Alan Warburton pauses, hesitates for a moment, and then, seeing that the little group of maskers near him seem wholly absorbed in their own merriment, he moves boldly forward, parts the curtain a little way, and peers within.

He sees a woman wearing the garments of Sunlight and the face of despair. She has torn off her mask, and it lies on the floor at her feet. In her hand is a crumpled sc.r.a.p of paper, and, as she holds it nearer the light and reads what is written thereon, a low moan escapes her lips.

"Again!" she murmurs; "how can I obey them?--and yet I _must_ go." Then, suddenly, a light of fierce resolve flames in her eyes. "I _will_ go,"

she says, speaking aloud in her self-forgetfulness; "I will go,--but it shall be _for the last time_!"

She thrusts the crumpled bit of paper into her bosom, goes to the window and looks out. Then she crosses to a door opposite the curtained entrance, opens it softly, and glides away.

In another moment, Alan Warburton is in the library. Tearing off the black and scarlet domino he flings it into a corner, and, glancing down at his nautical costume mutters:

"Sailors of this description are not uncommon. Wherever she goes, I can follow her--in this."

Ten minutes later, while Leslie Warburton's guests are dancing and making merry, Leslie Warburton, with sombre garments replacing the robes of Sunlight, glides stealthily out from her stately home, and creeps like a hunted creature through the darkness and away!

But not alone. Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows after; a man in the garments of a sailor, who pulls a glazed cap low down across his eyes, and mutters as he goes:

"So, Madam Intrigue, Van Vernet advised me well. Glide on, plotter; from this moment until I shall have unmasked you, _I am your shadow_!"

CHAPTER XI.

"DEAR MRS FOLLINGSBEE."

While the previously related scenes of this fateful night are transpiring Richard Stanhope finds his silken-trained disguise a snare in which his own feet become entangled, both literally and figuratively.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows after; a man in the garments of a sailor."--page 90.]

Moving with slow and stately steps through the vista of splendid rooms, taking note of all that he sees from behind his white and blue mask, he suddenly becomes the object of too much attention. A dashing Troubador presents himself, and will not be denied the pleasure of a waltz with "the stately and graceful Miss Columbia."

The detective's feet are encased in satin shoes that, if not small, are at least shapely. He has yet nearly an hour to spare to the masquerade, and his actual business is done. Why not yield to the temptation? He dances with the grace and abandon of the true music worshipper; he loves brightness and gayety, laughter and all sweet sounds; above all, he takes such delight in a jest as only healthy natures can.

"It would be a pity to disappoint such a pretty Troubador," muses Richard while he seems to hesitate; "he may never have another opportunity to dance with a lady like me."

And then, bowing a stately consent, he moves away on the arm of the Troubador, who, chuckling at his success, mentally resolves to make a good impression on this mysterious uninvited lady.

Van Vernet's plot works famously. The Troubador is enchanted with the dancing of the mysterious G.o.ddess, who looks at him with the handsomest, most languid and melting of brown, brown eyes, letting these orbs speak volumes, but saying never a word. And when his fellow-plotter claims the next dance, he yields his place reluctantly, and sees the waist of the G.o.ddess encircled by the arm of the Celestial, with a sigh of regret.

Richard Stanhope, now fully given over to the spirit of mischief, leans confidingly upon the arm of this second admirer, looking unutterable things with his big brown eyes.

They hover about him after this second dance, and he dances again with each. If the Troubador is overflowing with flattery, the Celestial is more obsequious still. Stanhope finds the moments flying, and the attention of the two gallants cease to amuse, and begin to annoy. In vain he tries to shake them off. If one goes, the other remains.

After many futile efforts to free himself from his tormentors, he sees Mr. Follingsbee approach, and beckons him forward with a sigh of relief.

The two maskers, recognizing Uncle Sam as a fitting companion for Miss Columbia, reluctantly yield their ground and withdraw.

"Have those fellows been pestering you?" queries the lawyer, with a laugh.

"Only as they bade fair to prove a hindrance," with an answering chuckle. "They're such nice little lady killers: but I must get away from this in a very few minutes. My disguise has been very successful."

