Never would I make light of his investigative zeal again. That man had examined every shred and splinter and dust mote en route. Needless to say, by now his attire was no better than any Street Arab's when it came to dirt and disarray.

Thus he could pronounce from the back stoop, to an audience of Godfrey, Quentin, myself, and Miss Bristol, that Irene and Consuelo had exited the house by this very route. That Irene had worn men's clothing. That her boots bore traces of-his eyes flicked away from us-interesting, even telltale-substances. That Consuelo had gone willingly, under her own power, and perhaps the lulling power of hypnotism.

And that sixty feet from the house, in the forecourt to the stables area, they had both been picked up by a hansom cab.

"A cab?" Godfrey repeated.

"These villains have discovered that the bold approach is the least observed, something Mrs. Norton mastered in her teens."

"You're not saying-" I began.

"No." He had whirled and struck out at me like a poisonous snake. "Nothing is as it seems. Nothing in this entire case."

He straightened and pocketed the magnifying glass in his ulster, which reminded me of Professor Marvel's coat of many calling cards for the large number of items it could conceal.

"Enough of crawling around the haunts of the rich and infamous," Holmes said. "We'll find what we seek in less elevated locations. Miss Bristol-?"

"I'll arrange a room at your hotel," Quentin said quickly.

Holmes nodded. He looked at me, and Godfrey. "We'll need to dress for the occasion. Not well. Tonight will determine the fate of everyone we know, and a good many we don't know. Miss Huxleigh and I will tackle the Episcopal Club late this afternoon, just as the city fills with evening shadows. Mr. Norton, you will rendezvous with Mr. Stanhope and precede us to the club. Establish yourselves to watch the premises and those who enter and leave it."

"And what will this expedition gain us?" Godfrey demanded.

"An answer to a great many questions, and your wife back, along with little Miss Vanderbilt."

Who could argue with that?

49.

IN THE PINKERTON.

It was not that Holmes merely changed his costume.

His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary

with every fresh part that he assumed.

-DR. WATSON IN "A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA"

Of course, as all men know, brave talk is one thing. Brave action is another.

By an hour past teatime, I was in a tizzy. I was "walking out" not in men's clothing but in my feminine self, with Sherlock Holmes, who would no doubt be judging each move and syllable of my performance as I introduced him to Bishop Potter and the environs of the Episcopal Club.

Neatly attired in my new checked coat-dress, I was ready at the hotel when he knocked upon the door.

Godfrey answered, for he knew my nerves were as frayed as a ball of yarn Lucifer the cat had mauled. Oh, dear. Can nerves be both frayed and fevered? My cotton gloves touched my face, and came away warmed.

Well!

Here was my escort: a "gent" wearing a bowler hat and a checkered suit, neither new, with a cigar rampant on a field of teeth.

"'Afternoon, ma'am," this lanky fellow greeted me. "I'm fresh from the Windy City of Chicago and eager to see that a lady like you gets the answers she deserves. Mr. Artemis Conklin, at your service, but you can call me Artie."

Godfrey laughed. "Your American accent is astounding. Pinkertons are respected here, no matter their tailoring. Nothing could be more natural than that Nell should employ a private detective to trace her missing friend. Have you a pistol?"

Holmes revealed a large wooden-handled gun.

"These American inquiry agents," he said, "may be effective, but they're not gents of the old school. I'm sure Miss Huxleigh appreciates the difference between her homeland and the Colonies. There we go, ma'am, ahead of me out the door, for a gentleman I am when it suits me."

I sallied out as he suggested, amazed by the just-right blend of crude courtesy he exuded.

In fact, the American Sherlock Holmes was a far more palatable escort than any version I had met before.

Quite a revelation it was. As long as Sherlock Holmes was playing a part-in this case the Pinkerton operative obliging a lady client-he was quite the gallant, if clumsy, escort.

"Irene always said that your profession was half acting and half deduction," I told him on the horse car we took to the lower area of Manhattan.

"She is mighty generous, ma'am," he answered in that amazing Yankee twang.

"Not really. Irene is merely exacting. She's a seasoned stage artist. She doesn't bestow praise lightly."

At that he gave a potbellied Yankee chuckle.

"And I am a 'miss,'" I added. Purely in character.

"I could hardly miss that," he retorted. "Now pay attention. I'll say what I need to alert any loitering observers that I might know more about the events than we do. You must play the naive innocent, no matter what I say."

The "naive innocent"? "That will be a 'stretch,'" I told him, "but Irene has often discussed the necessity of playing against type."

"Has she? Let's hope that she finds us up to her standards, when we in turn find her."

"Will we find her?"

"You may not, but I will. I don't approve of Norton's insistence on involving you tonight. I doubt Mrs. Norton would approve. Try to remember that the well-being of both your friend, Madam Irene, and the Vanderbilt girl depend on your being coolheaded."

"This is not my first time for such concerns, Mr. . . . Pinkerton."

"Good. Just be yourself and stay out of my way, and all will be well."

This was the last time during that journey that the usual Sherlock Holmes arrogance peeped out of his new Pinkerton persona.

