The hot angry Warburton blood surges up to Alan's brow. Realizing his danger more than ever, and recognizing in the man before him a force that might, perhaps, be bought or baffled, but never evaded, he lets his eyes rest for a moment, in haughty defiance, upon the detective's face.

And then he turns and walks to the door.

"Where do you purpose to conceal yourself?" he asks coldly, as he lays his hand upon the bell-rope.

Again Grip looks about him, and then steps toward the cabinet near the window.

"What's this," he asks, with his hand upon the closed door. "Will it hold me?"

"Yes," replies Alan; "that will hold you." And he pulls the bell.

"There's no resisting Fate," he mutters to himself. "At least that fellow shall not see me flinch again, let Leslie entangle me as she may, and as she doubtless will."

And then there tingled in his veins a new sensation--a burning desire to seize that most impertinent, vulgar trail-hunter, who was now tugging away at his cabinet door, and send him crashing headlong through the window into the street below.

"Ask Mrs. Warburton if she will grant me a few moments of her time," he said to the servant who appeared at the door, which Alan did not permit him to open more than half way. And then he turned his attention to Mr.

Grip.

That individual, still tugging unsuccessfully at the door of the cabinet, has grown impatient.

"It's locked!" he says, with an angry snap.

"No,"--Alan strides toward him--"it is not locked." And he adds his strength to that of Mr. Grip.

A moment the door hesitates; then it yields with a suddenness which causes Alan to reel, and flies open.

In another instant, Grip has pounced upon the luckless organ-grinder, and dragged him into the centre of the room, where he crouches at Alan's feet, the very image of terrified misery, limp and unresisting.

"That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarled the now thoroughly angry detective. "I've heard of skeletons in closets, but this thing looks more like a monkey."

"More like a sneak thief, I should say," remarks Alan, with aggravating coolness. "And a very cowardly one at that."

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

"WE TWO WILL MEET AGAIN."

[Ill.u.s.tration: ""That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarls the now thoroughly angry detective."--page 278.]

There may have been times in Alan Warburton's life--such times come to most fastidious city-bred people--when he doubted the wisdom of Providence in permitting the "street musician" to inherit the earth, and, especially to transport so much of his "heritage," wheresoever he might go, upon his person. But to-day, for the first time, he fancies that he sees some reason for the existence of the species, and he finds himself looking down almost complacently upon the crouching minstrel who has lawlessly invaded the sanct.i.ty of his splendid cabinet.

This strange intruder has brought him at least a respite; and he breathes a sigh of relief even as he asks sternly:

"Fellow, how long have you been hiding in that cabinet?"

But the culprit is once more a mute; again the pathetic look is in his eyes, and with Grip's hand still clutching his shoulder, he begins a terrified pantomime.

"Bah!" says Mr. Grip, pushing his prisoner away contemptuously, "that won't wash. You ain't deaf--not much; nor dumb, neither. Answer me,"

giving him a rough shake, "how came you here?"

There is no sign that the fellow hears or understands; he continues to gesticulate wildly.

Mr. Grip releases his hold, and bends upon Alan a look of impatience. In a moment, the organ-grinder bounds to the cabinet and, dragging forth his organ, turns back, displaying it and slinging it across his shoulder with grimaces of triumph.

"That won't go down, either," snarls Mr. Grip. "Put that thing on the floor, _presto_!"

But the minstrel only grins with delight, and throwing himself into an att.i.tude, begins to grind out a doleful air. With an angry growl, Mr.

Grip makes a movement toward him. But the organist retreats as he advances, and the doleful tune goes on.

It is a ludicrous picture, and Alan smiles in spite of himself, even while he wishes that Leslie would come now,--now, while he might warn her; now, while Mr. Augustus Grip, in his pursuit of the intruding musician, has put the width of the room between himself and his chosen place of concealment.

But Leslie does not come. And Mr. Grip's next remark shows that he has not forgotten himself. With a sudden movement, he wrests the organ from the hands of its manipulator, and converting the strap of the instrument into a very serviceable la.s.so, brings the fellow down upon his knees with a quick, dexterous throw, and holding him firmly thus, says over his shoulder, to Alan:

"This is a fine thing to happen just now! The fellow must be got out of the way, and kept safe until I have time to discover his racket. He's not such a fool as he looks. Can't you get in a policeman quietly? We don't want any servants to gossip over it, or to see me."

Alan turns his face toward the closet. "Can't we lock him up again?" he suggests.

"My dear sir," says Grip coolly, "this fellow is probably a _spy_."

"What!" Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder.

Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, "nonsense; look at that stolid countenance."

"Umph!" mutters Grip; "too much hair and dirt." Then turning toward the side window: "I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get in a policeman somehow; try the window."

As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state of utter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp of Mr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew his pleading, terrified pantomine.

"Ah," says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, "this window must have been the place where he entered." Then, after a prolonged look up and down the street: "I don't see an officer anywhere."

"No; I presume not. Try the other windows."

"The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds."

"Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and come and guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment."

Alan turns again, and looks down into the street.

"I think," he says, quietly, "that we will just drop him back into the street whence he came."

"You seem to want this fellow to escape," snarls the detective, casting upon Alan a glance of suspicion. "He shall not escape; I'll take care of him!"

At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie, breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room.

"Mr. Alan," she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants of the room; "we can't find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!"

"What!" Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment.

"Ah-h-h!" Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full of meaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed.