Part 5

"Lots of things are unconventional," was Pat's ready reply.

I could hear distinctly every word they said, owing to the peculiar acoustic properties of the cellar.

"Please don't tell me that you're bringing me a cup of tea!"

"I should adore some," said Pat.

"Adore some--what?"

"Some iced tea," she replied. "It's very hot and stuffy down here. You must be very uncomfortable."

"Oh, I'm okay," the reporter returned, sarcastically. "I've got a nice, soft cement floor to sleep on, and--oh, say! what I would really like is a good stiff highball. My jaw, you know--"

"Yes, I know all about it," Pat interrupted. "Niki must have given you an awful crack. I saw everything from the gallery in the hall!"

"Sympathetic, eh?"

"I very much regret to say I am," Pat answered. "I think my Uncle Henry is treating you outrageously. But he's rather eccentric, as you know, and tonight, I'm afraid he's a little tight, or he wouldn't have done a terrible thing like this."

"Ah, so you're Miss Patricia Preston, the society girl with so much money and leisure she doesn't know what to do with them," McGinity said quickly. "Your photo, sitting next to Prince Matani, at the polo tournament at Meadow Brook last week, in the box with your Aunt Jane, appeared in our Sunday rotogravure section. Don't tell me you've fallen for a foreign gink like that?"

Pat must have stared at him, thunderstruck, for she said, with a gasp: "How do you know so much?"

"I happen to know, and I have my own reasons for knowing," the reporter replied. "We won't discuss that for the moment. Suppose you answer my question?"

There was a pause, then Pat said: "No; it isn't like that. It isn't what you think at all."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that," said the reporter. "Now, I'll tell you something you don't know. Your father, Allston Preston, and my dad were classmates at college--great pals."

"Really?"

"And on the same football team, at Columbia. Inseparable, until they each met the right girl and got married. Your father married into riches and society. My old man wed a poor but beautiful typist."

"I can hardly believe that they were friends," said Pat. "It seems so--fantastic." She paused, then went on, musingly: "Oh, but I would like to think they were--friends. I'm sure your father was capable and qualified, or he wouldn't have been such a close friend of my father."

"And, now, think what capabilities and qualifications his son, Bob McGinity, holds, also a graduate of Columbia."

"McGinity?" said Pat. "Bob McGinity! Oh, now, I remember. Surely--"

"Yes; I was the Columbia fullback, and I'll bet you a dollar to a doughnut, I was photographed more often than you are, now. But being a college graduate and a fullback didn't get me anywhere, so I went into newspaper work. I'm only a cub, but I've got ambitions. After what happened tonight, I suppose you think I'm a pretty rotten reporter."

"I wouldn't express it in that way, exactly," said Pat. "You had your nerve and persistency all right, yet you failed in your immediate object, didn't you? that of obtaining honestly"--she emphasized the word honestly--"the confirmation of Uncle Henry's discovery."

"Then you think I deserved the awful crack the Filipino gave me, and this temporary imprisonment, I take it, until after my paper goes to press?"

"I would like to think that you didn't," said Pat complacently. "However, I'm not in sympathy with Uncle's plan of locking you up here for the night. I couldn't sleep with a clear conscience without making certain you were not seriously hurt. I know you must be nearly starved. So, if you'll agree not to try and escape, or get in touch with your office on the phone, I'll take you upstairs, and get you something to eat, also liniment for your jaw. I consider that you should be very grateful to me."

"Am I grateful?" the reporter replied; "I'm tickled pink. But, after all, what's the use?" he added, rather despairingly. "I've failed. Failed miserably."

"On the contrary, I believe you to be on the way to possible success, in getting all the information you want from Uncle Henry. But you've got to go after him in a different way. Perhaps you need an assistant--an ally."

"Do I need an ally? Oh, boy! And hungry? I could eat my shirt, really. But I'm not hurt as much as you think. What's a little sock in the jaw?"

"Then you'll agree to my proposition?"

A moment's pause, then: "How can my troubles interest you so much? Tell me."