As we alighted on Broadway, the streets still thronged with conveyances. The electric streetlights were just coming on, but not quite needed as we walked the short distance to the club. Yet I thought we would never get there!

Mr. Artemis Conklin had to stop every few yards to gawk about like a country bumpkin. Then he had to search his pockets, pull out a large cigar, and light it.

He again peered intently around the neighborhood, which was decorated with the usual peddlers and loungers. Then he ostentatiously took my arm (it was all I could do not to unceremoniously jerk it away), and said loudly, "So you last saw this Father Edwards at the club, you say."

"Edmonds!" I corrected before I could stop myself.

"Don't worry, miss, we Pinkertons always get our man. Or woman."

At this he chuckled and we again preceded toward the club.

I heard a furtive jingle, like coins, and jerked around to look behind us. But the street was quiet. The loiterers were growing invisible in the shadows of the looming six- and seven-story offices. Night was falling with a thud here, along this narrow street hemmed in by these towering buildings.

Again the clinking sound. I observed a peddler's cart across the street, attended by a man slouched against the wall as if asleep. Somehow the wind must be moving among the clutter of goods.

A gas lantern glowed alongside the steps ahead on our left. The farther one got from Broadway, the more old-fashioned gaslights were still in use. Once again I broached the doors of the Episcopal Club. I was beginning to feel like an American member of the congregation!

Despite my unlikely escort, I was recognized by the attendant and we were allowed in.

The dinner hour found Bishop Potter in. He greeted us in the parlor, listening with a kind, worried face as I explained the disappearance of my friend, and implored him to assist this fine detective, Mr. Conklin of the Pinkertons, in finding her.

"Such a shock, Miss Huxleigh," the bishop said. "Do you know we haven't been able to find Father Hawks? And Father Edmonds, such a fine young priest, has also gone missing. Now you say our revered donor, Mrs. Norton is not to be found. Appalling! Of course I will do anything, Mr.-?"

"Conklin, sir. Father. Bishop, that is. I guess yer kissin' cousins to the high clergy of me own Catholic faith."

Here the bishop's genial expression curdled somewhat. What could he do? More than half the population of New York was Irish Roman Catholic these days. They were tenement shop workers, domestics, laborers, bartenders, and policemen. Even private policemen.

"I need information on the good fathers," said Holmes, taking out a tiny stub of pencil, licking the lead and applying the blunted point to a smudged and crinkled notebook. "Where were they last seen?"

"Why, here, I suppose. Both had official positions at the club, and therefore roomed here. We also have a library and club rooms and direct our charities to the poor from here as well."

"You don't room here?"

"No. No, of course not. I have the official residence."

"Then why do ye spend so much time here?"

"To dine, of course, in a more communal atmosphere. The cook is quite fine. And to escape the pomp of my office."

"I don't suppose you invite any Catholic priests here."

"Prelates, from time to time, but not priests. The large Irish population of New York requires us to set aside denominational differences on occasion. Our congregation, of course, is more . . . stable."

"No Irish need apply, eh, Bishop?" Holmes had strolled insolently to the bay window overlooking the street. "No Jesuits either, I s'pose?"

"Jesuits? No. Hardly. They are the aggressive arm of that ancient religion. Brilliant but doctrinaire. Bishops, on the other hand, well, we all have to be diplomats."

Holmes turned from the window that looked out on absolute blackness now.

"I don't s'pose you allow cigar smokin' inside here?"

"Not in the library. In the club rooms, but-"

"Nothing to it. I'll take meself outside for a think and a smoke. The two often go togither. Maybe Miss Ruxleigh has a question or two to ask you about Father Edmonds. She was much taken with him."

"Huxleigh! And I was no more taken with Father Edmonds than I am with you, Mr., uh, Cronklin."

Holmes had oiled out of the door, the disgusting snuffed cigar already in his hand, ready for a relighting.

Really! I'd never been seen in such debased company before, even if it was a pose, and blushed for the crudity of my companion.

The bishop, being a man of sensibility, immediately sensed my humiliation. "These police types are but a step up from the petty criminals they pursue, my dear," he consoled me with a fineness of feeling I much appreciated.

I glanced out the window to see a bright ember flare against the dark. The revolting cigar. I do wish Irene would stop smoking such things! Irene . . . My eyes teared over.

"Please, Miss Huxleigh, do sit down again. Believe me, I'll do all in my power to assist in your search for Mrs. Norton. Such a handsome woman. One hopes that . . . well, much evil happens on the streets of New York. I understand your need to employ an inquiry agent, but perhaps Mr. Conklin is not the best person. He seems eager to be off."

I leaped up from my chair like a fox startled by hounds and whirled to look out the window. No ember glowed in the dark. I had been . . . seduced and abandoned.

Holmes was off on the real business of the night and I was sitting here exchanging inanities with the bishop.

"I must go."

And I did, ignoring the bishop's sputtered objections behind me, prating of dark streets, of Irene's recent fate, promising he would find me an escort. . . .

I had had an escort, and he'd quite neatly deluded . . . and eluded me.

I burst out into the street. Night black now, and no one visible there. Not a soul.