"Well," said the clubman, after the second man had finally retired, "are you satisfied? And what the deuce is going to happen now?"
Barney sank into a Morris chair and thrust his feet comfortably on to the fender.
"Fatty," said he, as he blew a multitude of tiny rings toward the blaze, "you're a wizard! Never seen such nerve in my life—and you only out two months! You've got the clothes, and, what's more, you've got the real chappie lingo. It's great! I'm sorry to have to pull in such an artist. I am, honest. An' now you've got to go behind prison bars! It's sad—positively sad!"
"Look here!" demanded McAllister. "Do you mean to tell me you're such a bloomin' ass as to think that I'm a crook, a professional burglar, who's got an introduction into society—a what-do-you-call-him? Oh, yes—Raffles?"
Barney grinned at his victim, who was just getting into his dress-coat.
"Don't throw such a chest, Fatty!" he said genially. "I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill. But you can't fool me, and you can't lose me. By the way, what am I goin' to do for evenin' clothes?"
"Dunno. Have to stay up here, I guess. You can't come to dinner in those togs. It would queer everything."
"I'm goin', just the same. Not once do I lose sight of you, old chappie, until you're safely in the cooler at headquarters. Then your swell friends can bail you out!"
It was time for dinner. The little Dresden china clock on the mantel struck the hour softly, politely. McAllister glanced toward the door. The room was the largest of a suite. A small hall intervened between them and the main corridor. His hand trembled as he lit a Philip Morris.
"Come on, then," he muttered over his shoulder to Barney, and led the way to the door leading into the bath-room, which was next the door into the hall and identical with it in appearance. He held it politely ajar for the detective, with a smile of resignation.
"Apres vous, mon cher Baron!" he murmured.
The Baron acknowledged the courtesy with an appreciative grin and passed in front of McAllister, but had no sooner done so than he received a violent push into the darkness. McAllister quickly pulled and locked the heavy walnut door, then paused, breathless, listening for some sound. He hoped the feller hadn't fallen and cut his head against the tub. There was a muffled report, and a bullet sang past and buried itself in the enamelled bedstead. Bang! Another whizzed into the china on the washstand.
McAllister dashed for the corridor, closing both the outer and inner means of egress. At the head of the stairs he met Wainwright.
"What the devil are you fellers tryin' to do, anyway?" asked the latter. "Sounds as if you were throwin' dumb-bells at each other."
McAllister lighted another cigarette.
"Oh, the Baron was showing me how they do 'savate,' that kind of boxing with their feet, don'cher know!"
Chubby was entirely himself again. An unusual color suffused his ordinarily pink countenance as he joined the guests waiting for dinner. He explained ruefully that the Baron had been suddenly taken with a sharp pain in his head. It was an old trouble, he informed them, and would soon pass off. The nobleman would join the others presently—as soon as he felt able to do so.
"I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill."
There were murmurs of regret from all sides, since Mrs. Blair had lost no time in spreading the knowledge of the distinguished foreigner's presence at the house.
"Who's missing besides the Baron?" inquired Blair, counting heads. "Oh, yes, Miss Benson!"
"Oh, we won't wait for Mildred! It would make her feel so awkward," responded his wife. "She and the Baron can come in together. Mr. McAllister, I believe I'm to have the pleasure of being taken in by you!"
"Er—ye—es!" muttered Chubby vaguely, for at the moment he was calculating how long it would have taken that other Baron, the famous Trenk, to dig his way out of a porcelain bath-tub. "Too beastly bad about de Ville, but these French fellows, they don't have the advantage of our athletic sports to keep 'em in condition. Do you know, I hardly ever get off my peck? All due to taking regular exercise."
The party made their way to the dining-room and were distributed in their various places. As McAllister was pushing in the chair of his hostess his eye fell upon a servant who was performing the same office for a lady opposite. Could it be? He adjusted his monocle. There was no doubt about it. It was Wilkins. And now the detective was locked in the bath-room, and the burglar, his own double, would probably pass him the soup.
"What a jolly mess!" ejaculated the bewildered guest under his breath, sinking into his chair and mechanically bolting a caviare hors-d'œuvre. He drained his sherry and tried to grasp the whole significance of the situation.
"I do hope the Baron is feeling better by this time," he heard Mrs. Blair remark. He was about to make an appropriately sympathetic reply when Miss Benson came hurriedly into the room, paused at the foot of the table and grasped the back of a chair for support. She had lost all her color, and her hands and voice trembled with excitement.
"It's gone!" she gasped. "Stolen! My mother's pearl necklace! I had it on the bureau just before tea! Oh, what shall I do!" She burst into hysterical sobs.
Two or three women gave little shrieks and pushed back their chairs.
"My tiara!" exclaimed one.
"And my diamond sun-burst! I left it right on a book on the dressing-table!" cried another.
There was a general move from the table.
"O Gordon! Do you think there are burglars in the house?" called Mrs. Blair to her husband.
"Heaven knows!" he replied. "There may be. But don't let's get excited. Miss Benson may possibly be mistaken, or she may have mislaid the necklace. What do you suggest, McAllister?"
"Well," replied our hero, keeping a careful eye upon Wilkins, "the first thing is to learn how much is missing. Why don't these ladies go right upstairs and see if they've lost anything? Meanwhile, we'd all better sit down and finish our soup."
"Good idea!" returned Blair. "I'll go with them."
The three hurriedly left the room, and the rest of the guests, with the exception of Miss Benson, seated themselves once more.
Everybody began to talk at once. By George! The Benson pearls stolen! Why, they were worth twenty thousand dollars thirty years ago in Rome. You couldn't buy them now for love or money. Well, she had better sit down and eat something, anyway—a glass of wine, just to revive her spirits. Miss Benson was finally persuaded by her anxious hostess to sit down and "eat something." Mrs. Blair was very much upset. How awkward to have such a thing happen at one's first house party.
The searchers presently returned with the word that apparently nothing else had been taken. This had a beneficial effect on the general appetite.
Meanwhile McAllister had been watching Wilkins. Wilkins had been watching McAllister. Since that Christmas in the Tombs they had not seen each other. The valet was unchanged, save, of course, that his beard was gone. He moved silently from place to place, nothing betraying the agitation he must have felt at the realization that he was discovered. People were all shouting encouragement to Miss Benson. There was a great chatter and confusion. The tearful and hysterical Mildred was making pitiful little dabs at the viands forced upon her. Meanwhile the dinner went on. McAllister's seat commanded the door, and he could see, through the swinging screen, that there was no exit to the kitchen from the pantry.
Wilkins