this end. Keep my eyes on Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence,
and incidentally, learn and do what I can.”
As he spoke Dickie tapped his leg with his cane; at the same time he
bestowed another of those peculiar looks on Bob. Just then a young
lady stepped from the house and came toward them. She was in the
trimmest attire—for shooting or fishing—and looked extraordinarily
trim, herself. A footman followed with two light rods and a basket.
“Come on,” she said lightly to Bob. “Might as well get started. It’s
almost noon.”
“Started?” he stammered, staring at her.
“Yes, on that fishing excursion we planned.”
“We?” he repeated in the same tone. And then— “All right!” he said.
It occurred to him, if he went off somewhere alone, with the
temperamental young thing, he wouldn’t, at any rate, have to bob
against a score or so of other people throughout the day. Better one
than a crowd! “I’m ready,” he added, taking the rods and small
basket.
“But, I say—” Dickie had arisen. There was a new look in his eyes—
of disappointment, surprise—perhaps apprehension, too! “I say—”
he repeated, looking darkly toward Bob.
The temperamental young thing threw him a smile. “Sorry, Dickie,
but a previous engagement.—You know how it is!”
“I can imagine,” thought Dickie ominously, watching them disappear.
Then his glance shifted viciously toward the house, and there was a
look of stern determination in his eyes. As he mingled with others of
the guests a few moments later, however, his expression had
become one of studied amiability. Dickie was deep. His grievance
now was as great as Dan’s or Clarence’s.
 CHAPTER XI—FISHING
They had an afternoon of it, Bob and Dolly. Bob made himself
useful, if not agreeable. He was a willing though not altogether
cheerful slave. But the girl did not appear to mind that. She had
spirits enough for both of them and ordered Bob around royally. She
was nice to him, but she wanted him to know that he was her
property, as much hers as if she had bought him at one of those old
human auction sales. Only hers was a white slave!
She had the grandest time. She made him help her across the
stream on a number of unnecessary occasions, holding the slave’s
hand, so that she wouldn’t slip on the slippery stones. And once she
had him carry her across. She had to, because there weren’t any
stones, slippery or otherwise, she could avail herself of, at that
particular spot. It is true she might have gone on a little farther and
found some slippery stones that would have served her purpose, but
she pretended not to know about them. Besides, what is the use of
being a despot and having a private slave, all to yourself, if you don’t
use him and make him work? Mr. Bennett wasn’t only a slave either,
he was a romantic hero, as well, and in the books, heroes always
carry the heroines across streams. Miss Dolly experienced a real
bookish feeling when Bob carried her. He fully realized the popular
ideal, he had such strong arms. True, he didn’t breathe on her neck,
or in her ear, and he grasped her rather gingerly, but she found no
fault over that. Her great big hero was a modest hero. But he was
very manly and masculine, too.
He had plunged right in the stream, shoes and all, in spite of her
suggestion that he had better take them off. But what cared he for
wet feet? Might cause pneumonia, of course; but pneumonia had no
terrors for Bob! She smiled at his precipitancy, while secretly
approving of it. The act partook of a large gallantry. It reminded her
of Sir Walter Raleigh and that cloak episode. Miss Dolly nestled very
cozily, en route, with a warm young arm flung carelessly over a
broad masculine shoulder and her eyes were dreamy, the way
heroines’ eyes are in the books. She was not thinking of chimneys.
On the other side, she sat down, and imperiously—mistresses of
slaves are always imperious—bade him take off her shoes. It was
doubly exciting to vary the role of heroine with that of capricious
slave-mistress. Of course, she might just as well have taken off her
shoes on the other side and walked over but she never dreamed of
doing that. After the slave had taken off her shoes, she herself
removed her stockings, while the slave (seemingly cold and
impassive as Angelo’s marble Greek slave) looked away. Then she
dabbled her tiny white feet in the cold stream. She was thinking of
that Undine heroine. Dabbling her feet, also made her feel bookish.
Only in the books the heroes (or slaves) gaze adoringly at said feet.
Hers were worth gazing at, but Bob didn’t seem to have eyes. Never
mind! She told herself she liked that cold Anglo-Saxon phlegm (what
an ugly word!) in a man. She saw in it a foil to her own
temperamental disposition.
Having dabbled briefly, she held out a tiny foot and the slave dried it
with his handkerchief, looking very handsome as he knelt before her.
