CHAPTER XI.
"DEAR MRS FOLLINGSBEE."
While the previously related scenes of this fateful night aretranspiring Richard Stanhope finds his silken-trained disguise a snarein which his own feet become entangled, both literally and figuratively.
"Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man followsafter; 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, hesuddenly becomes the object of too much attention. A dashing Troubadorpresents 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, areat 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? Hedances with the grace and abandon of the true music worshipper; he lovesbrightness and gayety, laughter and all sweet sounds; above all, hetakes such delight in a jest as only healthy natures can.
"It would be a pity to disappoint such a pretty Troubador," musesRichard while he seems to hesitate; "he may never have anotheropportunity to dance with a lady like me."
And then, bowing a stately consent, he moves away on the arm of theTroubador, who, chuckling at his success, mentally resolves to make agood impression on this mysterious uninvited lady.
Van Vernet's plot works famously. The Troubador is enchanted with thedancing of the mysterious Goddess, who looks at him with the handsomest,most languid and melting of brown, brown eyes, letting these orbs speakvolumes, but saying never a word. And when his fellow-plotter claims thenext dance, he yields his place reluctantly, and sees the waist of theGoddess encircled by the arm of the Celestial, with a sigh of regret.
Richard Stanhope, now fully given over to the spirit of mischief, leansconfidingly upon the arm of this second admirer, looking unutterablethings with his big brown eyes.
They hover about him after this second dance, and he dances again witheach. If the Troubador is overflowing with flattery, the Celestial ismore obsequious still. Stanhope finds the moments flying, and theattention of the two gallants cease to amuse, and begin to annoy. Invain he tries to shake them off. If one goes, the other remains.
After many futile efforts to free himself from his tormentors, he seesMr. Follingsbee approach, and beckons him forward with a sigh of relief.
The two maskers, recognizing Uncle Sam as a fitting companion for MissColumbia, reluctantly yield their ground and withdraw.
"Have those fellows been pestering you?" queries the lawyer, with alaugh.
"Only as they bade fair to prove a hindrance," with an answeringchuckle. "They're such nice little lady killers: but I must get awayfrom 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 thosewho have recognized me through my costume, think you are--ha! ha!--mywife!"
"So much the better."
"Why, little Winnie French--she found me out at once--has been lookingall through the card rooms for "Dear Mrs. Follingsbee."" And the jollylawyer laughs anew.
"Mr. Follingsbee,"--Stanhope has ceased to jest, and speaks with hisusual business brusqueness--"Mrs. Warburton, I don't know for whatreason, wished to be informed when I left the house. Will you tell her Iam about to go, and that I will let her hear from me further throughyou? I will go up to the dressing room floor, and wait in the boudoiruntil you have seen her."
The boudoir opening upon the ladies' dressing rooms, is untenanted. Butfrom the inner room, Stanhope catches the hum of feminine voices, and ina moment a quartette of ladies come forth, adjusting their masks asthey 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 gayvoice says in his ear:
"Oh! you dear old thing! Have I found you at last? Follingsbee, you lookstunning in that costume. Oh!--" as Stanhope draws back with adeprecating gesture--"you needn't deny your identity: isn't Mr.Follingsbee here as Uncle Sam? I found him out at once, and didn'tLeslie and I see you enter together?"
Stanhope quakes inwardly, and the perspiration starts out under hismask. It is very delightful, under most circumstances, to be embraced bya pair of soft feminine arms, but just now it is very embarrassingand--very ridiculous.
Divided between his desire to laugh and his wish to run away, thedetective stands hesitating, while Winnie French, for she it is, beginsa critical examination of his costume.
"Don't you think the dress muffles your figure a little too much,Follingsbee? If it were snugger here,"--giving him a little pokeunderneath his elbows,--"and not so straight from the shoulders. Whydidn't you shorten it in front, and wear pointed shoes?"
And she seizes the flowing drapery, and draws it back to illustrate hersuggestion.
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:
"Don't you think your dress muffles your figure a littletoo 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, growndesperate, seems about to speak,--"I know just what you want to say, andyou need not say it. Follingsbee," lowering her voice to a moreconfidential tone, "if I ever _had_ a scrap of a notion of that sort, Ihave been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I knowhe'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'ssomething in these days! He's handsome. Bah! a man has no business withbeauty; it's woman's special prerogative. He came of a splendidblue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is American _rubbish_.He's talented. Well, that's only an accident for which _he_ deserves nocredit. He's thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he's _too_ boltupright for me."
"So," murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, "I am making a pointin personal history, but--it's a tight place for me!" And as Winnie'sarms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feelstempted to retort in kind.
"Now, then," resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing hervictim to check off her "cons" on the pretty right hand; "here's _my_opinion of Mr. Warburton. He's _proud_, ridiculously proud. He worshipshis _name_, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving.He's _hard-hearted_. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate himutterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference,impossible to resent and horrible to endure,--and all because he choosesto believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking itfor 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 danceslike an angel. Follingsbee, bye, bye!"
She flits to the mirror, gives two or three dainty touches to hercoquettish costume, tosses a kiss from her finger tips, and is gone.
"Thank Heaven," mutters Stanhope. "I consider _that_ the narrowestescape 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 ladiescarry, and consults its jewelled face.
"My time is up!" he ejaculates. "Twenty minutes delay, now, will ruin myRaid. Ah! here's Follingsbee." And he moves forward at the sound of anapproaching step.
But it is not Follingsbee who appears upon the threshold. It is,instead, Stanhope's too-obsequious, too-attentive admirer, theCelestial, who has voted the prospect of a flirtation with a mysteriousmask, a thing of spice.
Dangerous Ground; or, The Rival Detectives Page 12
