"You've spoiled a very good waitress, Rushcroft," said Barnes.

"And a very good appetite as well," growled the Star.

Late in the night, Barnes, sitting at his window dreaming dreams, saw two big touring cars whiz past the tavern. The next morning Peter Ames, the chauffeur, called him up on the telephone to inquire whether he had heard anything more about the job on his sister's place. He was anxious to know, he said, because everybody had cleared out of Green Fancy during the night and he had received instructions to lock up the house and look for another situation.



CHAPTER XVIII

MR. SPROUSE CONTINUES TO BE PERPLEXING, BUT PUTS HIS NOSE TO THE GROUND

The morning air was soft with the first real touch of spring. A quiet haze lay over the valley; the lofty hills were enjoying a peaceful smoke, and the sky was as blue as the turquoise. Birds shrilled a fresh, gay carol; the song of the anvil had a new thrill of joy in every inspiring note; the cawing of crows travelled melodiously across the fields, roosters split their throats in vociferous acclaim to the distant sun, and hens clucked a complacent chorus. The rattle of kitchen pans was melody to the ear instead of torture; the squeaking of pigs in the sty beyond the stable yard took on the dignity of music; and the blue smoke that rose from chimneys near and far went dancing up to wed the smiling sky.

Barnes was abroad early. Very greatly to his annoyance, he had slept long and soundly throughout the night. He was annoyed because he had made up his mind that as her protector he would be most negligent if he went to sleep at all, with all those frightened varlets hovering around ready to go to any extreme in order to save their skins.

Indeed, he left his door slightly ajar and laid his revolver on a chair beside the bed, in which, with the aid of a lantern, he promised himself to keep the vigil, stretched out in his daytime garb, prepared for instant action, the while he enriched his mind by reading "The Man of Property." But he fell to dreaming with his eyes wide open, and few were the pages he turned.

Suddenly it was broad daylight and the wick in the lantern smelled horribly. He popped from the bed, rubbed his eyes, and then dashed out in the hall, expecting to come upon sanguinary evidence of a raid during the night. To his amazement, there were no visible signs of an attack upon the house. It seemed incredible that his defection had not been attended by results too horrible to contemplate. By all the laws of fate, she should now be either dead or at the very least, frightfully mutilated. Something like that invariably happens when a sentinel sleeps at his post, or an engineer drowses in his cab. But nothing of the sort had happened.

Mr. Bacon, sweeping the front stairs, assured him between yawns that he hadn't heard a sound in the Tavern after half-past ten,—at which hour he went to bed and to sleep.

Barnes was at breakfast when Peter Ames called up. An inspiration seized him when the chauffeur mentioned the wholesale exodus: he hired Peter forthwith and ordered him to report immediately,—with the car. He was going up to Green Fancy for Miss Cameron's "boxes."

Whether it was the fresh, sweet smell of the earth that caused him to saunter forth from the Tavern, and to adventure across the road to the foot of the great old oak, or the ripening of spring in his blood, is of no immediate consequence here. He had no reason for going over there to lean against the tree and light his after-breakfast pipe,— unless, of course, it be argued that the position afforded a fair and excellent view of the window in Miss Cameron's room. The shutters were open and the low sash was raised.

Presently she appeared at the window, and smiled down upon him. The spell was at its height; the charm that had clothed the morning with enchantment was now complete.

He waved his hand. "The top o' the morning," he cried.

"I detect coffee," she returned, "and, oh, how good it smells. Have you had yours?"

"Ages ago," he replied, ecstatically.

She placed her elbows on the sill and her chin in the palms of her hands. The loose sleeves of Miss Thackeray's bizarre dressing gown fell away, revealing two round, smooth, white arms. The sun shot its mellow light into the ripples of her tousled hair, and it shone like burnished gold. Her white teeth gleamed against the red of her smiling lips. He was fascinated.

The automobile driven by Peter Ames too soon came roaring and rattling up the pike. She withdrew her head, after twice being warned by Barnes not to reveal herself to the view of skulkers who might infest the wood beyond,—and each time his reward was a delightfully stubborn shake of the head and the ruthless assertion that on such a heavenly morning as this she didn't mind in the least if all the spies in the world were gazing at her.

Two minutes after Peter drove up to the Tavern he was on the way back to Green Fancy again, and seated beside him was Thomas Kingsbury Barnes, his new master.

"Needn't be afraid of trespassin'," said Peter when Barnes advised him to go slow as they turned off the road into the forest. "Nobody's going to object. You c'n yell, and shoot, and raise all the thunder you want, an' there won't be nobody runnin' out to tell you to shut up. Might as well try to disturb a graveyard."

There was not a sign of human life about the place. Peter, without compunction, admitted his employer through the back door of the house, and accompanied him upstairs to the room recently occupied by Miss Cameron.

"Course," he said, but not uneasily, "I'm not supposed to let anybody remove anything from the house as long as I'm employed as caretaker."

"But you are no longer employed as caretaker. You were discharged and you are now working for me, Peter."

"That's so," said Peter, scratching his head. "Makes all the difference in the world. I never thought of that. Come to think of it, I guess Miss Cameron needs clothes as much as anybody. The rest of 'em took all their duds away with 'em, you c'n bet. Would you know Miss Cameron's clothes if you was to see 'em?"

"Perfectly," said Barnes.

"That's good," said Peter, relieved. "Clothes seem to look purty much alike to me, specially women's."

They found the two small leather trunks, thickly belabelled, in the room upstairs. Both were locked.

"I don't see how you're going to identify 'em without seein' 'em," said Peter dubiously.

Barnes looked at him sternly. "Peter, be good enough to remember that you are working for a man of the most highly developed powers of divination. Do you get that?"

"No, sir," said Peter honestly; "I don't."

"Well, if I were to say to you that I possess the singular ability to see a thing without actually seeing it, what would you say?"

"I wouldn't say anything, because I don't think it helps a man any to call his boss a liar."

"You take this one," said Barnes, without further parley, "and I will manage the other." He was in a hurry to get away from the house. There was no telling when the government agents would descend upon the place. He was at a loss to understand O'Dowd's failure to remove the trunks which would so surely draw the attention of the authorities to the girl he seemed so eager to shield. "And, by the way," he added, as they descended the stairs with the trunks on their backs, "you may as well get your own things together, Peter. We start on a long motor trip to-night. I am afraid we shall have to steal the automobile, if you don't mind."

"It belongs to me, sir," said Peter. "Mr. O'Dowd gave it to me yesterday, with his compliments. It seems that he had word from his sister to reward me for long and faithful service. Special cablegram from London or England, I forget which."

"Did Mr. Curtis leave with the others last night?" inquired Barnes, setting the trunk down on the brick pavement outside the door.

"'Pears that he left a couple of days ago," said Peter, vastly perplexed. "By gosh, I don't see how he done it, 'thout me knowin' anything about it. Derned queer, that's all I got to say, man as sick as he is."

Barnes did not enlighten him. He helped Peter to lift the trunks into the car and then ordered him to start at once for Hart's Tavern.

"You can return later on for your things," he said.

"I got 'em tied up in a bundle in the garage, Mr. Burns," he said. "Won't take a second to get 'em out." He hurried around the corner of the house, leaving Barnes alone with the car.

A dry, quiet chuckle fell upon Barnes's ears. He glanced about in surprise and alarm. No one was in sight.

"Look up, young man," and the startled young man obeyed. His gaze halted at a window on the second story, almost directly over his head.

Mr. Sprouse was looking down upon him, his sharp features fixed in a sardonic grin.

"Well, I'll be damned!" burst from Barnes's lips. He could not believe his eyes.

"Surprised to see me, eh? If you're not in a hurry, I'd certainly appreciate a lift as far as the Tavern, old man. I'll be down in a jiffy."

"Hold on! What the deuce does all this mean? How do you happen to be here, and where are the—"

"Sh! Not so loud! Don't get excited. I dare say you know all there is to know about me by this time, so we needn't waste time over trifles. Stand aside! I'm going to drop." A moment later he swung over the sill, and dropped lightly to the ground eight feet below. Dusting his hands, he advanced and extended one of them to the bewildered Barnes. "Oh, you won't shake, eh? Well, it doesn't matter. I don't blame you."

"See here, Sprouse or whatever your name is,—"

"Cool off! I'll explain in ten words. I didn't get the stuff. I came back this morning to have a quiet, undisturbed look around. My only reason for revealing myself to you now, Barnes, is to ask your assistance in—"

"Ask my assistance, you infernal rogue!" roared Barnes. "Why, I'll— I'll—"

"Better hear me out," broke in Sprouse calmly.

"I could drill a hole through you so quickly you'd never know what did it," he went on. His hand was in his coat pocket, and a quick glance revealed to Barnes a singularly impressive angle in the cloth, the point of which seemed to be directed squarely at his chest. "But I'm not going to do it. I just want to set myself straight with you. In a word, I never got anywhere near the room in which the jewels were hidden. This is God's truth, Barnes. I didn't stick a knife into that poor devil up there the other night. Here's what actually happened. I—"

"Wait a moment. You intended to steal the jewels, didn't you? You were not playing fair with me then, so why should I put any faith in you now?"

"Honest confession is good for the soul," said Sprouse easily. "I wasn't the only one who was trying to get the baubles, my friend. It was a game in which only the best man could win."