Then she put out the other and he repeated the operation. Then she
put on her shoes and stockings. Then she remembered they had
come ostensibly to fish and began whipping the stream
spasmodically, while he did the same mechanically. They caught one
or two speckled beauties, or Bob did. She couldn’t land hers. They
always got tangled in something which she thought very cute of
them. She didn’t feel annoyed at all when they got away, but just
laughed as if it were the best kind of a joke, while Bob looked at her
amazed. She called that“sport.”
Then she made him build a “cunning little fire” on a rock and clean
the fish and cook them and set them before her. She graciously let
him sit by her side and partake of a few overdone titbits and a
sandwich or two they had brought in the basket. But she also made
him jump up every once in a while to do something, finding plenty of
pretexts to keep him busy. In fact, she had never been more waited
upon in her life, which was just what she wanted. Bob, however,
didn’t complain, for the minutes and hours went by and she asked
no embarrassing questions. She didn’t make herself disagreeable in
that respect, and as long as she didn’t, he didn’t mind helping her
over rocks, or toting her. At least, this was a respite. His headache
wasn’t quite so bad; the fresh air seemed to have helped it.
As for her thinking him one of those high-class society-burglars, or
social buccaneers, it didn’t so much matter to him, after all. He was
getting rather accustomed to the idea. Of course, she would be
terribly disappointed if she ever found out he wasn’t one, but there
didn’t seem much chance of his ever clearing himself, in her mind, of
that unjust suspicion. At least, he reflected moodily, he was capable
of making one person in the world not positively miserable. Last
night when he had parted from Dickie, he had found a small grain of
the same kind of comfort, in the fact the he (or truth) had not
harmed Dickie. But to-day Dickie had appeared saddened by Dan’s
and Clarence’s troubles. Then, too, Bob had been obliged to walk off,
right in front of Dickie’s eyes with the temperamental young thing
whom Dickie wanted to marry the worst way. And here he (Bob) was
helping her over stones, “toting” frizzling trout for her, and
performing a hundred other little services which should, by right,
have been Dickie’s pleasure and privilege to perform.
Bob murmured a few idle regrets about Dickie, but Miss Dolly
dismissed them—and Dickie—peremptorily. She was sitting now,
leaning against a tree and the slave, by command, was lying at her
feet.
“Did you know,” she said dreamily, “I am a new woman?”
He didn’t know it. He never would have dreamed it, and he told her
so.
“Yes,” she observed, “I marched in the parade to Washington. That
is, I started, went a mile or two, and then got tired. But I marched
there, in principle, don’t you see? I think women should throw off
their shackles. Don’t you?” Bob might have replied he didn’t know
that Miss Dolly ever had had any shackles to throw off, but she
didn’t give him time to reply. “I read a book the other day wherein
the women do the proposing,” she went on. “It’s on an island and
the women are ‘superwomen.’ All women are ‘super’ nowadays.” She
regarded him tentatively. Her glance was appraising. “Do you know
of any reason why women should not do the proposing, Mr.
Bennett?”
“Can’t say that I do,” answered Bob gloomily, feeling as if some one
had suddenly laid a cold hand on his breast, right over where the
heart is. Her words had caused his thoughts to fly back to another.
She might not be proposing to the hammer-thrower at that moment
in that “super” fashion, but the chances were that the hammer-
thrower was proposing to her. He didn’t look like a chap that would
delay matters. He would strike while the iron was hot.
The temperamental young thing eyed Bob and then she eyed a
dreamy-looking cloud. She let the fingers of one hand stray idly in
Bob’s hair as he lay with his head in the grass.
“It tries hard to curl, doesn’t it?” she remarked irrelevantly.
“What?” said Bob absently, his mind about two miles and a half
away.
“Your hair. You’ve got lovely hair.” Bob looked disgusted. “It started
to curl and then changed its mind, didn’t it?” she giggled.
Bob muttered disagreeably.
“I suppose you were one of those curly-headed little boys?” went on
the temperamental young thing.
“I don’t know whether I was or not,” he snapped. He was getting
back into that snappy mood. Then it struck him this might not be
quite the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for he
added sulkily; “Maybe I was.”
“I can just see you,” said the temperamental young thing in a far-off
voice. “Nursie must have thought you a darling.”