With an attempt at bravado, Pat replied: "I have no personal interest. My whole idea is to get Uncle Henry out of the fix he's got himself into--with you."

The reporter sighed. "I'm incredibly foolish to imagine that you would be interested in me--personally. All the same, I'm eternally grateful, and give you my word I'll not give you the slip, or phone my office."

There was a heavy lock and bolt to negotiate, and when I heard the jingle of the keys and the snapping back of the lock, discretion counselled that I vanish from the scene. I had overheard enough to convince me that Pat was well able to look after herself. The comforting discovery that the reporter's father had been a close friend of Pat's parent had eased the situation immensely.

And yet the uneasy fear assailed me that Pat might get the worst of the bargain. How was one to know that the reporter was as honest and harmless as he sounded? At all costs, I felt, that remote contingency must be guarded against.

VII

I secreted myself in the elevator. A quarter of an hour passed. There was no sound of Pat and the reporter. My uneasiness grew by bounds. Finally, I decided to manifest my presence, if only for the sake of propriety. If Henry should appear unexpectedly and find these two together, alone, it would be hell let loose.

Emerging from my hideout, I found the hall in complete darkness. Not daring to risk rousing Niki, whom I still believed to be asleep on the divan, I stole quietly in the direction of a streak of light, on which my eyes had become focused in the dark. The light came from the dining room. I heard a low murmur of voices. The words were indistinguishable, but one of the voices was indubitably that of Pat's. Then, suddenly, I overheard her giving orders in a slightly raised voice:

"Cold chicken, and a salad.... See that you serve it promptly.... Wine, too--some sherry.... Now, look sharp about it.... And be as quiet as a mouse."

Peering cautiously between the curtains in the doorway, I had the surprise of my life. Pat was serving supper to McGinity in formal state. I could hardly believe my eyes. The reporter sat at the head of the long table, looking rather battered; his handsome, boyish face rather drawn and pale, his coal black hair dishevelled. His clothes looked like they badly needed pressing. The only illumination came from two burning candles in tall silver candlesticks on the table. Pat sat at the far end; a most discreet distance, which relieved my anxiety considerably.

My greatest surprise, though, came in discovering Niki. I gathered that Pat had roused him and pressed him into service. With the marvelous calm of the Oriental, he was placing the doilies and small silver before the reporter, to whom he had so recently delivered a knockout blow. He seemed most willing to assist Pat, to whom he always conceded absolute loyalty.

"Slippery little devil, isn't he?" McGinity remarked, after Niki had glided from the room. "But he's got an awful punch packed in that right arm," he added, as he rubbed his jaw, now slightly swollen and discolored.

"A glass of sherry will do your jaw good," said Pat.

"Supper for two," McGinity remarked, musingly. "It's too bad we haven't some music. You must dance divinely."

"You look utterly worn out," said Pat, steering with tact into another channel. "A shipwreck, and being cast ashore, a knockout blow, and a prison cell, is a whole lot for one evening."

"Another half hour of this--your delightful companionship--I'm sure, would quite finish me," said McGinity. "You've been a godsend."

"If you keep on like this, you'll make me angry, furiously angry," said Pat. "I'd much rather hear--well, how you chose to be a reporter."

"Temporary insanity, I guess," McGinity replied.

"Uncle Henry regards you as utterly insane, so far as news getting is concerned," said Pat.

"Well, then--a nebulous bank balance."

Pat seemed a little vexed. "If you can explain it in any other way, I shall be much obliged," she said, succinctly.

The reporter reflected for a moment, then spoke in a serious tone. "For one thing," he began, "you don't have to possess an intellect above the average to be a reporter. All you need is a nose for news, and lots of nerve. Most fellows use it as a stepping-stone into politics, the law, and the public relationship angle of the stage, screen and radio. Others stick to it all their lives; they can't break away. My dad was an editorial writer on the Herald up to his death. I thought I was cut out to be a lawyer, but I just couldn't click. I was born with the news instinct, I guess. Unlike my studious, conservative parent, I liked my news--hot. Perhaps I've got a yellow streak in me. That's why I'm on the Daily Recorder. I like sensation, big headlines.