"I know the truth now about Roon and Paul," said Barnes significantly.

"You do?" sneered Sprouse. "I'll bet you a thousand to one you do not. If the girl told you what she believes to be true, she didn't have it straight at all. She was led to believe that they were a couple of crooks and that they fixed me in that Tavern down there. Isn't that what she told you? Well, that story was cooked up for her special benefit. I don't mind telling you the truth about them, and you can tell it to her. Roon was the Baron Hedlund—But all this can wait. Now—"

"Did you shoot either of those men?"

"I did not. Baron Hedlund was shot, I firmly believe, by Prince Ugo. I might as well go on with the story now and have it over with. Tell that chauffeur to take a little stroll. He doesn't have to hear the story, you know. Hedlund came up here a week or so ago to keep a look- out for his wife. The Baroness is supposed to be deeply enamoured of Prince Ugo. He found letters which seemed to indicate that she was planning to join the Prince up here. In any event, he came to watch. Well, she didn't come. She had been headed off, but he didn't know that. When he heard of the arrival of a lady at Green Fancy the other afternoon, he got busy. He went right up there with blood in his eye. I admit that I am the gentleman who telephoned the warning up to the Prince. They tried to head the Baron and his man off at the cross- roads, but he beat them to it. If there was to be a fight, they didn't want it to happen anywhere near the house. Part of them, led by Ugo himself, took a short cut up through the woods and met the two men in the road.

"There is only one man in the world to-day who is a better shot at night than Prince Ugo, and modesty keeps me from mentioning his illustrious name. That's why I believe Ugo is the one who got the Baron,—or Roon, as you know him. The other fellow was halted at the cross-roads when he made a run for it. A couple of men had been sent there for just such an emergency. Hedlund was a curiously chivalrous chap. He went to extreme measures to protect his wife's good name by wiping out all means of identification. His wife's good name! It is to laugh! Now, that is the true story of the little affair, and if you are as much of a gentleman as I take you to be, Barnes, you will respect Hedlund's desire to shield the woman he loved, and let him lie up yonder in an unmarked grave. That is what he figured on, you know, in case things went against him, and I'll stake my head that if you put it up to the Countess Therese, she will feel as I do about it. She will beg you to keep the secret. Hedlund was a lifelong friend of her family. He was beloved by all of them. He married an actress in Vienna three or four years ago. On second thoughts, if I were you I'd spare the Countess. I'd let her go on thinking that the story she has heard is true,—at least for the time being. She's a nice girl and there's no sense in giving her any unnecessary pain. But that's up to you. You can do as you please about it.

"Now to go back to my own troubles. When I got out into the hall night before last, after leaving her room, I heard voices whispering in Prince Ugo's room. Naturally I thought that some one had lamped us on the outside, and that I was likely to be in a devil of a mess if I wasn't careful. The last place for me to go was back into her room. They would cut me off from the outside. So I beat it up the stairway into the attic. Nothing happened, so I sneaked down to have a peep around. The door to Ugo's room was open, but there was no light on the inside. He came to the door and looked up and down the hall. Then some one else came out and started to sneak away. I leave you to guess the sex.

"Nicholas butted in at this unfortunate juncture. He made the mistake of his life. I could see him as plain as day, standing in the hall grinning like an ape. Ugo jumped back into his room. In less than a second he was out again. He landed squarely on Nicholas's back as the fellow turned to escape. I saw the steel flash. Poor old Nick went down in a heap, letting out a horrible yell. Ugo dragged him into the room and dashed back into his own. A moment later he came out again, yelling for help. I heard him shouting that the house had been robbed,—and in two seconds there was an uproar all over the place. I thought I was done for. But he had them all rushing downstairs, yelling that the thief had gone that way. There was only one thing left for me to do and that was to get out on the roof if possible, and wait for things to quiet down. I got out through a trap door and stayed there for an hour or so. They were beating the forest for the thief, and I give you my word, believe it or not, I actually sent up a prayer, Barnes, that you had got off safely with the girl. I prayed harder than I ever dreamed a man could pray.

"Well, to shorten the story, I finally took a chance and slid down to the eaves where I managed to find the limb of a tree big enough to support me,—just as if the Lord had ordered it put there for my special benefit. I was soon on the ground, and that meant safety for me. I had heard Ugo tell the others that Nicholas said the man who stabbed him was yours truly. Can you beat it? And then every mother's son of them declared it was a feat that no one else in the world could have pulled off but me, and as I was nowhere to be found, it was only natural that all of them should believe the lie that Ugo told.

"And now comes the maddening part of the whole business. He said that the crown jewels were gone! I heard him telling how he was awakened out of a sound sleep by a man with a gun, who forced him to open the safe and hand over the treasure. Then he said he was put to sleep again by a crack over the head with a slung-shot. He was only partially stunned,—Lord, what a liar!—and came to in time to hear the struggle across the hall. The thief was running downstairs when he staggered to the door. It seems that the door at the bottom of the steps had not been closed that night.

"Now, my dear Mr. Barnes, when I asked you to lend your assistance awhile ago, it was only to have you tell me when it was that Mr. Loeb left this place, which way he went, and who accompanied him. If we are to find the crown jewels, my friend, we will first have to find Prince Ugo. He has them."

Barnes had not taken his eyes from the face of this amazing rascal during the whole of the recital. He had been deceived in him before; he was determined not to be fooled again.

"I don't believe a word of this yarn," he said flatly. "You have the jewels and—"

"Don't be an ass," snapped Sprouse. "If I had them do you suppose I'd be fiddling around here to-day? Not much. I saw the gang making their getaway last night, and I saw Peter depart this morning. I concluded to have a look about the place. Hope springs eternal, you know. There was a bare possibility that he might have forgotten them!" He scowled as he grinned, and never had Barnes looked upon a countenance so evil.

"Why should I tell YOU anything about Prince Ugo? It would only be helping you to carry out the game—"

"Look here, Mr. Barnes, I'm not going to double-cross you again. That's all over. I want to get that scurvy dog who knifed poor old Nick. Nick was a decent, square man. He wasn't a crook. He was a patriot, if such a thing exists in this world to-day. If you can give me a lead, I'll try to run Prince Ugo down. And if I do, we'll get the jewels."

"We? You amuse me, Sprouse."

"Well, I can't do any more than give my promise, my solemn oath, or something like that. I can't give a bond, you know. I swear to you that if I lay hands on that stuff, I will deliver it to you. Might just as well trust me as Ugo. You won't get them from him, that's sure; and you may get them from me."

"Is it revenge you're after?"

"My God," almost shouted Sprouse in his exasperation, "didn't he give me a black eye among my friends up here? Didn't he put me in wrong with all of them? Do you think I'm going to stand for that? Think I'm going to let him get away with it? You don't know me, my friend. I've got a reputation at stake. No one has ever double-crossed me and got away with it. I want to prove to the world that I didn't take those jewels. I—"

"Just what do you mean by 'the world,' Sprouse?"

"My world," he replied succinctly. "I'm not a piker, you know," he went on, cocking one eye in a somewhat supercilious manner. "The stakes are always high in my game. I don't play for pennies."

"Get in the car," said Barnes suddenly. He had decided to take a chance with the resourceful, indefatigable rascal. There was nothing to be lost by setting him on the track of Prince Ugo, who, if the man's story was true, had betrayed his best friends. There was something convincing about Sprouse's version of the affair at Green Fancy. He called out to Peter.

"I suppose you know that the whole game is up, Naismith," he said, lowering his voice. Peter was wrathfully cranking the car. "The government is going to take a hand in this business up here."

"If you mean that as a hint to me, it's unnecessary. I'll be on my way inside of an hour. This is no place for me. And that Tavern is no place for—er—for her, Barnes. Just mention that you saw me and that I'm going after Mr. Loeb. If I get the stuff, I'll do the square thing by her. Not for sentimental reasons, bless you, but just because I like to do things that make people wonder what the hell I'll do next. Tell her the whole story if you feel like it, but if I were you I'd wait till she is safe among her friends, where she won't be nervous. Hit it up a bit, Peter, old boy. I'm in a hurry."

Peter eyed him in an unfriendly manner. "Where did you come from, Mr. Perkins? Mighty queer you—"

Sprouse spoke softly out of the corner of his mouth. "Nice old New England name, isn't it, Barnes?" To Peter: "It's a long story. I'll write it to you. Speed up."

Barnes told all that he knew of Prince Ugo's flight. Sprouse looked thoughtful for a long time.

"So O'Dowd knows that I really was after the swag, eh? He believes I got it?"

"I suppose so."

"The only one who thinks I'm absolutely innocent is Ugo, of course,— and Mrs. Van Dyke. That's good." Sprouse smacked his lips. "Just send me on to Hornville in the car, and don't give me another thought till you hear from me. I've got a pretty fair idea where I can find Mr. Loeb. It will take a little time,—a couple of days, perhaps,—but sooner or later he'll turn up in close proximity to the beautiful baroness."



CHAPTER XIX

A TRIP BY NIGHT, A SUPPER, AND A LATE ARRIVAL

Shortly after sundown that evening, the Rushcroft Company evacuated Hart's Tavern. They were delayed by the irritating and, to Mr. Rushcroft, unpardonable behaviour of two officious gentlemen, lately arrived, who insisted politely but firmly on prying into the past, present and future history of the several members of the organisation, including the new "backer" or "angel," as one of the operatives slyly observed to the other on beholding Miss Thackeray.