The slave again muttered ominously. He wished the temperamental
little thing would take her fingers away. They trailed now idly over an
ear.
“You’re tickling,” said Bob ill-naturedly.
She stopped trailing and patted instead—very gently and carelessly—
as if she were patting a big Newfoundland dog which she owned all
by herself. That pat expressed a sense of ownership.
“I’m wondering,” she said, “whether it would make things nicer, if I
did propose and we became engaged?”
“Oh,” said Bob satirically, “you’re wondering that, are you?”
“Yes.” More tentative pats.
“And what do you suppose I’d say?” he demanded. He was feeling
more and more grouchy all the time. He didn’t want any of that
“superwoman” business. He had already had one proposal. What
mockery! A proposal! He heard again that other “Will you marry
me?” and looked once more, in fancy, into the starry, enigmatical
violet eyes. He experienced anew that surging sensation in his veins.
And he awoke again to the hollow jest of those words! He felt,
indeed, a moderately vivid duplication of all his emotions of the night
before. The temperamental young thing’s voice recalled him from
the poignant recollections of the painful past into the dreary and
monotonous present.
“Why, you actually blushed, just now,” she said accusingly.
“Did I?” growled Bob, looking grudgingly into dark eyes where a
moment before, in imagination, there had been starry violet ones.
“Yes, you did. And”—her voice taking a tenderer accent—“it was
becoming, too.”
“Rush of blood to the head,” he retorted shortly. “Comes from lying
like this.”
“What would you say if I did?” she demanded, reverting to that
other topic. “Propose, I mean? Would you accept? Would you take
me—I mean, shyly suffer me,” with a giggle, “to take you into my
arms?”
“Quit joshing!” growled Bob.
“Answer. Would you?”
“No.”
“No?” Bending over him more closely. For a “super,” she was
certainly wonderfully attractive in her slim young way at that
moment. Not many of the inferior sex would have acted quite so
stonily as Bob acted. He didn’t show any more emotion when she
bent over than one of those prostrate stone Pharaohs, or Rameses,
which lie around with immovable features on the sands of Egypt.
“You see you couldn’t help it,” the super-temperamental young thing
assured him, confidentially.
“Ouch!” said Bob, for she was tickling again. He wished she would
keep those trailing fingers in her lap. They felt like a fly
perambulating his brow or walking around his ear.
“You’d just have to accept me,” she added.
“Oh, you mean on account of that silly burglar business?”
“Of course. You left two or three thumb-prints in the room.”
“I did?” That was incriminating. No getting around thumb-prints! He
felt as if the temperamental little thing was weaving a mesh around
him. In addition to being a “super,” she was a Lady of Shalott.
Dolly thrilled with a sense of her power. She could play with poor
Bob as a cat with a mouse; she could let him go so far and then put
out her claws and draw him back.
“Besides, I found out you didn’t quite tell me the truth about those
accomplices of yours,” she went on triumphantly. “You said there
weren’t any, and when I went out and looked around where the dog
barked, I found footprints. They led to the trellis, right up into your
room. The trellis, too, showed some person, or persons, had climbed
up, for some of the boughs were broken. Deny now, if you can, you
had visitors last night,” she challenged him.
Bob didn’t deny; he lay there helpless.
“Of course,” she said with another giggle, “I might let you say you’ll
think it over. I might not press you too hard at once for an answer. I
don’t want you to reply: ‘This is so sudden,’ or anything like that.”
She got up suddenly with a little delirious laugh. “But I simply can’t
wait. You look so handsome when you’re cross. Besides, it will be so
exciting to be engaged to a—a—”
“Society-burglar—” grimly.
“That’s it. I’ve never been engaged to a burglar before!”
“But you have been engaged?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of times. But not like this. This feels as if it might lead
—”
“To the altar?” Satirically.
“Yes.”
“But suppose I got caught?—that is, if I really enjoyed the distinction
of being a burglar which I am not?”
“Then, of course, I never knew—you deceived me—poor innocent!—
as well as the rest of the world. And there would be columns and
columns in the papers. And some people would pity me, but most
people would envy me. And I’d visit you in jail with a handkerchief to
my eyes and be snap-shotted that way. And I’d sit in a dark corner
in the court, looking pale and interesting. And the lady reporters
would interview me and they’d publish my picture with yours
—‘Handsome Bob, the swell society yeggman. Member of one of the
oldest families, etc.’ And—and—”
“Great Scott!” cried Bob. She had that publicity-bee worse than Gee-
gee. In another moment she’d be setting the day. “Shall we—ah!—
retrace our steps?”