"When I was at school, I thought life was learned from books," he went on, warming up a bit. "Life--I love it. And life at its utmost, that's reporting. Life that ticks off love, laughter, tears on every second. A foundling left on a door-step. Strange disappearance of a college girl. She's never seen or heard of again. Mystery. Death by misadventure. Murder. Fire-traps. Tenement fire--father, mother and grown-up kids burned to a crisp. Pet poodle, whining, discloses the baby under a bed, unharmed. Baby is adopted by a rich family. Poodle gets a decoration. Stories! Stories!"

He drew a deep breath, and continued: "The great thrill is putting your story over, hot off the press, satisfying the public's curiosity for news. Exclusive stories! The first thing the City Editor looks for. But there's no credit for them outside the office force. A pat on the shoulder, 'Good work, Bill!' and sometimes a 'by-line.' You write a good story, and you wallow in self-esteem. That's the only real compensation. No wallowing in wealth. The tragedy of reporting is that newspaper stories pay so little and die so quickly. You put your life's blood into them, your very soul. But they're not even yesterday's remembrance. In a couple of days they're dead--dead as a pickled herring!"

"Wonderful!" Pat breathed, as soon as the reporter had finished. "It all sounds so thrilling. I too love adventure--life, but until now--"

"Until you were nervy enough to take risks and rescue me from durance vile," McGinity broke in.

"Until now," Pat went on, "my adventures have been only in the pages of romantic and mystery books, although I've often tried to write myself--I really believe I have the talent. Anyway, I've often longed to step through those pages of romance and mystery, like Alice stepped through the looking-glass."

McGinity grinned. "Reporting isn't wonderland, by any means," he said; "it's the land of stark realities. I've had doors slammed in my face; I've been snubbed, insulted, double-crossed and kicked downstairs; but never--no, never in all my short experience as a reporter for a sensational tabloid sheet like the Recorder, have I ever had an experience like this one, tonight!"

"I'm sorry Uncle Henry was so ungracious and unkind," said Pat, in a low, sympathetic voice; "and Niki so cruel. I'm sure the valet didn't mean to knock you out."

McGinity grinned. "Oh, but I don't mean what you think I mean," he said. He leaned over the table towards her. "I mean this experience--you--at this moment. You--this incredulous you! A beautiful young princess, in these dark, ancient surroundings, and only forty-nine minutes from Broadway. An angel of mercy, too. It's all too fine and lovely to be true. I must be in a dream." He swept his hand across his eyes. "Maybe I haven't come to my senses yet--maybe--"

He stopped short as the telephone bell in the library began to trill sharply. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Only half an hour before the last edition of his paper went to press. Time enough to get his story in, if only a flash. The old instinct--news instinct--loyalty to his paper, suddenly gripped him; it blotted out everything else--even Pat. He must get his story in. No longer would there be any interference with his plans. All danger--all obstacles--were past, and he was free at last to act.

He jumped to his feet, and with a bound, passed through the open doorway into the darkened library. The trilling of the bell guided him to the desk in the center of the room.

Pat sat staring after him. Then, suddenly, she understood his object. Instantly, she too sprang from the table, and darted into the library after him. A touch of the switch, and the room was flooded with light. McGinity was standing by the desk, in the act of lifting the receiver from the hook.

"I'm afraid you're forgetting yourself," Pat said coldly. "You agreed to follow out my instructions."

McGinity glanced at her strangely. "It's all okay. Everything's all right," he said, in an excited and husky whisper.

"Don't be absurd," said Pat. "Everything is not--all right. You're going to phone your story in, and you promised you wouldn't. Gentlemen always keep promises."

"I'm a reporter, and this is my business," McGinity retorted. "I've got to get this story in, and nobody's going to stop me."

