"Ask it."

"Van Vernet was a guest at your masquerade--why was he there?"

The question startles Alan Warburton, but he answers after a moment's reflection:

"He came at my invitation, and on a matter of business."

"And yet you say that you never saw his face before?"

"True; our business was arranged through third parties, and by correspondence. He came into my presence, for the first time, masked.

Until I saw his face in that hovel yonder, I had never seen it."

"And you?"

"A kind fortune has favored me. This dress I wore as a masquerade costume; over it I threw a black and scarlet domino. Van Vernet saw me in that domino, and with a mask before my face."

"You may thank your stars for that, and for your silence at the hovel.

If you had opened your lips then, your voice might have betrayed you."

"It would have betrayed the fact that I was no seaman, at the least, and that is why I had resolved upon silence as the safest course."

"You have come out of this night's business most fortunately. But you still have reason to fear Vernet. Your very silence may cause him to suspect you of playing a part. Your features are photographed upon his memory; alter the cut of your whiskers or, better still, give your face a clean shave; crop your hair, and above all leave the city until this affair blows over."

"Thank you," Alan replies; "I feel that your advice is good." Then, after a struggle with his pride, he adds:

"I could easily clear myself of so monstrous a charge as that which Vernet would prefer against me, but, for certain reasons, I would prefer not to make a statement of the case."

"I comprehend."

Again Alan is startled out of his dignity. "You were the first to arrive in response to that cry for help to-night?" he begins.

"The first, after you."

"You saw those who fled?"

"I saw only one fugitive. Mr. Warburton, I know what you would ask. I saw and recognized your brother's wife. I understood your actions; you were guarding her retreat at the risk of your own life or honor. You are a brave man!"

Alan's tone is a trifle haughty as he answers:

"In knowing Mrs. Warburton and myself, you have us at a disadvantage. In having seen us as you saw us to-night, we are absolutely in your power, should you choose to be unscrupulous. Under these circ.u.mstances, I have a right to demand the name of a man who knows _me_ so intimately. I have a right to know why you followed us, or me, to that house to-night?"

His companion laughs good-naturedly.

"In spite of your airs, Mr. Warburton," he says candidly, "you would be a fine fellow if you were not--such a prig. So you demand an explanation. Well, here it is, at least as much as you will need to enlighten you. Who am I? I am a friend to all honest men. Why did I follow you? Neither Vernet nor myself followed you or the lady. Vernet was there as the leader of an organized Raid. I was there--ahem! as a pilot for Vernet. _You_ were there as a spy upon the lady. Mrs.

Warburton's presence remains to be accounted for. And now, Mr.

Warburton, adieu. You are out of present danger; if I find that Mrs.

Warburton has not fared so well, you will hear from me again. If otherwise, you look your last upon Silly Charlie."

With a mocking laugh he turns, and pausing at the corner to wave his hand in farewell, he darts away in the direction whence he came.

Puzzled, chagrined, his brain teeming with strange thoughts, Alan Warburton turns homeward.

What is it that has come upon him this night? Less than two hours ago, an aristocrat, proud to a fault, with an unblemished name, and with nothing to fear or to conceal. Now, stealing through the dark streets like an outcast, his pride humbled to the dust, his breast burdened with a double secret, accused of murder, creeping from the police, a hunted man! To-morrow the town will be flooded with descriptions of this escaped sailor. To-morrow he must change his appearance, must flee the city.

And all because of his zeal for the family honor; all because of his brother's wife, and her horrible secret! To-night charity hath no place in Alan Warburton's heart.

Meanwhile, Van Vernet, covered with rags and dust, sickened by the foul smell of the vault into which he has been precipitated, and boiling over with wrath, is being rescued from his absurd and uncomfortable position by three policemen, who, being sent forward to ascertain if possible the cause of their leader's prolonged absence, have stumbled upon him in the very nick of time.

As he emerges from the trap, by the aid of the same rope with which not long before he had secured Alan Warburton's feet, he presents a most ludicrous appearance. His hat has been lost in the darkness of the cellar, and his head is plentifully decorated with rags and feathers, which have adhered tenaciously to his disarranged locks. He is smeared with dirt, pallid from the stench, nauseated, chagrined, wrathful.

Instinctively he comprehends the situation. The simpleton has played him false, the prisoner has escaped.

On the floor lie the handcuffs which Alan Warburton has shaken off as he fled. He picks them up and examines them eagerly. Then an imprecation breaks from his lips. They have been _unlocked_! And by whom? Not by the man who wore them; that was impossible.

Suddenly, flinging down the handcuffs, he turns to the policemen.

"Two men have escaped from this house, after throwing me into that cellar," he says rapidly. "They must be overtaken--a sailor and a pretended simpleton tricked out in rags and tinsel. After them, boys; out by that door. They can't be far away. Capture them _alive or dead_!"

The door by which Alan and his rescuer made their exit stands invitingly open, and the three officers, promptly obeying their leader, set off in pursuit of the sailor and the simpleton.

Left alone, Van Vernet plucks the extempore adornments from his head and person, and meditates ruefully, almost forgetting the original Raid in the chagrin of his present failure.

He goes to the side of the murdered man, who still lies as he had fallen, and looks down upon him.

"Ah, my fine fellow," he mutters, "you give me a chance to redeem myself. If I have been outwitted to-night by a sailor and a fool, you and I will have fine revenge. A sailor! Ah, it was no common sailor, if I may trust my eyes and my senses. The hands were too white and soft; the feet too small and daintily clad; the face, in spite of the low-drawn cap and the tattooing, was too aristocratic and too _clean_.

And the fool! Ah, it is no common fool who carries keys that unlock our new patent handcuffs, and who managed this rescue so cleverly. For once, Van Vernet has found his match! But the scales shall turn. The man who killed _you_, my lad, and the man who outwitted _me_, shall be found and punished, or Van Vernet will have lost his skill!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

VERNET DISCOMFITED.

While the discomfited Vernet kept watch alone with the dead, his men were running up and down the alleys, listening, peering, searching in by-places, in the hope of finding the hiding-place, or to overtake the flight, of the fugitive sailor and his idiot guide.

More than an hour they consumed in this search, and then they returned to their superior officer to report their utter failure.

"It is what I expected," said Vernet, with severe philosophy. "Those fellows are no common rascals. They have spoiled our Raid; before this, every rogue in the vicinity has been warned. I would not give a copper for all we can capture now."

And Vernet was right, the Raid was a failure. Mustering his men, he made the tour of the streets and alleys, but everywhere an unnatural silence reigned. The Thieves' Tavern was fast shut and quite silent; the drinking dens, the streets and cellars, where riot and infamy reigned, were under the influence of a silent spell.

It was only the yelp of a dog, heard here and there as Silly Charlie and Alan Warburton sped through the streets and lanes, but its effect was magical. It told the rioters, the crooks and outlaws in hiding, that there was danger abroad,--that the police were among them. And their orgies were hushed, their haunts became silent and tenantless; while every man who had anything to fear from the hands of justice--and what man among them had not?--slunk away to his secret hiding-place, and laid a fierce clutch upon revolver or knife.

The Raid was an utter failure; and Van Vernet, as he led his men ruefully homeward, little dreamed of the cause of the failure.