Barnes easily established his own identity and position, and was not long in convincing the investigators that his connection with the stranded company was of a purely philanthropic nature,—yes, even platonic, he asseverated with some heat when the question was put to him.

They examined him closely concerning his solitary visit to Green Fancy, and he described to the best of his ability all but one of the inmates. He neglected to mention Miss Cameron. Realising that he would be storing up trouble for himself if he failed to mention his trip to the house that morning,—they were sure to hear of it in time,—he set his mind to the task of constructing a satisfactory explanation. He concluded to sacrifice Peter Ames, temporarily at least. Taking Peter aside, he explained the situation to him, impressing upon him the importance of leaving Miss Cameron and her luggage out of the interview, and to say nothing about the return of "Mr. Perkins."

Fortified by Barnes's promise to protect him if he followed these instructions, Peter consented to tell all that he knew about the people at Green Fancy. Whereupon his new employer informed the secret service men that he had gone up to Green Fancy that morning in response to an appeal from Peter Ames, who had applied to him for a position a day or two before. On his arrival there he confirmed the bewildered chauffeur's story that the whole crowd had stolen away during the night. He guaranteed to produce Peter at any time he was needed, and was perfectly willing to discommode himself to the extent of leaving the man behind if they insisted on holding him.

The officers, after putting him through a rather rigid examination, held private consultation over Peter. To Barnes's surprise and subsequent dismay, they announced that there was nothing to be gained by holding the man; he was at liberty to depart with his employer, provided he would report when necessary.

Barnes was some time in fathoming the motive behind this seeming indifference on the part of the secret service men. It came to him like a flash, and its significance stunned him. They had decided that there was more to be gained by letting Peter Ames think he was above suspicion than by keeping him on the anxious seat. Peter unrestrained was of more value to them than Peter in durance vile. And from that moment forward there would not be an hour of the day or night when he was far ahead of the shadower who followed his trail. There would be a sly, invisible pursuer at his heels, and an eye ever ready to detect the first false move that he made. They were counting on Peter to lead them, in his own good time, to the haunts of his comrades. He could not escape. And he could make the fatal mistake of considering them a pack of fools!

Barnes, perceiving all this, was in a state of perturbation. He had devised a very clever plan for getting Miss Cameron away from the Tavern without attracting undue attention. She was to leave in one of the automobiles that he had engaged to convey the players to Crowndale. It should go without saying that she was to travel with him in Peter's ramshackle car. In case of detention or inquiry, she was to pose as a stage-struck young woman who had obtained a place with the company at the last moment through his influence.

Mr. Rushcroft was not in the secret. Barnes merely announced that he wanted to give a charming young friend of the family a chance to see what she could do on the stage, and that he had taken the liberty of sending for her. The star was magnanimous. He slapped Barnes on the back and declared that nothing could give him greater joy than to transform any friend of his into an actress, and he didn't give a hang whether she had talent or not.

"We'll write in a part for her to-night," he said, "and we'll make it a small one at first, so that she won't have any difficulty in learning it. From night to night we'll build it up, Barnes, so that by the end of our first month your protegee practically will be a co-star with me. There's nothing mean about me, old chap. Any friend of yours can have—"

Barnes made haste to explain that he did not want any one to know that this friend of the family was going on the stage, and that he would be greatly indebted to Rushcroft if he would keep "mum" about it for the time being.

"Certainly. Not a word. I understand," said Mr. Rushcroft amiably. "I've had it happen before," he went on, a perfectly meaningless remark that brought a flush to Barnes's cheek.

It had been Barnes's intention to spirit his charge away from Hart's Tavern under cover of darkness, in company with his other "responsibilities," but the fresh turn of affairs now presented difficulties that were likely to upset his hastily conceived strategy. He had but one purpose in view, and that was to spare her an unpleasant encounter with the government officials,—an encounter that conceivably might result in very distressing complications. He had revealed his plan to her and she apparently was very much taken with it,—indeed, she was quite enthusiastic over the prospect of being whisked unceremoniously to Crowndale, and thence to the home of his sister in New York City, where she could at once put herself in communication with friends and supporters.

He was looking forward with dubious hopes to a possible extension of his guardianship, involving a voyage across the Atlantic and the triumphant delivery of the Countess, so to speak, into the eager arms of her country's ambassador at Paris. He was now in a state of mind that inspired him with the belief that it would be a joy to die for her. If he died for her, she would always remember him as a brave, devoted champion; she would exalt him; in her tender, grateful heart there would always be a corner for him, even to the end of her days,— even to the end of her days on the throne of her country's ruler. Far better that he should die for her,—and have it all over with,—than that he should live to see her the wife of—But invariably he ceased dreaming at this point and admitted that it would be infinitely more satisfying to live. It was his matter-of-fact contention that while there is life there is hope.

When the hour came for the departure from Hart's Tavern he deliberately engaged the two secret service men in conversation in the tap-room. Miss Cameron left the house by the rear door and was safely ensconced in Peter's automobile long before he shook hands with the "rat-catchers" and dashed out to join her. Tommy Gray's car, occupied by the four players, was moving away from the door as he sprang in beside her and slammed the door. The interior of the car was as black as pitch.

"Are you there?" he whispered.

"Yes. Isn't it jolly, running away like this? It must be wonderfully exciting to be a criminal, always dodging and—"

"Sh! Even a limousine may have ears!"

But if the limousine had possessed a thousand ears they would have been rendered useless in the stormy racket made by Peter's muffler and the thunderous roar of the exhaust as the car got under way.

Sixty miles lay between them and Crowndale. Tommy Gray guaranteed that the distance could be covered in three hours, even over the vile mountain roads. Ten o'clock would find them at the Grand Palace Hotel, none the worse for wear, provided (he always put it parenthetically) they lived to tell the tale! The luggage had gone on ahead of them earlier in the day.

Peter's efforts to stay behind Tommy's venerable but surprisingly energetic Buick were the cause of many a gasp and shudder from the couple who sat behind him in the bounding car. He had orders to keep back of Tommy but never to lose sight of his tail light.

Peter was like the celebrated Tam O' Shanter. He was pursued by spectres. The instant that he discovered that he was lagging a trifle, he shot the car up to top speed, with the result that he had to jam on the brakes violently in order to avoid crashing into Tommy's tail light, and at such times Miss Cameron and Barnes sustained unpleasant jars. Something seemed to be telling Peter that the law was stretching out its cruel hand to clutch him from behind; he was determined to keep out of its reach.

There was small opportunity for conversation. The trip was not at all as Barnes had imagined it would be. After the car had raced through Hornville he decided that it was not necessary to keep Tommy's tail light in view, and so directed Peter. After that conversation was possible, but the gain was counterbalanced by a distinct sense of loss. She relinquished her rather frenzied grasp upon his arm, and sank back into the corner of the seat.

"Oh, dear, what a relief!" she gasped.

"What arrant stupidity," he growled, and she never knew that the remark bore no relation whatsoever to Peter.

He confessed his fears to her, and was immeasurably consoled by her enthusiastic scorn for the consequences of his mistake.

"Let them follow poor old Peter," she said. "We will outwit them, never fear. If necessary, Mr. Barnes, we can travel with the company for days and days. I think I should rather enjoy it. If you can manage to get word to my friends in New York, to relieve their anxiety, I shall be more than grateful. I am sure they will decide that you are acting for the best in every particular. It would grieve them,—yes, it would distress them greatly,—if I were to be subjected to an inquiry at the hands of the authorities. The notoriety would be— harrowing, to say the least. Moreover, the disclosures would certainly bring disaster upon those who are working so loyally to right a grave wrong. They will understand, and they will thank you not only for all that you have done for me but for the cause I support."

"The first time I ever saw you, I said to myself that you were a brave, indomitable little soldier," he said warmly. "I am more than ever convinced of it now."

"The men of my family have been soldiers for ten generations," she said simply, as if that covered everything. "They haven't all been heroes but none of them has been a coward."

"I can believe that," he said. "Blood will tell."

"If God gives back my country to my people, Mr. Barnes," she said, after a long silence, "will you not one day make your way out there to us, so that we may present some fitting expression of the gratitude—"

"Don't speak of gratitude," he exclaimed. "I don't want to be thanked. Good Lord, do you suppose I—"

"There, there! Don't be angry," she cried. "But you must come to my country. You must see it. You will love it."

"But suppose that God does not see fit to restore it to you. Suppose that he leaves it in the hands of the vandals. What then? Will you go back to—that?"

She was still for a long time. "I shall not return to my country until it is free again, Mr. Barnes," she said, and there was a break in her voice.

"You—you will remain in MY country?" he asked, leaning closer to her ear.

"The world is large," she replied. "I shall have to live somewhere. It may be here, it may be France, or England or Switzerland."

"Why not here? You could go far and do worse."

"Beggars may not be choosers. The homeless cannot be very particular, you know. If the Germans remain in my country, I shall be without a home."

His voice was tense and vibrant when he spoke again, after a moment's reflection. "I know what O'Dowd would say if he were in my place."