"Very well, then," said Pat, and her voice was strangely flat and lifeless. "You're perfectly at liberty to do so, but--" she added, imperiously, "if this is your gratitude, the sooner we part company the better."

Even at this, his reason did not begin to assert itself. "This is my job," he exclaimed, heatedly. "I wasn't born rich like you. I've got to work for my living. I've got to make good on this story or I'm liable to be fired. You don't want me to lose my job, do you?"

Pat looked at him dumbly. "It means nothing to me--now," she said; "nothing in the least." She turned away from him, and re-entered the dining room.

"Please! Miss Preston!" he called after her. A thoughtful pause, and his lips went to the mouthpiece as though he were going to bite it. "You've got the wrong number," he angrily retorted to the insistent person at the other end of the wire. "Dammit! Get off the line!" He hung up the receiver, and swiftly followed after Pat. Coming up to her, he said, in a low, contrite voice: "I'm sorry if I seemed discourteous and ungrateful just now."

"It was most generous of you not to phone your story in," she said, and shrugged indifferently.

"I sort of lost my head the moment I heard that phone bell ring," he explained, "but a big story like this means a whole lot to me." He ran his hand nervously through his tousled hair. "At least, you might let me phone my office, and give the Night Desk some kind of a report about myself. They haven't heard beans from me since I was assigned to the story, early in the evening."

"Surely," Pat agreed. There was a little gentleness in her voice now. "I'll trust you."

Realizing that matters had approached a crisis, I resolved to make my presence known to Pat while the reporter was busy at the telephone, in the library. I could see she was suffering from nerves. The adventure was proving a little too much for her. When she saw my tall figure moving towards her, in the dimly-lighted dining room, she stifled a cry of alarm.

"It's all right, my dear," I said, taking her gently by the arm. "I've seen and heard everything. You've done nothing discreditable. Let's hope when morning comes, and Henry is sober, he'll act more sensible than he did tonight."

When McGinity returned, and saw me, his face went a little paler. He appeared relieved when I gave him a friendly smile.

"What's happened?" he asked, glancing at Pat, after she had introduced me.

"I don't want you young people to be alarmed," I said, "but there's no telling. Henry's a light sleeper, and he may drop in on you at any moment."

Just then Niki came in, bearing the reporter's supper on a huge silver tray. Niki was probably just as much surprised at seeing me there, as I was in discovering him, in the first place, but his face was still a stolid mask. While he busied himself at the table, I shepherded McGinity and Pat to one side, and said, in a low voice:

"Now, Mr. McGinity, you hurry and eat your supper, and I'll relieve Patricia, and act as your bodyguard until I've locked you up again safely in our cellar."

"But he isn't to be locked up again," said Pat, after McGinity had seated himself at the table. "I've already given orders to Niki to put him in the Blue Room."

I gasped. It was almost incomprehensible. The Blue Room was the most attractive and spacious guest-room in the castle.

"Mr. McGinity can remain comfortably there, without any disturbance from Uncle Henry," she continued, "until Niki serves him his breakfast. As a prevention against catching cold, after his exposure this evening, I've instructed Niki to give him a good alcohol rub-down, and also to massage his jaw. You've no objections, Uncle Livingston?"

"None," I replied. Not a hint that I was utterly flabbergasted.

McGinity heard nothing of this, or seemed to hear nothing. He was obviously engrossed in eating his supper. But not so absorbed as I thought when Pat said: "Well, good-night--all," and turned to leave the room.

Then he leapt to his feet. "Don't go, please!" he pleaded.

"Oh, but I must," Pat said, lightly.

"Okay, then," he said, dejectedly. "See you in the morning, I hope. Thanks for all you've done for me--thanks a whole lot."

A tired smile, a flutter of trailing white, and Pat was gone.

"She's the stuff all right," McGinity remarked, as soon as she had left the room; "true stuff." Then I heard him mutter to himself: "I wonder what she sees in that gink, Prince Matani?"

After that, he barely spoke a dozen words. He looked all in; even a glass of sherry did not seem to revive him. He acted a little dazed. When I told him he was to sleep in our best bedroom, he simply said: "Good."

