"Absolutely. Even after twenty years of America no Harrowby would drag his father's name on to the vaudeville stage. No, he is an impostor, and as such he deserves no consideration whatever. And by the by, Minot—you will note that the postponement is through no fault of mine."
Minot made a wry face.
"I have noted it," he said. "In other words, I go on to the stage now—following the man who followed the trained seals. I thought my role was that of Cupid, but it begins to look more like Captain Kidd. Ah, well—I'll do my best." He stood up. "I'm going out into the soft moonlight for a little while, Lord Harrowby. While I'm gone you might call Spencer Meyrick up and ask him to do nothing definite in the way of postponement until he hears from me—U9—er— you."
"Splendid of you, really," said Harrowby enthusiastically, as Minot held open the door for him. "I had the feeling I could fall back on you."
"And I have the feeling that you've fallen," smiled Minot. "So long—better wait up for my report."
Fifteen minutes later, seated in a small rowboat on the starry waters of the harbor, Minot was loudly saluting the yacht Lileth. Finally Mr. Martin Wall appeared at the rail.
"Well—what d'you want?" he demanded.
"A! .word with you, Mr. Wall," Minot answered. "Will you be good enough to let down your accommodation ladder?"
For a moment Wall hesitated. And Minot, watching him, knew why he hesitated. He suspected that the young man in the tiny boat there on the calm bright waters had come to repay a call earlier in the evening—a call made while the host was out. At last he decided to let down the ladder.
"Glad to see you," he announced genially as Minot came on deck.
"Awfully nice of you to say that," Minot laughed. "Reassures me. Because I've heard there are sharks in these waters."
They sat down in wicker chairs on the forward deck. Minot stared at the cluster of lights that was San Marco by night.
"Corking view you have of that touristhaunted town," he commented.
"Ah—yes," Mr. Wall's queer eyes narrowed. "Did you row out here to tell me that?" he inquired.
"A deserved rebuke," Minot returned. "Time Bies, and my errand is a pressing one. Am I right in assuming, Mr. Wall, that you are Lord Harrowby's friend?" 1 am.
"Good. Then you will want to help him in the very serious difficulty in which he now finds himself. Mr. Wall, the man who calls himself the real Lord Harrowby made his debut on a vaudeville stage to-night."
"So I've heard," said Wall, with a short laugh.
"Lord Harrowby's fiancee and her father are greatly disturbed. They insist that this impostor must be removed from the scene at once, or there will be no wedding. Mr. Wall—it is up to you and me to remove him."
"Just what is your interest in the matter?" Wall inquired.
"The same as yours. I am Harrowby's friend. Now, Mr. Wall, this is the situation as I see it—wanted, board and room in a quiet neighborhood for Mr. George Harrowby. Far from the street-cars, the vaudeville stage, the wedding march and other disturbing elements. And what is more, I think I've found the quiet neighborhood. I think it's right here aboard the Lileth."
"Oh—indeed!"
"Yes. A simple affair to arrange, Mr. Wall. Trimmer and his live proposition are just about due for their final appearance of the night at the opera-house right now. I will call at the stage door and lead Mr. Trimmer away after his little introductory speech. I will keep him away until you and a couple of your sailors—I suggest the two I met so informally in the North River— have met the vaudeville lord at the stage door and gently, but firmly, persuaded him to come aboard this boat."
Mr. Wall regarded Minot with a cynical smile.
"A clever scheme," he said. "What would you say was the penalty for kidnaping in this state?"
"Oh, why look it up?" asked Minot carelessly. "Surely Martin Wall is not afraid of a backwoods constable."
"What do you mean by that, my boy?" said Wall, with an ugly stare.
"What do you think I mean?" Minot smiled back. "I'd be very glad to take the role I've assigned you—I can't help feeling that it will be more entertaining than the one I have. The difficulty in the way is Trimmer. I believe I am better fitted to engage his attention. I know him better than you do, and he trusts me—begging your pardon—further."
"He did give me a nasty dig," said Wall, flaming at the recollection. "The noisy mountebank! Well, my boy, your young enthusiasm has won me. I'll do what I can."