"O'Dowd has known me a great many years," she said. "When you have known me as many months as he has years, you will thank your lucky star that you do not possess the affability that the gods have bestowed upon O'Dowd."

"Don't be too sure of that," he said, and heard the little catch in her breath. He found her hand and clasped it firmly. His lips were close to her ear. "I have known you long enough to—"

"Don't!" she cried out sharply. "Don't say it now,—please. I could listen to O'Dowd, but—but you are different. He would forget by to- morrow, and I would forget even sooner than he. But it would not be so easy to forget if you were to say it,—it would not be easy for either of us."

"You are not offended?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Why should I be offended? Are you not my protector?"

The subtle implication in those words brought him to his senses. Was he not her protector? And was he not abusing the confidence she placed in him?

"I shall try to remember that,—always," he said abjectly.

"Some day I shall tell you why I am glad you did not say it to me to- night," she said, a trifle unsteadily. She squeezed his hand. "You are very good to me. I shall not forget that either."

And she meant that some day she would confess to him that she was so tired, and lonely, and disconsolate on this journey to Crowndale, and so in need of the strength he could give, that she would have surrendered herself gladly to the comfort of his arms, to the passion that his touch aroused in her quickening blood!

Soon after ten o'clock they entered the town of Crowndale and drew up before the unattractive portals of the Grand Palace Hotel. An arc lamp swinging above the entrance shed a pitiless light upon the dreary, God-forsaken hostelry with the ironic name.

Mr. Rushcroft was already at the desk, complaining bitterly of everything seen and unseen. As a matter of habit he was roaring about his room and, while he hadn't put so much as his nose inside of it, he insisted on knowing what they meant by giving it to him. Mr. Bacon and Mr. Dillingford were growling because there was no elevator to hoist them two flights up, and Miss Thackeray was wanting to know WHY she couldn't have a bit of supper served in her room.

"They're all alike," announced Mr. Rushcroft despairingly, addressing the rafters. He meant hotels in general.

"They're all alike," vouchsafed the clerk in an aside to the "drummer" who leaned against the counter, meaning stage-folk in general.

"You're both right," said the travelling salesman, who knew.

"Is there a cafe in the neighbourhood?" inquired Barnes, with authority.

"There's a rest'rant in the next block," replied the clerk, instantly impressed. Here was one who obviously was not "alike." "A two-minutes' walk, Mr.—" (looking at the register)—"Mr. Barnes."

"That's good. We will have supper in Miss Thackeray's room. Let me have your pencil, please. Send over and have them fill this order inside of twenty minutes." He handed what he had written to the blinking clerk. "For eight persons. Tell 'em to hurry it along."

"Maybe they're closed for the night," said the clerk. "And besides—"

"My God! He even hesitates to get food for us when—" began Mr. Rushcroft.

"Besides there's only one waiter on at night and he couldn't get off, I guess. And besides it's against the rules of this house to serve drinks in a lady's—"

"You tell that waiter to close up when he comes over here with what I've ordered, and tell him that I will pay double for everything, and to-morrow morning you can tell the proprietor of this house that we broke the rules to-night."

For the first time in her life Miss Tilly sat down to a meal served by a member of her late profession. She sat on the edge of Miss Thackeray's bed and held a chicken sandwich in one hand and a full glass of beer in the other. Be it said to the credit of her forebears, she did not take even so much as a sip from the glass, but seven sandwiches, two slices of cold ham, half a box of sardines, a plate of potato salad, a saucer of Boston baked beans, two hardboiled eggs, a piece of apple pie and two cups of coffee passed her freshly carmined lips. She was in her seventh heaven. She was no longer dreaming of fame: it was a gay reality. Emulating the example of Miss Thackeray, she addressed Mr. Dillingford as "dear," and came near to being the cause of his death by strangulation.

Miss Cameron submitted to the contagion. She had had no such dreams as Miss Tilly's, but she was quite as thrilled by the novelty of her surroundings, the informality of the feast, and the sprightliness of these undaunted spirits. She sat on Miss Thackeray's trunk, her back against the wall, her bandaged foot resting on a decrepit suit-case. Her eyes were sparkling, her lips ever ready to part in the joy of laughter, the colour leaping into her cheeks in response to the amazing quips of these unconventional vagabonds.

She too was hungry. Food had never tasted so good to her. From time to time her soft, smiling eyes sought Barnes with a look of mingled wonder and confusion. She always laughed when she caught the expression of concern in his eyes, and once she slyly winked at him. He was entranced.

He crossed over and sat beside her. "They are a perfectly irresponsible lot," he said in a low voice. "I hope you don't mind their—er—levity."

"I love it," she whispered. "They are an inspiration. One would think that they had never known such a thing as trouble. I am taking lessons, Mr. Barnes."

She was still warmly conscious of the thrill that had come into her blood when he carried her up the stairs in his powerful arms, disdaining the offer of assistance from the suddenly infatuated Tommy Gray.

"Rehearsal at eleven sharp," announced Mr. Rushcroft, arising from the window-sill on which he was seated. "Letter perfect, every one of you. No guessing. By the way, Miss—er—'pon my soul, I don't believe I got your name?"

"Jones," said the new member, shamelessly.

"Ah," said he, smiling broadly, "a word oft spoken in jest—ahem!—how does it go? No matter. You know what I mean. I have not had time to write in the part for you, Miss Jones, but I shall do so the first thing in the morning. Now that I see how difficult it is for you to get around, I have hit upon a wonderful idea. I shall make it a sitting part. You won't have to do anything with your legs at all. Most beginners declare that they don't know what to do with their hands, but I maintain that they know less about what to do with their legs. Fortunately you are incapacitated—"

"Perhaps it would be just as well to excuse Miss Jones from rehearsal in the morning," broke in Barnes hastily. "She is hardly fit to—"

"Just as you say, old chap. Doesn't matter in the least. Good night, everybody. Sleep tight."

"I sha'n't sleep a wink," said Miss Tilly.

"Homesick already?" demanded Mr. Bacon, fixing her with a pitying stare.

"Worrying over my part," she explained.

"Haven't you committed it yet? Say it now. 'It is half past seven, my lord.' All you have to do is to remember that it comes in the second act and not in the first or third."

"Good night," said Miss Cameron, giving her hand to Barnes at the door. She was leaning on Miss Thackeray's arm. He never was to forget the deep, searching look she sent into his eyes. She seemed to be asking a thousand questions.

He went down to the dingy lobby. A single, half-hearted electric bulb shed its feeble light on the desk, in front of which stood a man registering under the sleepy eye of the night clerk.

After the late arrival had started upstairs in the wake of the clerk, Barnes stepped up to inspect the book. The midnight express from the north did not stop at Crowndale, he had learned upon inquiry, and it was the only train touching the town between nightfall and dawn.

The register bore the name of Thomas Moore, Hornville. There was not the slightest doubt in Barnes's mind that this was the man who had been detailed to shadow the luckless Peter. Only an imperative demand by government authorities could have brought about the stopping of the express at Hornville and later on at Crowndale.

Barnes smiled grimly. "I've just thought of a way to fool you, my friend," he said to himself, and was turning away when a familiar voice assailed him.

Whirling, he looked into the face of a man who stood almost at his elbow,—the sharp, impassive face of Mr. Sprouse.



CHAPTER XX

THE FIRST WAYFARER HAS ONE TREASURE THRUST UPON HIM—AND FORTHWITH CLAIMS ANOTHER

That fellow is a rat-catcher," said Sprouse. "What are you doing here?" demanded Barnes, staring. He seized the man's arm and inquired eagerly: "Have you got the jewels?"

"No; but I will have them before morning," replied Sprouse coolly. He shot a furtive glance around the deserted lobby. "Better not act as though you knew me. That bull is no fool. He doesn't know me, but by this time he knows who you are."

"He is trailing Peter Ames."

"Ship Peter to-morrow," advised Sprouse promptly.

"I had already thought of doing so," said Barnes, surprised by the uncanny promptness of the man in hitting upon the strategy he had worked out for himself after many harassing hours. "He goes to my sister's place to-morrow morning."

"Send him by train. He will be easier to follow. There is a train leaving for the south at 9:15."

"You were saying that before morning you would—"

"Be careful! Don't whisper. People don't whisper to utter strangers. Step over here by the front door. Would you be surprised if I were to tell you that his royal nibs is hiding in this town? Well, he certainly is. He bought a railway ticket for Albany at Hornville the day he beat it, but he got off at the second station,—which happens to be this one."

"How can you be sure of all this?"

"Simple as falling off a log," said Sprouse, squinting over his shoulder. "The Baroness Hedlund has been here for a week or ten days. The Baron wasn't so far wrong in his suspicions, you see. He lost track of her, that's all. I happened to overhear a conversation at Hart's Tavern between him and his secretary. I have a way of hearing things I'm not supposed to hear, you know. By a curious coincidence I happened to be taking the air late one night just outside his window at the Tavern,—on the roof of the porch, to be accurate. I told Ugo what I'd heard and he nearly broke his neck trying to head her off. O'Dowd and De Soto rushed over to Hornville and telegraphed for her to leave the train at the first convenient place and return to New York. She was on her way up here, you see. She got off at Crowndale and everybody supposed that she had taken the next train home. But she didn't do anything of the kind. She is a silly, obstinate fool and she's crazy about Ugo,—and jealous as fury. She hated to think of him being up here with other women. A day or so later she sent him a letter. No one saw that letter but Ugo, and—your humble servant.