"I should think so! Why, my boy, half the people here, at least those who have recognized me through my costume, think you are--ha! ha!--my wife!"

"So much the better."

"Why, little Winnie French--she found me out at once--has been looking all through the card rooms for "Dear Mrs. Follingsbee."" And the jolly lawyer laughs anew.

"Mr. Follingsbee,"--Stanhope has ceased to jest, and speaks with his usual business brusqueness--"Mrs. Warburton, I don't know for what reason, wished to be informed when I left the house. Will you tell her I am about to go, and that I will let her hear from me further through you? I will go up to the dressing room floor, and wait in the boudoir until you have seen her."

The boudoir opening upon the ladies' dressing rooms, is untenanted. But from the inner room, Stanhope catches the hum of feminine voices, and in a moment a quartette of ladies come forth, adjusting their masks as they move toward the stairway.

Suddenly there is a little exclamation of delight, and our detective, standing near the open window, with his face turned from the group, feels himself clasped by a pair of pretty dimpled arms, while a gay voice says in his ear:

"Oh! you dear old thing! Have I found you at last? Follingsbee, you look stunning in that costume. Oh!--" as Stanhope draws back with a deprecating gesture--"you needn't deny your ident.i.ty: isn't Mr.

Follingsbee here as Uncle Sam? I found him out at once, and didn't Leslie and I see you enter together?"

Stanhope quakes inwardly, and the perspiration starts out under his mask. It is very delightful, under most circ.u.mstances, to be embraced by a pair of soft feminine arms, but just now it is very embarra.s.sing and--very ridiculous.

Divided between his desire to laugh and his wish to run away, the detective stands hesitating, while Winnie French, for she it is, begins a critical examination of his costume.

"Don't you think the dress m.u.f.fles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee? If it were snugger here,"--giving him a little poke underneath his elbows,--"and not so straight from the shoulders. Why didn't you shorten it in front, and wear pointed shoes?"

And she seizes the flowing drapery, and draws it back to ill.u.s.trate her suggestion.

Again Stanhope recoils with a gesture which the gay girl misinterprets, and, quite ignoring the persistent silence of the supposed Mrs.

Follingsbee, she chatters on:

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Don't you think your dress m.u.f.fles your figure a little too much, Follingsbee?"--page 94.]

"I hope you don't resent _my_ criticisms, Follingsbee; you've picked _me_ to pieces often enough. Or are you still vexed because I _won't_ fall in love with your favorite Alan? There, now,"--as Stanhope, grown desperate, seems about to speak,--"I know just what you want to say, and you need not say it. Follingsbee," lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, "if I ever _had_ a sc.r.a.p of a notion of that sort, I have been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I know he's your prime favorite, but you can't tell _me_ anything about Alan; I've got him all catalogued on my ten fingers. Here he is pro and con; pro's _your_ idea of him, you know. You say he is rich. Well, that's something in these days! He's handsome. Bah! a man has no business with beauty; it's woman's special prerogative. He came of a splendid blue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is American _rubbish_.

He's talented. Well, that's only an accident for which _he_ deserves no credit. He's thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he's _too_ bolt upright for me."

"So," murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, "I am making a point in personal history, but--it's a tight place for me!" And as Winnie's arms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feels tempted to retort in kind.

"Now, then," resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing her victim to check off her "cons" on the pretty right hand; "here's _my_ opinion of Mr. Warburton. He's _proud_, ridiculously proud. He worships his _name_, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving.

He's _hard-hearted_. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate him utterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference, impossible to resent and horrible to endure,--and all because he chooses to believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking it for love of the Warburton fortune instead of the race."

Up from the ball-room floats the first strains of a delicious waltz.

Winnie stops, starts, and turns toward the door.

"That's my favorite waltz, and I'm engaged to Charlie Furbish--he dances like an angel. Follingsbee, bye, bye!"

She flits to the mirror, gives two or three dainty touches to her coquettish costume, tosses a kiss from her finger tips, and is gone.

"Thank Heaven," mutters Stanhope. "I consider _that_ the narrowest escape of my life! What a little witch it is, and pretty, I'll wager."

He draws from beneath his flowing robe a tiny watch such as ladies carry, and consults its jewelled face.