"And you can do a lot. Watch me until you see me lead Trimmer away. Then get his pet. I'll steer Trimmer somewhere near the beach, and keep an eye on the Lileth. When you get George safely aboard, wave a red light in the bow. Then Trimmer and I shall part company for the night."
"I'm on," said Wall, rising. "Anything to help Harrowby. And—this won't be the first time I've waited at the stage door."
"Right-o," said Minot. "But don't stop to buy a champagne supper for a trained seal, will you? I don't want to have to listen to Mr. Trimmer all night."
They rowed ashore in company with two husky members of the yacht's crew, and ten minutes later Minot was walking with the pompous Mr. Trimmer through the quiet plaza. He had told that gentleman that he came from Allan Harrowby to talk terms, and Trimmer was puffed with pride accordingly.
"So Mr. Harrowby has come to his senses at last," he said. "Well, I thought this vaudeville business would bring him' round. Although I must say I'm a bit disappointed—down in my heart. My publicity campaign has hardly started. I had so many lovely little plans for the future— say, it makes me sad to win so soon."
"Sorry," laughed Minot. "Lord Harrowby, however, deems it best to call a halt.- He suggests^—"
"Pardon me," interrupted Mr. Trimmer grandiloquently. "As the victor in the contest, I shall do any suggesting that is done. And what I suggest is this—to-morrow morning I shall call upon Allan Harrowby at his hotel. I shall bring George with me, also some newspaper friends of mine. In front of the crowd Allan Harrowby must acknowledge his brother as the future heir to the earldom of Raybrook."
"Why the newspaper men?" Minot inquired.
"Publicity," said Trimmer. "It's the breath of life to me—my business, my first love, my last. Frankly, I want all the advertisement out of this thing I can get. At what hour shall we call?"
"You would not consider a delay of a few days?" Minot asked.
"Save your breath," advised Trimmer promptly.
"Ah—I feared it," laughed Minot . "Well then—shall we say eleven o'clock? You are to call—with George Harrowby."
"Eleven it is," said Trimmer. They had reached a little park by the harbor's edge. Trimmer looked at his watch. "And that being all settled, I'll run back to the theater."
"I myself have advised Harrowby to surrender —" Minot began.
"Wise boy. Good night," said Trimmer, moving away.
"Not that I have been particularly impressed by your standing as a publicity man," continued Minot.
Mr. Trimmer stopped in his tracks.
"As a matter of fact," went on Minot. "I never heard of you or any of the things you claim to have advertised, until I came to San Marco."
Mr. Trimmer came slowly back up the gravel walk.
"In just what inland hamlet, untouched by telegraph, telephone, newspaper and railroad," he asked, "have you been living?"
Minot dropped to a handy bench, and smiled up into Mr. Trimmer's thin face.
"New York City," he replied.
Mr. Trimmer glanced back at the lights of San Marco, hesitatingly. Then—it was really a cruel temptation—he sat down beside Minot on the bench.
"Do you mean to tell me," he inquired, "that you lived in New. York two years ago and didn't hear of Cotrell's Ink Eraser?"
"Such was my unhappy fate," smiled Minot.
"Then you were in. Ludlow Street jail, that's all I've got to say," Trimmer replied. "Why, man—what I did for that eraser is famous. I rigged up a big electric sign in Times Square and all night long I had
an electric Cotrell's erasing indiscreet sentences—the kind of things people write when they get foolish with their fountain pens—for instance—'I hereby deed to Tottie Footlights all my real and personal property'— and the like. It took the town by storm. Theatrical managers complained that people preferred to stand and look at my sign rather than visit the shows. Can you look me in the eye and say that you never saw that sign?"
"Well," Minot answered, "I begin to remember a little about it now."
"Of course you do." Mr. Trimmer gave him a congratulatory slap on the knee. "And if you' think hard, probably you can recall my neat little stunt of the prima donna and the cough drops. I want to tell you about that—"
He spoke with fervor. The story of his brave deeds rose high to shatter the stars apart. A half-hour passed while his picturesque reminiscences flowed on. Mr. Minot sat enraptured— his eyes on the harbor where the Lileth, like a painted ship, graced a painted ocean.
