This night's work, which had been pre-supposed a sure success, had been spoiled by a fool. A most unusual fool,--of that Vernet was fully aware; only a fool as he played his part. But he had played it successfully.

Vernet had been duped by this seeming idiot, and foiled by the sailor-a.s.sa.s.sin. Of this he savagely a.s.sured himself, in the depths of his chagrin.

But, shrewd man as he was, he never once imagined that under the rags and tinsel, the dirt and disfigurement of the fool, the strong will and active brain of _Richard Stanhope_ were arrayed against him; nor dreamed that "Warburton, the aristocrat," the man who had wounded his pride and looked down upon him as an inferior, had escaped from his clutches in the garb of a common sailor.

Arrived at head-quarters, Vernet laid before his Chief a full report of the night's misadventures, and concluded his narrative thus:

"It has never before been my misfortune to report so complete a failure.

But the affair shall not end here. I have my theory; I intend to run down these two men, and I believe they will be worth the trouble I shall take on their account. They were both shams, I am sure. The sailor never saw a masthead; he could not even act his part. The other--well, he played the fool to perfection, and--he outwitted _me_."

One thing troubled Vernet not a little. Richard Stanhope did not make a late appearance at the Agency. He did not come at all that night, or rather that morning. And Vernet speculated much as to the possible cause of this long delay.

It was late in the day when Stanhope finally presented himself, and then he entered the outer office alert, careless, _debonnaire_ as usual; looking like a man with an untroubled conscience, who has pa.s.sed the long night in peaceful repose.

Vernet, who had arrived at the office but a moment before, lifted his face from the newspaper he held and cast upon his _confrere_ an inquiring glance.

But d.i.c.k Stanhope was blind to its meaning. With his usual easy morning salutation to all in the room, he pa.s.sed them, and applied for admittance at the door of his Chief's private office. It was promptly opened to him, and he walked into the presence of his superior as jauntily as if he had not, by his unaccountable absence, spoiled the most important Raid of the season.

It was a long interview, and as toward its close the sounds of uproarious laughter penetrated to the ears of the loungers in the outer room, Van Vernet bit his lip with vexation. Evidently the Chief was not visiting his displeasure too severely upon his dilatory favorite.

Vernet's cheeks burned as he realized how utterly he had failed. Not only had he heaped confusion upon himself, but he had not succeeded in lessening Stanhope's claim to favoritism by bringing upon him the displeasure of the Agency.

While he sat, still tormented by this bitter thought, Stanhope re-entered the room, and walking straight up to Vernet brought his hand down upon the shoulder of that gentleman with emphatic heartiness, while he said, his eyes fairly dancing with mischief, and every other feature preternaturally solemn:

"I say, Van, old fellow, how do you like conducting a Raid?"

It was a moment of humiliation for Van Vernet. But he, like Stanhope, was a skilled actor, and he lifted his eyes to the face of his inquisitor and answered with a careless jest, while he realized that in this game against Richard Stanhope he had played his first hand, and had lost.

"It shall not remain thus," he a.s.sured himself fiercely; "I'll play as many trumps as d.i.c.k Stanhope, before our little game ends!"

When Walter Parks returned from his two days' absence, and called at the office to receive the decisions of the two detectives, the Chief said:

"You may consider yourself sure of both men, after a little. d.i.c.k Stanhope, whose case promised to be a very short one, has asked for more time. And Van Vernet is in hot chase after two sly fellows, and won't give up until they are trapped. You may be sure of them both, however. And in order that they may start fair, after their present work is done, I have arranged that you meet them here to-night, and let them listen together to your statement."

"I like the idea," said Walter Parks earnestly, "and I will be here at the appointed time."

That evening, Vernet and Stanhope,--the former grave, courteous, and attentive; the latter cool, careless, and inconsequent as usual,--sat listening to the story of Arthur Pearson's mysterious death, told with all its details.