"I happened to be the one to go to Spanish Falls for the mail that day. The postmark excited my curiosity. If I told you what I did to that letter before delivering it to Mr. Loeb, you could send me to a federal prison. But that's how I came to know that she had decided to wait in Crowndale until he sent word that the coast was clear. She went to the big sanatorium outside the town and has been there ever since, incognito, taking a cure for something or other. She goes by the name of Mrs. Hasselwein. I popped down here this afternoon and found out that she is still at the sanatorium but expects to leave early to-morrow morning. Her trunks are over at the station now, to be expressed to Buffalo. I made another trip out there this evening and waited. About eight o'clock Mr. Hasselwein strolled up. He sat on the verandah with her for half an hour or so and then left. I followed him. He went to one of the little cottages that belong to the sanatorium. I couldn't get close enough to hear what they said, but I believe he expects to take her away in an automobile early in the morning. It is a seventy mile ride from here to the junction where they catch the train for the west. I'm going up now to make a call on Mr. Hasselwein. Would you like to join me?"

Barnes eyed him narrowly. "There is only one reason why I feel that I ought to accompany you," he said. "If you have it in your mind to kill him, I certainly shall do everything in my power to prevent—"

"Possess your soul in peace. I'm not going to do anything foolish. Time enough left for that sort of thing. I will get him some day, but not now. By the way, what is the number of your room?"

"Twenty-two,—on the next floor."

"Good. Go upstairs now and I'll join you in about ten minutes. I will tap three times on your door."

"Why should you come to my room, Sprouse? We can say all that is to be said—"

"If you will look on the register you will discover that Mr. J. H. Prosser registered here about half an hour ago. He is in room 30. He left a call for five o'clock. Well, Prosser is another name for Ugo."

"Here in this hotel? In room 30?" cried Barnes, incredulously.

"Sure as you're alive. Left the cottage an hour ago. Came in a jitney or I could have got to him on the way over."

Barnes, regardless of consequences, dashed over to inspect the register. Sprouse followed leisurely, shooting anxious glances up the stairs at the end of the lobby.

"See!" cried Barnes, excitedly, putting his finger on the name "Miss Jones." "She's in room 32,—next to his. By gad, Sprouse, do you suppose he knows that she is here? Would the dog undertake anything—"

"You may be sure he doesn't know she's here, or you either, for that matter. The country's full of Joneses and Barneses. Go on upstairs. Leave everything to me."

He strolled away as the clerk came shuffling down the steps. As Barnes mounted them, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Sprouse take up a suitcase near the door and return to the desk, evidently for the purpose of engaging a room for the night.

Before going to his room, he strode lightly down the hall in the direction of room 30. There was no light in the transom. Stepping close to the door, he listened intently for sounds from within. He started back almost instantly. The occupant was snoring with extreme heartiness.

A glance revealed a light in the transom of room 32. As he looked, however, it disappeared. Abashed, he turned and went swiftly away. She was going to bed. He felt like a snooping, despicable "peeping Tom" caught in the act.

He had been in his room for twenty minutes before he heard the tapping on his door. He opened it and Sprouse slid into the room. The instant the door closed behind him, he threw open his coat and coolly produced a long, shallow metal box, such as one finds in safety vaults.

"With my compliments," he said drily, thrusting the box into Barnes's hands. "You'd better have the Countess check them up and see if they're all there. I am not well enough acquainted with the collection to be positive."

Barnes was speechless. He could only stare, open-mouthed, at this amazing man.

"Grip 'em tight," went on Sprouse, grinning. "I may relieve you of them if you get too careless. My advice to you is to hide them and keep your lips closed—"

"My God, Sprouse, have you been in that man's room since I saw you down—"

"I forgot to say that no questions were to be asked," broke in the other.

"But I insist upon having everything cleared up. Here am I with a box of jewels stolen from a lodger's room, God knows how, and in danger of being slapped into jail if they catch me with the—"

"All you have to do is to keep quiet and look innocent. Stay out of the hall to-night. Don't go near the door of No. 30. Act like a man with brains. I said I would square myself with you and with him, too. Well, I've done both. Maybe you think it is easy to give up this stuff. There is a half million dollars' worth of nice little things in that box, small as it is. I went to a lot of trouble to get 'em, and all I'll receive for my pains is a thank you from Mr. Thomas K. Barnes, New York."

"I cannot begin to thank you enough," said Barnes. "See here, you must allow me to reward you in some way commensurate with your—"

"Cut that out," said Sprouse darkly. "I'm not so damned virtuous that I have to be rewarded. I like the game. It's the breath of life to me."

"The time will surely come when I can do you a good turn, Sprouse, and you will not find me reluctant," said Barnes, lamely. He was completely at a loss in the presence of the master-crook. He felt very small, and stupid, and inadequate,—as one always feels when confronted by genius. Moreover, he was utterly stupefied.

"That's different. If I ever need a friendly hand I'll call on you. It's only fair that I should give you a tip, Barnes, just to put you on your guard. I've lived up to my word in this business, and I've done all that I said I would. From now on, I'm a free agent. I want to advise you to put that stuff in a safe place. I'll give you two days' start. After that, if I can get 'em away from you, or whoever may have them, I'm going to do it. They will be fair plunder from then on. Notwithstanding the fact that I put them in your hands to-night,—and so wash my own of them temporarily,—I haven't a single scruple about relieving you of them on some later occasion. I may have to crack you over the head to do it,—so a word to the wise ought to be sufficient. If you don't guard them pretty closely, my friend, you will regain consciousness some day and find you haven't got them any longer. Good night—and good-bye for the present. Stick close to your room till morning and—then beat it with her for New York. I give you two days' start, remember."

He switched off the light suddenly. Barnes gasped and prepared to defend himself. Sprouse chuckled.

"Don't be nervous. I'm merely getting ready to leave you with your ill-gotten gains. It isn't wise, you see, to peep out of a door with a light in the room behind you. Keep cool. I sha'n't be more than a minute."

There was no sound for many seconds, save the deep breathing of the two men. Then, with infinite caution, Sprouse turned the knob and opened the door a half inch or so. He left the room so abruptly that Barnes never quite got over the weird impression that he squeezed through that slender crack, and pulled it after him!

Many minutes passed before he turned on the light. The key of the box was tied to the wire grip. With trembling fingers he inserted it in the lock and opened the lid.... "A half-million dollars' worth of nice little things," Sprouse had said!

He did not close his eyes that night. Daybreak found him lying in bed, with the box under his pillow, a pistol at hand, and his eyes wide- open. He was in a graver quandary than ever. Now that he had the treasure in his possession, what was he to do with it? He did not dare to leave it in the room, nor was it advisable to carry it about with him. The discovery of the burglary in room 30 would result in a search of the house, from top to bottom.

Cold perspiration started out on his brow. The situation was far from being the happy one that he had anticipated.

He solved the breakfast problem by calling downstairs for a waiter and ordering coffee and rolls and eggs sent up to his room. Singularly enough the waiter solved the other and more disturbing problem for him.

"SOME robbery last night," said that worthy, as he re-appeared with the tray. Barnes was thankful that the waiter was not looking at him when he hurled the bomb, figuratively speaking. He had a moment's time to recover.

"What robbery?" he enquired, feigning indifference.

"Feller up in one of the cottages at the sanatorium. All beat up, something fierce they say."

"Up in—Where?" almost shouted Barnes, starting up.

The man explained where the cottages were situated, Barnes listening as one completely bereft of intelligence.

"Seems he was to leave by auto early this mornin', and they didn't know anything was wrong till Joe Keep—he's driving a Fierce-Arrow that Mr. Norton has for rent—till Joe'd been settin' out in front for nearly half an hour. The man's wife was waitin' fer him up at the main buildin' and she got so tired waitin' that she sent one of the clerks down to see what was keeping her husband. Well, sir, him and Joe couldn't wake the feller, so they climb in an open winder, an' by gosh, Joe says it was terrible. The feller was layin' on the bed, feet an' hands tied and gagged, and blood from head to foot. He was inconscious, Joe says, an'—my God, how his wife took on! Joe says he couldn't stand it, so he snook out, shakin' like a leaf. He says she's a pippin, too. Never seen a purtier—"

"Is—is the man dead?" cried Barnes, aghast. He felt that his face was as white as chalk.

"Nope! Seems like it's nothing serious: just beat up, that's all. Terrible cuts on his head and—"

"What is his name?" demanded Barnes.

"Something like Hackensack."

"Have they caught the thief?"

"I should say not. The police never ketch anything but drunks in this burg, and they wouldn't ketch them if they could keep from stumblin'."

"What time did all this happen?" Barnes was having great difficulty in keeping his coffee from splashing over.

"Doc Smith figgers it was long about midnight, judgin' by the way the blood co'gulated."

"Did they get away with much?"

"Haven't heard. Joe says the stove pipe in the feller's room was knocked down and they's soot all over everything. Looks like they must have been a struggle. Seems as though the burglar,—must ha' been more'n one of 'em, I say,—wasn't satisfied with cracking him over the head. He stuck the point of a knife or something into him,—just a little way, Joe says—in more'n a dozen places. What say?"