"My boy," Trimmer was saying, "I have made the public stop, look and listen. When I get my last publicity in the shape of an Tn Memoriam' let them run that tag on my headstone. And the story of me that I guess will be told longest after I am gone, is the one about the grape juice that I—"
He paused. His audience was not listening; he felt it intuitively. Mr. Minot sat with his eyes on the Lileth. In the bow of that handsome boat a red light had been waved three times.
"Mr. Trimmer," Minot said, "your tales are more interesting than the classics." He stood. "Some other time I hope to hear a continuation of them. Just at present Lord Harrowby—or Mr. if you prefer—is waiting to hear what arrangement I have made with you. You must pardon me."
"I can talk as we walk along," said Trimmer, and proved it. In the middle of the deserted plaza they separated. At the dark stage door of the opera-house Trimmer sought his proposition.
"Who d'yer mean?" asked the lone stage-hand there.
"George, Lord Harrowby," insisted Mr. Trimmer.
"Oh—that bum actor. Seen him going away a while back with two men that called for him."
"Bum actor!" cried Trimmer indignantly. He stopped. "Two men—who were they?"
The stage-hand asked profanely how he could know that, and Mr. Trimmer hurriedly departed for the side-street boarding-house where he and his fallen nobleman shared a suite.
About the same time Dick Minot blithely entered Lord Harrowby's apartments in the Hotel de la Pax.
"Well," he anounced, "you can cheer up. Little George is painlessly removed. He sleeps to-night aboard the good ship Lilelh, thanks to the efforts of Martin Wall, assisted by yours truly." He stopped, and stared in awe at his lordship. ."What's the matter with you?" he inquired.
Harrowby waved a hopeless hand.
"Minot," he said, "it was good of you. But while you have been assisting me so kindly in that quarter, another—and a greater—blow has fallen."
"Good lord—what?" cried Minot.
"It is no fault of mine—" Harrowby began.
"On which I would have gambled my immortal soul," Minot said.
"I thought it was all over and done with—five years ago. I was young—sentimental—calciumlight and grease paint and that sort of thing hit me hard. I saw her from the stalls—fell desperately in love—stayed so for six months— wrote letters—burning letters—and now—"
"Yes—and now?"
"Now she's here. Gabrielle Rose is here. She's here—with the letters."
"Oh, for a Cotrell's Ink Eraser," Minot groaned.
"My man saw her down-stairs," went on Harrowby, mopping his damp forehead. "Fifty thousand she wants for the letters or she gives them to a newspaper and begins to sue—at once —to-morrow."
"I suppose," said Minot, "she is the usual Gaiety girl."
"Not the usual, old chap. Quite a remarkable woman. She'll do what she promises—trust her. And I haven't a farthing. Minot—it's all up now. There's no way out of this."
Minot sat thinking. The telephone rang.
"I won't talk to her," cried Harrowby in a panic. "I won't have anything to do with her. Minot, old chap—as a favor to me—"
"The old family solicitor," smiled Minot. "That's me."
He took down the receiver. But no voice that had charmed thousands at the Gaiety answered his. Instead there came over the wire, heated, raging, the tones of Mr. Henry Trimmer.
"Hello—I want Allan Harrowby—ah, that's Minot talking, isn't it? Yes. Good. I want a word with you. Do you know what I think of your methods? Well, you won't now—telephone rules in the way. Think you're going to get ahead of Trimmer, do you? Think you've put one over, eh? Well—let me tell you, you're wrong. You're in for it now. You've played into my hands. Steal Lord Harrowby, will you? Do you know what that means? Publicity. Do you know what I'll do to-morrow? I'll start a cyclone in this town that—"
"Good night," said Minot, and hung up.
"Who was it?" Harrowby wanted to know.