It was getting late. The hours had gone by somehow and as she
offered no objections, they “retraced.” For some time now she was
silent. Perhaps she was imagining herself too happy for words. Once
or twice she cast a sidelong glance shyly at Bob. It was the look of a
capricious slave-owner metamorphosed, through the power of love,
into a yielding and dependent young maiden. Bob was supposed to
be the brutal conqueror. Meanwhile that young man strode along
unheedingly. He didn’t mind any little branches or bushes that
happened to stand in his way and plowed right through them. It
would have been the same, if he had met that historic bramble
bush. A thousand scratches, more or less, wouldn’t count.
“You can put your arm around me now,” she observed, with another
musical but detestable giggle, as they passed through a grove, not
very far from the house. “It is quite customary here, you know.”
He didn’t know, but he obeyed. What else could he do?
“Now say something.” Her voice had once more that ownership
accent.
“What do you want me to say?” None too graciously.
“The usual thing! Those three words that make the world go
around.”
“But I don’t.” Even a worm will turn.
“You will.” Softly.
“I won’t.”
“Oh, yes, you will.” More softly. Then with a sigh: “This is the place.
Under this oak, carved all over with hearts and things. Do it.”
“What?” He looked down on lips red as cherries.
“Are you going to?”
“And if I don’t?” he challenged her.
“Finger-prints!” she said. “Footmarks!”
“Oh, well! Confound it.” And he did—the way a bird pecks at a
cherry.
She straightened with another giggle. “Our first!” she said.
“Hope you’re satisfied,” he remarked grudgingly.
“It will do for a beginning. Oh, dear! some one saw us!” He looked
around with a start, his unresponsive arm slipping from about a
pliant waist.
“I don’t see any one.”
“He’s dodged behind a tree. I think it was Dickie. And—yes, there
are one or two other men. They—they seem to be dodging, too.”
Bob saw them now. One, he was sure, was the commodore.
“Funny performance, isn’t it?” he said, with a sickly smile.
“Perhaps—?” She looked at him with genuine awe in the
temperamental eyes. He read her thought; she thought—believed
they had “come for him.” She appeared positively startled, and—yes,
sedulous! Maybe, she was discovering in herself a little bit of that
“really, truly” feeling.
“Oh!” she said. “They mustn’t—”
“Don’t you worry,” he reassured her. “I think I can safely promise
you they won’t do what you expect them to.”
“You mean,” joyously, “you have a way to circumvent them?” She
was sure now he had; the aristocratic burglars always have. He
would probably have a long and varied career before him yet.
“I mean just what I say. But I think they want to talk with me?
Indeed, I’m quite sure they do. They are coming up now. Perhaps
you’d better leave me to deal with them.”
“You—you are sure they have no evidence to—?”
“Land me in jail? Positively. I assure you, on my honor, you are the
only living person who, by any stretch of the imagination, could offer
damaging testimony against me, along that line.”
He spoke so confidently she felt it was the truth. “I believe you,” she
said. She wanted to say more, befitting the thrill of the moment, but
she had no time. Dickie and two others were approaching. It might
be best if he met them alone. So she slipped away and walked
toward the house. It would be quite exciting enough afterward, she
told herself, to find out what happened. It wasn’t until she got
almost to the house, that she remembered she ought to have asked
Bob for a ring. Of course, he would have a goodly supply of them.
Would it make her particeps criminis though, if she wore one of his
rings? Then she concluded it wouldn’t, because she was innocent of
intention. She didn’t know. She wondered, also, if she should
announce her “engagement” right off, or wait a day or two. She
decided to wait a day or two. But she told Miss Gwendoline Gerald
what a lovely time she and Mr. Bennett had had together, fishing.
And Miss Gerald smiled a cryptic smile.
Meanwhile Bob had met Dan and Dickie and Clarence.
 CHAPTER XII—JUST ONE THING AFTER ANOTHER
It was far from a pleasant meeting. Dickie looked about as amiable
as a wind or thunder demon, in front of a Japanese temple. That
oscillatory performance beneath the “kissing-oak,” as the noble tree
was called, had been almost too much for Dickie. He seemed to
have trouble in articulating.