As the tale progressed, Van Vernet became more attentive, more eager, his eyes, flashing with excitement, following every gesture, noting every look that crossed the face of the narrator. But d.i.c.k Stanhope sat in the most careless of lounging att.i.tudes; his eyes half closed or wandering idly about the room; his whole manner that of an individual rather more bored than interested.

"It's a difficult case," said Van Vernet, when the story was done. "It will be long and tedious. But as soon as I have found the man or men I am looking for, I will undertake it. And if the murderer is above ground, I do not antic.i.p.ate failure."

But Stanhope only said:

"I don't know when I shall be at your disposal. The affair I have in hand is not progressing. Your case looks to me like a dubious one,--the chances are ninety to one against you. But when I am at liberty, if Van here has not already solved the mystery, I'll do my level best for you."

CHAPTER XIX.

CALLED TO ACCOUNT.

It was a long road for a woman to travel at that unconventional hour, but Leslie Warburton was fleet-footed, and fear and excitement lent her strength.

Necessity had taught her how to enter and escape from the dangerous maze where the people who claimed a right in her existence dwelt. And on being forced to flee by her haughty brother-in-law, she bowed her head and wrapping herself in her dark cloak sped away through the night.

She had little fear of being missed by her guests,--a masquerade affords lat.i.tude impossible to any other gathering, and contrary to the usual custom, the maskers were to continue their _incognito_ until the cotillion began. If her guests missed her, she would be supposed to be in some other apartment. If she were missed by Winnie, that little lady would say: "She is with Archibald, of course."

Nevertheless, it was an unsafe journey. But she accomplished it, and arrived, panting, weary, and filled with a terrible dread at the thought of the exposure that must follow her encounter with Alan.

They were dancing still, her light-hearted guests, and Leslie resumed her Sunlight robes, and going back to her place among them forced herself to smile and seem to be gay, while her heart grew every moment heavier with its burden of fear and dire foreboding.

Anxiously she watched the throng, hoping, yet dreading, to see the sailor costume of Alan, fearing lest, in spite of his high courage, disaster had overtaken him.

It was in the grey of morning, and her guests were dispersing, when Alan Warburton reappeared. He was m.u.f.fled as at first, in the black and scarlet domino, and he moved with the slow languor of one utterly exhausted or worn with pain.

At length it was over; the last guest had departed, the house was silent, and Leslie and Alan stood face to face under the soft light of the library chandelier.

During the ceremonies of departure, he had remained constantly near her.

And when they were left, at last, with only Winnie French beside them, Leslie, seeing that the interview was inevitable, had asked Winnie to look in upon little Daisy, adding, as the girl, with a gay jest, turned to go:

"I will join you there soon, Winnie, dear; just now Alan and I have a little to say about some things that have occurred to-night."

Tossing a kiss to Leslie, and bestowing a grimace upon Alan as he held open the door for her exit, Winnie had _pirouetted_ out of the room, and sped up the broad stairway as fleetly as if her little feet were not weary with five hours' dancing.

Then Leslie, with a stately gesture, had led the way to the library.

Silently, and as if by one accord, they paused under the chandelier, and each gazed into the face of the other.

His eyes met hers, stern, accusing, and darkened with pain; while she--her bearing was proud as his, her face mournful, her eyes resolute, her lips set in firm lines. She looked neither criminal nor penitent; she was a woman driven to bay, and she would fight rather than flee.

Looking him full in the face, she made no effort to break the silence.

Seeing which, Alan Warburton said:

"Madam, you play your part well. You are not now the nocturnal wanderer menaced by a danger--"

"From which you rescued me," she interrupts, her face softening. "Alan, it was a brave deed, and I thank you a thousand times!"

"I do not desire your grat.i.tude, Madam. I could have done no less, and would do yet more to save from disgrace the name we bear in common. Was your absence noted? Did you return safely and secretly?"

"I have not been missed, and I returned as safely and as secretly as I went."

Her voice was calm, her countenance had hardened as at first.