"I—I didn't say anything."

"I thought you did. Well, if I hear anything more I'll let you know."

"Anything for a little excitement," said Barnes casually.

He listened at the door until he heard the waiter clattering down the stairway, and then went swiftly down the hall to No. 30. Mr. Prosser was sleeping just as soundly and as resoundingly as at midnight!

"By gad!" he muttered, half aloud. Everything was as clear as day to him now. Bolting into his own room, he closed the door and stood stock-still for many minutes, trying to picture the scene in the cottage.

No stretch of the imagination was required to establish the facts. Sprouse had come to him during the night with Prince Ugo's blood on the hands that bore the treasure. He had surprised and overpowered the pseudo Mr. Hasselwein, and had actually tortured him into revealing the hiding place of the jewels. The significance of the scattered stove pipe was not lost on Barnes; it had not been knocked down in a struggle between the two men. Prince Ugo was not, and never had been, in a position to defend himself against his wily assailant. Barnes's blood ran cold as he went over in his mind the pitiless method employed by Sprouse in subduing his royal victim. And the coolness, the unspeakable bravado of the man in coming direct to him with the booty! His amazingly clever subterfuge in allowing Barnes to think that room No. 30 was the scene of his operations, thereby forcing him to remain inactive through fear of consequences to himself and the Countess if he undertook to investigate!

He found a letter in his box when he went downstairs, after stuffing the tin box deep into his pack,—a risky thing to do he realised, but no longer perilous in the light of developments. It was no longer probable that his effects would be subjected to inspection by the police. He walked over to a window to read the letter. Before he slit the envelope he knew that Sprouse was the writer. The message was brief.

"After due consideration, I feel that it would be a mistake for you to abandon your present duties at this time. It might be misunderstood. Stick to the company until something better turns up. With this thought in view I withdraw the two days' limit mentioned recently to you, and extend the time to one week. Yours very truly, J. H. Wilson."

"Gad, the fellow thinks of everything," said Barnes to himself. "He is positively uncanny."

He read between the lines, and saw there a distinct warning. It had not occurred to him that his plan to leave for New York that day with Miss Cameron might be attended by disastrous results.

On reflection, he found the prospect far from disagreeable. A week or so with the Rushcroft company was rather attractive under the circumstances. The idea appealed to him.

But the jewels? What of them? He could not go gallivanting about the country with a half million dollars' worth of precious stones in his possession. A king's ransom strapped on his back! He would not be able to sleep a wink. Indeed, he could see himself wasting away to a mere shadow through worry and dread. Precious stones? They would develop into millstones, he thought, with an inward groan.

He questioned the advisability of informing Miss Cameron that the crown jewels were in his possession. Her anxiety would be far greater than his own. There was nothing to be gained by telling her in any case; so he decided to bear the burden alone.

The play was not to open in Crowndale until Tuesday night, three full days off. He revelled in the thought of sitting "out front" in the empty little theatre, watching the rehearsals. At such times he was confident that his thoughts would not be solely of the jewels. He would at least have surcease during these periods of forgetfulness.

He spent the early part of the forenoon in wandering nervously about the hotel,—upstairs and down. The jewels were locked in his pack upstairs. He went up to his room half a dozen times and almost instantly walked down again, after satisfying himself that the pack had not been rifled.

Exasperation filled his soul. Ten o'clock came and still no sign of the lazy actors. Rehearsal at eleven, and not one of them out of bed.

Peter came to the hotel soon after ten. He had forgotten Peter and his decision to send him down to the Berkshires that day, and was sharply reminded of the necessity for doing so by the appearance of the man who had registered just before midnight. This individual strolled casually into the lobby a few seconds behind Peter.

He acted at once and with decision. The stranger took a seat in the window not far away. Barnes, in a brisk and business-like tone, informed Peter that he was to leave on the one o'clock train for the south, and to go direct to his sister's place near Stockbridge. He was to leave the automobile in Crowndale for the present.

"Here is the money for your railroad fare," he announced in conclusion. "I have telegraphed Mrs. Courtney's man that you will arrive this evening. He will start you in on your duties to-morrow. I understand they are short-handed on the place. And now let me impress upon you, Peter, the importance of holding yourself ready to report when needed. You know what I mean. Remember, I have guaranteed that you will appear."

The stranger drank in every word that passed between the two men. When the one o'clock train pulled out of Crowndale, it carried Peter Ames in one of the forward coaches, and a late guest of the Grand Palace Hotel in the next car behind. Barnes took the time to assure himself of these facts, and smiled faintly as he drove away from the railway station after the departure of the train. Miss Cameron, her veil lowered, sat beside him in the "hack."

For the next three days and nights rehearsals were in full swing, with scarcely a moment's let-up. The Rushcroft company was increased by the arrival of three new members and several pieces of baggage. The dingy barn of a theatre was the scene of ceaseless industry, both peaceful and otherwise. The actors quarrelled and fumed and all but fought over their grievances. Only the presence of the "backer" and the extremely pretty and cultured "friend of the family" in "front" prevented sanguinary encounters among the male contenders for the centre of the stage. The usually placid Mr. Dillingford was transformed into a snarling beast every time one of his "lines" was cut out by the relentless Rushcroft, and there were times when Mr. Bacon loudly accused his fiancee of "crabbing" his part. Everybody called everybody else a "hog," and God was asked a hundred times a day to bear witness to as many atrocities.

Each day the bewildered, distressed young woman who sat with Barnes in the dim "parquet," whispered in his ear:

"Can they ever be friendly again?"

And every night at supper she rejoiced to find them all on the best of terms, calling each other "dearie," and "old chap," and "honey," and declaring that no such company had ever been gotten together in the history of the stage! Such words as "slob," "fat-head," "boob" or "you poor nut" never found their way outside the sacred precincts of the theatre.

Mr. Rushcroft magnanimously offered to coach "Miss Jones" in the part he was going to write in for her just as soon as he could get around to it.

"No use writing a part for her, Mr. Barnes, until I get through beating the parts we already have into the heads of these poor fools up here. I've got trouble enough on my hands."

And so the time crept by, up to the night of the performance. Miss Cameron remained in ignorance of the close proximity of the jewels, and the police of Crowndale remained in even denser ignorance as to the whereabouts of the man who robbed Mr. Hasselwein of all his spare cash and an excellent gold watch.

Hasselwein's story was brief but dramatic. He was recovering rapidly from his experience and the local newspaper, on Tuesday, announced that he would be strong enough to accompany his wife when she left the "city" toward the end of the week. (Considerable space was employed by the reporter in "writing up" the wonderful devotion of Mrs. Hasselwein, who, despite the fact that she was quite an invalid, conducted herself with rare fortitude, seldom leaving her husband's room in the hospital.)

According to the injured man, his assailant was a huge, powerful individual, wearing a mask and armed to the teeth. He came in through an open window and attacked him while he was asleep in bed. Notwithstanding the stunning blow he received while prostrate, Mr. Hasselwein struggled to his feet and engaged the miscreant—(while the word was used at least twenty times in the newspaper account, I promise to use it but once)—in a desperate conflict. Loss of blood weakened him and he soon fell exhausted upon the bed. To make the story even shorter than Prince Ugo made it, not a word was said about the jewels, and that, after all, is the only feature of the case in which we are interested.

Barnes smiled grimly over Ugo's failure to mention the jewels, and the misleading description of the thief. He was thankful, however, and relieved to learn that the one man who might recognise Miss Cameron was not likely to leave the hospital short of a week's time.

No time was lost by the Countess in getting word to her compatriots in New York. Barnes posted a dozen letters for her; each contained the tidings of her safety and the assurance that she would soon follow in person.

Those three days and nights were full of joy and enchantment for Barnes. True, he did not sleep very well,—indeed, scarcely at all,— but it certainly was not a hardship to lie awake and think of her throughout the whole of each blessed night. He recalled and secretly dilated upon every sign of decreasing reserve on her part. He shamed himself more than once for deploring the fact that her ankle was mending with uncommon rapidity, and that in a few days she would be quite able to walk without support. And he actually debased himself by wishing that the Rushcroft company might find it imperative to go on rehearsing for weeks in that dim, enchanted temple.

It was not a "barn of a place" to him. It was paradise. He sat for hours in one of the most uncomfortable seats he had ever known, devouring with hungry eyes the shadowy, interested face so close to his own,—and never tired.

And then came a time at last when conversation became difficult between them; when there were long silences fraught with sweet peril, exceeding shyness, and a singular form of deafness that defied even the roars of the players and yet permitted them to hear, with amazing clearness, the faintest of heart-beats.

On the afternoon of the dress rehearsal, he led her, after an hour of almost insupportable repression, to the rear of the auditorium, in the region made gloomy by the shelving gallery overhead. Dropping into the seat beside her, he blurted out, almost in anguish:

"I can't stand it any longer. I cannot be near you without—why, I—I —well, it is more than I can struggle against, that's all. You've either got to send me away altogether or—or—let me love you without restraint. I tell you, I can't go on as I am now. I must speak, I must tell you all that has been in my heart for days. I love you—I love you! You know I love you, don't you? You know I worship you. Don't be frightened. I just had to tell you to-day. I could not have held it back another hour. I should have gone mad if I had tried to keep it up any longer." He waited breathlessly for her to speak. She sat silent and rigid, looking straight before her. "Is it hopeless?" he went on at last, huskily. "Must I ask your forgiveness for my presumption and —and go away from you?"