"Our friend Trimmer, on the war-path," Minot replied. "It seems he's missed his vaudeville partner." He sat down. "See here, Harrowby," he said—it was the first time he had dropped the prefix, "it occurs to me that an unholy lot of things are happening to spoil this wedding. So I'm going to ask you a question."
"Yes."
"Harrowby"— Minot looked straight into the weak, but noble eyes— "are you on the level?"
"Really—I'm not very expert in your astounding language—"
"Are you straight—honest—do you want to be married yourself?"
"Why, Minot, my dear chap! I've told you a thousand times—I want nothing more—I never shall want anything more—"
"All right," said Minot, rising. "Then go to bed and sleep the sleep of the innocent."
"But where are you going? What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to try and do the same."
And as he went out, Minot slammed the door on a peer.
Sticking above the knob of the door of 389 he found a telegram. Turning on his lights, he sank wearily down on the bed and tore it open.
"It rained in torrents," said the telegram, "at the dowager duchess's garden party. You know what that means."
It was signed "John Thacker."
"Isn't that a devil of a night-cap?" muttered Minot gloomily.
Chapter 10
TWO BIRDS OF PASSAGE
ON the same busy night when the Lileth flashed her red signal and Miss Gabrielle Rose arrived with a package of letters that screamed for a CotreU, two strangers invaded San Marco by means of the eight-nineteen freight south. Frayed, fatigued and famished as they were, it would hardly have been kind to study them as they strolled up San Sebastian Avenue toward the plaza. But had you been so unkind, you would never have guessed that frequently, in various corners of the little round globe, they had known prosperity, the weekly pay envelope, and the buyer's crook of the finger summoning a waiter.
One of the strangers was short, with flaming red hair and in his eye the twinkle without which the collected works of Bernard Shaw are as sounding brass. He twinkled about him as he walked—at the bright lights and spurious gaiety under the spell of which San Marco sought to forget the rates per day with bath.
"The French," he mused, "are a volatile people, fond of light wines and dancing. So, it would seem, are the inhabitants of San Marco. White flannels, Harry, white flannels. They should encase that leaning tower of Pisa you call your manly form."
The other—long, cadaverous, immersed in a gentle melancholy—groaned.
"Another tourist hothouse! Packed with innocents abroad, and everybody bleeding 'em but us. Everything here but a real home, with chintz table-covers and a cold roast of beef in the icechest. What are we doing here? We should have gone north."
"Ah, Harry, chide me no more," pleaded the little man. "I was weak, I know, but all the freights seemed to be coming south, and I have always longed for a winter amid the sunshine and flowers. Look at this fat old duffer coming! Alms! For the love of Allah, alms!"
"Shut up,"
growled the thin one. "Save your breath till we stand hat in hand in the office of the local newspaper. A job! Two jobs! Good lord, there aren't two newspaper jobs in the entire South. Well—we can only be kicked out into the night again. And perhaps staked to a meal, in the name of the guild in which we have served so long and liquidly."
"Some day," said the short man dreamily, "when I am back in the haunts of civilization again, I am going to start something. A Society for Melting the Stone Hearts of Editors. Motto: 'Have a heart—have a heart!' Emblem, a roast beef sandwich rampant, on a cloth of linen. Ah, well—the day will come."
They halted in the plaza. In the round stone tub provided, the town alligator dozed. Above him hung a warning sign:
"Do not feed or otherwise annoy the alligator."
The short man read, and drew back with a tragic groan.
"Feed or otherwise annoy!" he cried. "Heavens, Harry, is that the way they look at it here? This is no place for us. We'd better be moving on to the next town."
But the lean stranger gave no heed. Instead he stepped over and entered into earnest converse with a citizen of San Marco. In a moment he returned to his companion's side.
"One newspaper," he announced. "The Evening Chronicle. Suppose the office is locked for the night—but come along, let's try."
"Feed or otherwise annoy," muttered the little man blankly. "For the love of Allah—alms I"
They traversed several side streets, and came at last to the office of the Chronicle. It was a modest structure, verging on decay. One man sat alone in the dim interior, reading exchanges under an electric lamp.
"Good evening," said the short man genially. "Are you the editor?"
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