“You’re a nice one, aren’t you?” he managed at length to say, and
his tones were like the splutter of a defective motor. “You ought to
be given a leather medal.”
“Could I help it?” said Bob wearily. And then because he was too
much of a gentleman to vouchsafe information incriminating a lady:
“Usual place! Customary thing! Blame it on the oak! Ha! ha!” This
wasn’t evading the truth; it was simply facetiousness. Might as well
meet this trio of dodging brigands with a smiling face! Dickie’s vocal
motor failed to explode, even spasmodically; that reply seemed to
have extinguished him. But the commodore awoke to vivacity.
“Let us try to meet this situation calmly,” he said, red as a turkey-
cock. “But let us walk as we talk,” taking Bob’s arm and leading that
young man unresistingly down a path to the driveway to the village.
“I shouldn’t by any chance want to encounter Mrs. Dan just yet,” he
explained. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll get away from here, while I
explain.”
Bob didn’t mind. He saw no guile in the commodore’s manner or
words. Nor did he observe how Clarence looked at Dickie. The
twilight shadows were beginning to fall.
“Briefly,” went on the commodore, as he steered them out of the
woods, “our worst fears have been realized. Negotiations with Gee-
gee are in progress. Divorce papers will probably follow.” Clarence
on the other side of Dickie made a sound. “All this is your work.” The
commodore seemed about to become savage, but he restrained
himself. “No use speaking about that. Also, it is too late for us to call
the wager off and pay up. Mischief’s done now.”
“Why not make a clean breast of everything?” suggested Bob. “Say
it was a wager, and—”
“A truth-telling stunt? That would help a lot.” Contemptuously.
Dickie muttered: “Bonehead!”
“I mean, you can say there wasn’t any harm,” said Bob desperately.
“That it was all open and innocent!”
“Much good my saying that would do!” snorted Dan. “You don’t
know Mrs. Dan.”
“Or Mrs. Clarence,” said Clarence weakly.
Bob hung his head.
“We’ve thought of one little expedient that may help,” observed Dan,
still speaking with difficulty. “While such influences as we could
summon are at work on the New York end, we’ve got to square
matters here. We’ve got to account for your—your—” here the
commodore nearly choked—“extraordinary revelations.”
“But how,” said Bob patiently, “can you ‘account’ for them? I suppose
you mean to make me out a liar?”
“Exactly,” from the commodore coolly.
“I don’t mind,” returned Bob wearily, “as long as it will help you out
and I’m not one. Only I can’t say those things aren’t true.”
“You don’t have to,” said Dan succinctly. “There’s an easier way than
that. No one would believe you, anyway, now.”
“That’s true.” Gloomily.
“All we need,” went on Dan, brightening a bit, “is your cooperation.”
“What can I do?”
“You don’t do anything. We do what is to be done. You just come
along.”
“We take you into custody,” interposed Clarence.
“Lock you up!” exploded Dickie once more. “And a good job.”
“Lock me up?” Bob gazed at them, bewildered. Had the
temperamental little thing “peached,” after all? Impossible! And yet if
she hadn’t, how could Dan and Dickie and Clarence know he was a
burglar—or rather, that a combination of unlucky circumstances
made him seem one? Perhaps that kiss was a signal for them to step
forward and take him. History was full of such kisses. And yet he
would have sworn she was not that kind.
“You’re to come along without making a fuss,” said the commodore
significantly.
“But I don’t want to come along. This is going too far,” remonstrated
Bob. “I’ve a decided objection to being locked up as a burglar.”
“Burglar!” exclaimed Dan.
“Don’t know how you found out! Appearances may be against me,
but,” stopping in the road, “if you want me to go along, you’ve got
to make me.”
The trio looked at one another. “Maybe, he really is—” suggested
Dickie, touching his forehead.
“Too much truth!” said Clarence with a sneer. “Feel half that way,
myself!”
“Would be all the better for us, if it were really so,” observed Dan.
And to Bob: “You think that we think you’re a burglar?”
“Don’t you? Didn’t you say something about locking me up?”
“But not in a jail.”
Bob stared. “What then?”
“A sanatorium.”
“Sanatorium?”
“For the insane.”
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