She turned to him and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Am I not like other women? Have you forgotten that you once said that I was not different? Why should I forgive you for loving me? Doesn't every woman want to be loved? No, no, my friend! Wait! A moment ago I was so weak and trembly that I thought I—Oh, I was afraid for myself. Now I am quite calm and sensible. See how well I have myself in hand? I do not tremble, I am strong. We may now discuss ourselves calmly, sensibly. A moment ago—Ah, then it was different! I was being drawn into—Oh! What are you doing?"

"I too am strong," he whispered. "I am sure of my ground now, and I am not afraid."

He had clasped the hand that rested on his sleeve and, as he pressed it to his heart, his other arm stole over her shoulders and drew her close to his triumphant body. For an instant she resisted, and then relaxed into complete submission. Her head sank upon his shoulder.

"Oh!" she sighed, and there was wonder, joy—even perplexity, in the tremulous sign of capitulation. "Oh," came softly from her parted lips again at the end of the first long, passionate kiss.



CHAPTER XXI

THE END IN SIGHT

Barnes, soaring beyond all previous heights of exaltation, ranged dizzily between "front" and "back" at the Grand Opera House that evening. He was supposed to remain "out front" until the curtain went up on the second act. But the presence of the Countess in Miss Thackeray's barren, sordid little dressing-room rendered it exceedingly difficult for him to remain in any fixed spot for more than five minutes at a stretch. He was in the "wings" with her, whispering in her delighted ear; in the dressing-room, listening to her soft words of encouragement to the excited leading-lady; on the narrow stairs leading up to the stage, assisting her to mount them,— and not in the least minding the narrowness; out in front for a jiffy, and then back again; and all the time he was dreading the moment when he would awake and find it all a dream.

There was an annoying fly in the ointment, however. Her languorous surrender to love, her physical confession of defeat at the hands of that inexorable power, her sweet submission to the conquering arms of the besieger, left nothing to be desired; and yet there was something that stood between him and utter happiness: her resolute refusal to bind herself to any promise for the future.

"I love you," she had said simply. "I want more than anything else in all the world to be your wife. But I cannot promise now. I must have time to think, time to—"

"Why should you require more time than I?" he persisted. "Have we not shown that there is nothing left for either of us but to make the other happy? What is time to us? Why make wanton waste of it?"

"I know that I cannot find happiness except with you," she replied. "No matter what happens to me, I shall always love you, I shall never forget the joy of THIS. But—" She shook her head sadly.

"Would you go back to your people and marry—" he swallowed hard and went on—"marry some one you could never love, not even respect, with the memory of—"

"Stop! I shall never marry a man I do not love. Oh, please be patient, be good to me. Give me a little time. Can you not see that you are asking me to alter destiny, to upset the teachings and traditions of ages, and all in one little minute of weakness?"

"We cannot alter destiny," he said stubbornly. "We may upset tradition, but what does that amount to? We have but one life to live. I think our grandchildren and our great-grandchildren will be quite as well pleased with their ancestors as their royal contemporaries will be with theirs a hundred years from now."

"I cannot promise now," she said gently, and kissed him.

The first performance of "The Duke's Revenge" was incredibly bad. The little that Barnes saw of it, filled him with dismay. Never had he witnessed anything so hopeless as the play, unless it was the actors themselves. But more incredible than anything else in connection with the performance was the very palpable enjoyment of the audience. He could hardly believe his ears. The ranting, the shouting, the howling of the actors sent shivers to the innermost recesses of his being. Then suddenly he remembered that he was in the heart of the "barn- stormer's" domain. The audience revelled in "The Duke's Revenge" because they had never seen anything better!

Between the second and third acts Tommy Gray rushed back with the box- office statement. The gross was $359. The instant that fact became known to Mr. Rushcroft he informed Barnes that they had a "knockout," a gold mine, and that never in all his career had he known a season to start off so auspiciously as this one.

"It's good for forty weeks solid," he exclaimed. Both Barnes and the wide-eyed Countess became infused with the spirit of jubilation that filled the souls of these time-worn, hand-to-mouth stragglers. They rejoiced with them in their sudden elevation to happiness, and overlooked the vain-glorious claims of each individual in the matter of personal achievement. Even the bewildered Tilly bleated out her little cry for distinction.

"Did you hear them laugh at the way I got off my speech?" she cried excitedly.

"I certainly did," said Mr. Bacon amiably. "By gad, I laughed at it myself."

"Parquet $217.50, dress circle $105, gallery $36.50," announced Tommy Gray, as he donned his wig and false beard for the third act. "Sixty- forty gives us $215.40 on the night. Thank God, we won't have to worry about the sheriff this week."

In Miss Thackeray's dressing-room that level-headed young woman broke down and wept like a child.

"Oh, Lord," she stuttered, "is it possible that we're going to stay above water at last? I thought we had gone down for the last time, and here we are bobbing up again as full of ginger as if we'd never hit the bottom."

The Countess kissed her and told her that she was the rarest girl she had ever known, the pluckiest and the best.

"If I had your good looks, Miss Cameron," said Mercedes, "added to my natural ability, I'd make Julia Marlowe look like an old-fashioned one-ring circus. Send Mr. Bacon to me, Mr. Barnes. I want to congratulate him."

"He gave a fine performance," said Barnes promptly.

"I don't want to congratulate him on his acting," said she, smiling through her tears. "He's going to be married to-morrow. And I am going to have Miss Cameron for my bridesmaid," she added, throwing an arm about the astonished Countess. "Mr. Bacon will want Dilly for his best man, but he ought to think more of the general effect than that. Dilly only comes to his shoulder." She measured the stalwart figure of Thomas Barnes with an appraising eye. "What do you say, Mr. Barnes?"

"I'll do it with the greatest pleasure," he declared.

The next afternoon in the town of Bittler the Countess Mara-Dafanda, daughter of royalty, and Thomas Kingsbury Barnes "stood up" with the happy couple during a lull in the hastily called rehearsal on the stage of Fisher's Imperial Theatre, and Lyndon Rushcroft gave the bride away. There was $107 in the house that night, but no one was down-hearted.

"You could do worse, dear heart, than to marry one of us care-free Americans," whispered Barnes to the girl who clung to his arm so tightly as they entered the wings in the wake of the bride and groom.

And she said something in reply that brought a flush of mortification to his cheek.

"Oh, it would be wonderful to marry a man who will never have to go to war. A brave man who will not have to be a soldier."

The unintentional reflection on the fighting integrity of his country struck a raw spot in Barnes's pride. He knew what all Europe was saying about the pussy-willow attitude of the United States, and he squirmed inwardly despite the tribute she tendered him as an individual. He was not a "peace at any price" citizen.

He gave the wedding breakfast at one o'clock that night.

Three days later he and "Miss Jones" said farewell to the strollers and boarded a day train for New York City. They left the company in a condition of prosperity. The show was averaging two hundred dollars nightly, and Mr. Rushcroft was already booking return engagements for the early fall. He was looking forward to a tour of Europe at the close of the war.

"My boy," he said to Barnes on the platform of the railway station, "I trust you will forgive me for not finding a place in our remarkably well-balanced cast for your friend. I have been thinking a great deal about her in the past few days, and it has occurred to me that she might find it greatly to her advantage to accept a brief New York engagement before tackling the real proposition. It won't take her long to find out whether she really likes it, and whether she thinks it worth while to go on with it. Let me give you one bit of advice, my dear Miss Jones. This is very important. The name of Jones will not get you anywhere. It is a nice old family, fireside name, but it lacks romance. Chuck it. Start your new life with another name, my dear. God bless you! Good luck and—good-bye till we meet on the Rialto."

"I wonder how he could possibly have known," she mused aloud, the pink still in her cheeks as the train pulled out.

"You darling," cried Barnes, "he doesn't know. But taking it by and large, it was excellent advice. The brief New York engagement meets with my approval, and so does the change of name. I am in a position to supply you with both."

"Do you regard Barnes as an especially attractive name?" she inquired, dimpling.

"It has the virtue of beginning with B, entitling it to a place well toward the top of alphabetical lists. A very handy name for patronesses at charity bazaars, and so forth. People never look below B unless to make sure that their own names haven't been omitted. You ought to take that into consideration. If you can't be an A, take the next best thing offered. Be a B."

"You almost persuade me," she smiled.

His sister met them at the Grand Central Terminal.

"It's now a quarter to five," said Barnes, after the greeting and presentation. "Drop me at the Fifth Avenue Bank, Edith. I want to leave something in my safety box downstairs. Sha'n't be more than five minutes."

He got down from the automobile at 44th Street and shot across the sidewalk into the bank, casting quick, apprehensive glances through the five o'clock crowd on the avenue as he sprinted. In his hand he lugged the heavy, weatherbeaten pack. His sister and the Countess stared after him in amazement.

Presently he emerged from the bank, still carrying the bag. He was beaming. A certain worried, haggard expression had vanished from his face and for the first time in eight hours he treated his travelling wardrobe with scorn and indifference. He tossed it carelessly into the seat beside the chauffeur, and, springing nimbly into the car, sank back with a prodigious sigh of relief.

