produced a thickly stuffed bill-fold, but Bantry smiled and touched Woodbury’s arm.
“Couldn’t possibly, you know.”
He considered a moment and then, with a smile: “It’s a bit awkward for both of us, isn’t it? Suppose I keep your name under my hat and you give me a few little inside tips now and then on polo news, and that sort of thing?”
“Here’s my hand on it. You’ve no idea what a load you take off my mind.”
“We’ve circled about and are pretty close to the Garden again. Could you let me out here?”
The car rolled to an easy stop and the reporter stepped out.
“I’ll forget everything you wish, Mr. Woodbury.”
“It’s an honour to have met you, sir. Use me whenever you can. Goodnight.”
To the chauffeur he said: “Home, and make it fast.”
They passed up Lexington with Maclaren “making it fast,” so that the big car was continually nosing its way around the machines in front with much honking of the horn. At Fifty-Ninth Street they turned across to the bridge and hummed softly across the black, shimmering waters of the East River; by the time they reached Brooklyn a fine mist was beginning to fall, blurring the wind-shield, and Maclaren slowed up perceptibly, so that before they passed the heart of the city, Woodbury leaned forward and said: “What’s the matter, Maclaren?”
“Wet streets—no chains—this wind-shield is pretty hard to see through.”
“Stop her, then. I’ll take the wheel the rest of the way. Want to travel a bit to-night.”
The chauffeur, as if this exchange were something he had been expecting, made no demur, and a moment later, with Woodbury at the wheel, the motor began to hum again in a gradually increasing crescendo. Two or three motor-police glanced after the car as it snapped about corners with an ominous skid and straightened out, whining, on the new street; but in each case, having made a comfortable number of arrests that day, they had little heart for the pursuit of the grey monster through that chill mist.
Past Brooklyn, with a country road before them, Woodbury cut out the muffler and the car sprang forward with a roar. A gust of increasing wind whipped back to Maclaren, for the wind-shield had been opened so that the driver need not look through the dripping glass and mingling with the wet gale were snatches of singing.
The chauffeur, partly in understanding and partly from anxiety, apparently, caught the side of the seat in a firm grip and leaned forward to break the jar when they struck rough places. Around an elbow turn they went with one warning scream of the Klaxon, skidded horribly at the sharp angle of the curve, and missed by inches a car from the opposite direction.
They swept on with the startled yell of the other party ringing after them, drowned at once by the crackling of the exhaust. Maclaren raised a furtive hand to wipe from his forehead a moisture which was not altogether rain, but immediately grasped the side of the seat again. Straight ahead the road swung up to meet a bridge and dropped sharply away from it on the further side. Maclaren groaned but the sound was lost in the increasing roar of the exhaust.
They barely touched that bridge and shot off into space on the other side like a hurdler clearing an obstacle. With a creak and a thud the big car landed, reeled drunkenly, and straightened out in earnest, Maclaren craned his head to see the speedometer, but had not the heart to look; he began to curse softly, steadily.
When the muffler went on again and the motor was reduced to a loud, angry humming, Woodbury caught a few phrases of those solemn imprecations. He grinned into the black heart of the night, streaked with lines of grey where therein entered the halo of the headlights, and then swung the car through an open, iron gate. The motor fell to a drowsily contented murmur that blended with the cool swishing of the tires on wet gravel.
“Maclaren,” said the other, as he stopped in front of the garage, “if everyone was as good a passenger as you I’d enjoy motoring; but after all, a car can’t act up like a horse.” He concluded gloomily: “There’s no fight in it.”
And he started toward the house, but Maclaren, staring after the departing figure, muttered: “There’s only one sort that’s worse than a damn fool, and that’s a young one.”
It was through a door opening off the veranda that Anthony entered the house, stealthily as a burglar, and with the same nervous apprehension. Before him stretched a wide hall, dimly illumined by a single light which splashed on the Italian table and went glimmering across the floor. Across the hall was his destination—the broad balustraded staircase, which swept grandly up to the second floor. Toward this he tiptoed steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Almost to his goal, he heard a muffled footfall and shrank against the wall with a catlike agility, but, though the shadow fell steep and gloomy there, luck was against him.
A middle-aged servant of solemn port, serene with the twofold dignity of double chin and bald head, paused at the table in his progress across the room, and swept the apartment with the judicial eye of one who knows that everything is as it should be but will not trust even the silence of night. So that bland blue eye struck first on the faintly shining top hat of Anthony, ran down his overcoat, and lingered in gloomy dismay on the telltale streak of white where the trouser leg should have been.
What he thought not even another Oedipus could have conjectured. The young master very obviously did not wish to be observed, and in such times Peters at could be blinder than the bat noon-day and more secret than the River Styx. He turned away, unhurried, the fold of that double chin a little more pronounced over the severe correctness of his collar.
A very sibilant whisper pursued him. He stopped again, still without haste, and turned not directly toward Anthony, but at a discreet angle, with his eyes fixed firmly upon the ceiling.
CHAPTER IV
A SESSION OF CHAT
The whisper grew distinct in words.
“Peters, you old numskull, come here!”
The approach of Peters was something like the sidewise waddle of a very aged crab. He looked to the north, but his feet carried him to the east. That he was much moved was attested by the colour which had mounted even to the gleaming expanse of that nobly bald head.
“Yes, Master Anthony—I mean Mr. Anthony?”
He set his teeth at the _faux pas_.
“Peters, look at me. Confound it, I haven’t murdered any one. Are you busy?”
It required whole seconds for the eyes to wheel round upon Anthony, and they were immediately debased from the telltale white of that leg to the floor.
“No, sir.”
“Then come up with me and help me change. Quick!”
He turned and fled noiselessly up the great stairs, with Peters panting behind. Anthony’s overcoat was off before he had fairly entered his room and his coat and vest flopped through the air as Peters shut the door. Whatever the old servant lacked in agility he made up in certain knowledge; as he laid out a fresh tuxedo, Anthony changed with the speed of one pursued. The conversation was spasmodic to a degree.
“Where’s father? Waiting in the library?”
“Yes. Reading, sir.”
“Had a mix-up—bully time, though—damn this collar! Peters, I wish you’d been there—where’s those trousers? Rub some of the crease out of ’em—they must look a _little_ worn.”
He stood at last completely dressed while Peters looked on with a shining eye and a smile which in a younger man would have suggested many things.
“How is it? Will I pass father this way?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“It’s hard to deceive him.”
“Confound