"Thank God, they're off my mind at last," he cried. "That is the first good, long breath I've had in a week. No, not now. It's a long story and I can't tell it in Fifth Avenue. It would be extremely annoying to have both of you die of heart failure with all these people looking on."

He felt her hand on his arm, and knew that she was looking at him with wide, incredulous eyes, but he faced straight ahead. After a moment or two, she snuggled back in the seat and cried out tremulously:

"Oh, how wonderful—how wonderful!"

Mrs. Courtney, in utter ignorance, inquired politely:

"Isn't it? Have you never been in New York before, Miss Cameron? Strangers always find it quite wonderful at the—"

"How are all the kiddies, Edith, and old Bill?" broke in her brother hastily.

He was terribly afraid that the girl beside him was preparing to shed tears of joy and relief. He could feel her searching in her jacket pocket for a handkerchief.

Mrs. Courtney was not only curious but apprehensive. She hadn't the faintest idea who Miss Cameron was, nor where her brother had picked her up. But she saw at a glance that she was lovely, and her soul was filled with strange misgivings. She was like all sisters who have pet bachelor brothers. She hoped that poor Tom hadn't gone and made a fool of himself. The few minutes' conversation she had had with the stranger only served to increase her alarm. Miss Cameron's voice and smile—and her eyes!—were positively alluring.

She had had a night letter from Tom that morning in which he said that he was bringing a young lady friend down from the north,—and would she meet them at the station and put her up for a couple of days? That was all she knew of the dazzling stranger up to the moment she saw her. Immediately after that, she knew, by intuition, a great deal more about her than Tom could have told in volumes of correspondence. She knew, also, that Tom was lost forever!

"Now, tell me," said the Countess, the instant they entered the Courtney apartment. She gripped both of his arms with her firm little hands, and looked straight into his eyes, eagerly, hopefully. She had forgotten Mrs. Courtney's presence, she had not taken the time to remove her hat or jacket.

"Let's all sit down," said he. "My knees are unaccountably weak. Come along, Ede. Listen to the romance of my life."

And when the story was finished, the Countess took his hand in hers and held it to her cool cheek. The tears were still drowning her eyes.

"Oh, you poor dear! Was that why you grew so haggard, and pale, and hollow-eyed?"

"Partly," said he, with great significance.

"And you had them in your pack all the time? You—!"

"I had Sprouse's most solemn word not to touch them for a week. He is the only man I feared. He is the only one who could have—"

"May I use your telephone, Mrs. Courtney?" cried she, suddenly. She sprang to her feet, quivering with excitement. "Pray forgive me for being so ill-mannered, but I—I must call up one or two people at once. They are my friends. I have written them, but—but I know they are waiting to see me in the flesh or to hear my voice. You will understand, I am sure."

Barnes was pacing the floor nervously when his sister returned after conducting her new guest to the room prepared for her. The Countess was at the telephone before the door closed behind her hostess.

"I wish you had been a little more explicit in your telegram, Tom," she said peevishly. "If I had known who she is I wouldn't have put her in that room. Now, I shall have to move Aunt Kate back into it to- morrow, and give Miss Cameron the big one at the end of the hall." Which goes to prove that Tom's sister was a bit of a snob in her way. "Stop walking like that, and come here." She faced him accusingly. "Have you told me ALL there is to tell, sir?"

"Can't you see for yourself, Ede, that I'm in love with her? Desperately, horribly, madly in love with her. Don't giggle like that! I couldn't have told you while she was present, could I?"

"That isn't what I want to know. Is she in love with YOU? That's what I'm after."

"Yes," said he, but frowned anxiously.

"She is perfectly adorable," said she, and was at once aware of a guilty, nagging impression that she would not have said it to him half an hour earlier for anything in the world.

The Countess was strangely white and subdued when she rejoined them later on. She had removed her hat. The other woman saw nothing but the wealth of sun-kissed hair that rippled. Barnes went forward to meet her, filled with a sudden apprehension.

"What is it? You are pale and—what have you heard?"

She stopped and looked searchingly into his eyes. A warm flush rose to her cheeks; her own eyes grew soft and tender and wistful.

"They all believe that the war will last two or three years longer," she said huskily. "I cannot go back to my own country till it is all over. They implore me to remain here with them until—until my fortunes are mended." She turned to Mrs. Courtney and went on without the slightest trace of indecision or embarrassment in her manner. "You see, Mrs. Courtney, I am very, very poor. They have taken everything. I—I fear I shall have to accept the kind, the generous proffer of a—" her voice shook slightly—"of a home with my friends until the Huns are driven out."

Barnes's silence was more eloquent than words. Her eyes fell. Mrs. Courtney's words of sympathy passed unheard; her bitter excoriation of the Teutons and Turks was but dimly registered on the inattentive mind of the victim of their ruthless greed; not until she expressed the hope that Miss Cameron would condescend to accept the hospitality of her home until plans for the future were definitely fixed was there a sign that the object of her concern had given a thought to what she was saying.

"You are so very kind," stammered the Countess. "But I cannot think of imposing upon—"

"Leave it to me, Ede," said Barnes gently, and, laying his hand upon his sister's arm, he led her from the room. Then he came swiftly back to the outstretched arms of the exile.

"A very brief New York engagement," he whispered in her ear, he knew not how long afterward. Her head was pressed against his shoulder, her eyes were closed, her lips parted in the ecstasy of passion.

"Yes," she breathed, so faintly that he barely heard the strongest word ever put into the language of man.

Half-an-hour later he was speeding down the avenue in a taxi. His blood was singing, his heart was bursting with joy,—his head was light, for the feel of her was still in his arms, the voice of her in his enraptured ears.

He was hurrying homeward to the "diggings" he was soon to desert forever. Poor, wretched, little old "diggings"! As he passed the Plaza, the St. Regis and the Gotham, he favoured the great hostelries with contemplative, calculating eyes; he even looked with speculative envy upon the mansions of the Astors, the Vanderbilts and the Huntingtons. She was born and reared in a house of vast dimensions. Even the Vanderbilt places were puny in comparison. His reflections carried him back to the Plaza. There, at least, was something comparable in size. At any rate, it would do until he could look around for something larger! He laughed at his conceit,—and pinched himself again.

He was to spend the night at his sister's apartment. When he issued forth from his "diggings" at half-past seven, he was attired in evening clothes, and there was not a woman in all New York, young or old, who would have denied him a second glance.

Later on in the evening three of the Countess's friends arrived at the Courtney home to pay their respects to their fair compatriot, and to discuss the crown jewels. They came and brought with them the consoling information that arrangements were practically completed for the delivery of the jewels into the custody of the French Embassy at Washington, through whose intervention they were to be allowed to leave the United States without the formalities usually observed in cases of suspected smuggling. Upon the arrival in America of trusted messengers from Paris, headed by no less a personage than the ambassador himself, the imperial treasure was to pass into hands that would carry it safely to France. Prince Sebastian, still in Halifax, had been apprised by telegraph of the recovery of the jewels, and was expected to sail for England by the earliest steamer.

And while the visitors at the Courtney house were lifting their glasses to toast the prince they loved, and, in turn, the beautiful cousin who had braved so much and fared so luckily, and the tall wayfarer who had come into her life, a small man was stooping over a rifled knapsack in a room far down-town, glumly regarding the result of an unusually hazardous undertaking, even for one who could perform, such miracles as he. Scratching his chin, he grinned,—for he was the kind who bears disappointment with a grin,—and sat himself down at the big library table in the centre of the room. Carefully selecting a pen-point, he wrote:

"It will be quite obvious to you that I called unexpectedly to-night. The week was up, you see. I take the liberty of leaving under the paperweight at my elbow a two dollar bill. It ought to be ample payment for the damage done to your faithful traveling companion. Have the necessary stitches taken in the gash, and you will find the kit as good as new. I was more or less certain not to find what I was after, but as I have done no irreparable injury, I am sure you will forgive my love of adventure and excitement. It was really quite difficult to get from the fire escape to your window, but it was a delightful experience. Try crawling along that ten inch ledge yourself some day, and see if it isn't productive of a pleasant thrill. I shall not forget your promise to return good for evil some day. God knows I hope I may never be in a position to test your sincerity. We may meet again, and I hope under agreeable circumstances. Kindly pay my deepest respects to the Countess Ted, and believe me to be, "Yours VERY respectfully,

"Sprouse.

"P.S.—I saw O'Dowd to-day. He left a message for you and the Countess. Tell them, said he, that I ask God's blessing for them forever. He is off to-morrow for Brazil. He was very much relieved when he heard that I did not get the jewels the first time I went after them, and immensely entertained by my jolly description of how I went after them the second. By the way, you will be interested to learn that he has cut loose from the crowd he was trailing with. Mostly nuts, he says. Dynamiting munition plants in Canada was a grand project, says he, and it would have come to something if the damned women had only left the damned men alone. The expletives are O'Dowd's."

Ten hours before Barnes found this illuminating message on his library table, he stood at the window of a lofty Park Avenue apartment building, his arm about the slender, yielding figure of the only other occupant of the room. Pointing out over the black house-tops, he directed her attention to the myriad lights in the upper floors of a great hostelry to the south and west, and said,

"THAT is where you are going to live, darling."

THE END