At three o'clock I left him there, in the hands of Niki, and trudged off to bed myself, feeling like a wet rag, and wondering what the morning would bring forth.

VIII

At breakfast, Henry wore a puzzled and anxious look, for which Pat and I did not find it hard to account. Apparently urged by a twinge of remorse, he had paid a secret visit to the cellar earlier in the morning, and to his great consternation and alarm, had found the reporter missing. Up to breakfast time, he was, of course, unaware of Pat's doings, and had only his own knowledge to go on. Niki had kept his silence, for a very good reason, which was--Pat.

Olinski was a few minutes late in joining us. Luckily only the four of us were seated at the table. Prince Matani had caught an early train for the city. Jane had remained in bed with a nervous headache. Olinski lost no time in making inquiry about the imprisoned reporter. Leaning over to Henry, he asked, in a low voice: "Is everything all right?"

"Disappeared!" Henry replied, in a low aside, using his morning paper, the Times, as a screen for the sub rosa conversation, which then ensued. "Clean gone!" he added.

Olinski looked positively sick for a moment. "Odd, isn't it?" he remarked.

"The whole affair's odd," Henry returned, placing a finger to his lips, to indicate the need for secrecy and caution.

Pat and I were both listening attentively, but camouflaging our attention with some silly chatter and laughter, as if deprecating any idea that we wished to listen in.

"Supposing someone got rid of him--Niki, for instance," Olinski suggested, sotto voce. "Niki's an Oriental. He may have misunderstood your motives. Faithful servant, you know. Heard of cases of that sort myself, in the Orient, not in this country, though."

Henry's eyes seemed to pop, and his face blanched at the suggestion of murder. "Oh, but I think that's impossible," he asserted, unconsciously raising his voice.

"What's impossible, Uncle Henry?" asked Pat.

"Oh!" said Henry, taken wholly by surprise. "Mr. Olinski and I were--er--we were just discussing a rather peculiar happening of last night, after you'd gone to bed. Something of a mystery, which seems difficult of solution."

"Perhaps I can solve it for you," Pat suggested demurely, giving me a knowing wink.

Olinski, who was watching Pat attentively, signed to Henry to remain quiet, and said: "I'm afraid your distinguished uncle has got himself into a peck of trouble."

"The thing's done, and can't be undone," Henry protested vehemently.

"What's done, Henry?" I inquired in a perfectly innoxious tone.

As Henry hesitated, Pat spoke. "Oh, I may as well blurt it straight out," she said. "Uncle Livingston and I were going to announce it, in due form, but I'd just as soon tell you now. Mr. McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter, whom you cruelly attacked and locked up in the cellar, last night, received proper attention, and was put to bed in the Blue Room, after you and Mr. Olinski had retired. He's now having his breakfast, very comfortably, I hope, in bed."

Henry stared at Pat incredulously. "Um!" he exclaimed at last.

Thereupon, she gave a plain, straightforward account of things. Told all she knew, while I corroborated and amplified her statements whenever necessary. And two more surprised-looking men, I never saw in my life before. As she proceeded, Henry's face cleared. "Um!" he said again, when the full story had been told.

"I don't think I'm much of a hand at advising in such matters," Pat went on, "but in view of the nice mess of things you've made, Uncle Henry--"

As she paused uncertainly, Henry caught my eye. "What do you say, Livingston?" he asked.

"Well, if you ask me, Henry, I agree entirely with Pat," I replied, with decision. "Assault of this reporter, and his detention in the cellar, rank as an act in contravention of the criminal code, the penalties for which, as you are no doubt aware, are very severe."

"We don't want any more scenes like last night, do we, Uncle Henry?" Pat put in, ingenuously.

"Um! Um!" said Henry, reflectively.

Mentally he must have seen a picture of what might be if he did not patch things up with the reporter, who was in a position to bring a civil action and mulct him in very substantial damages. "I--I suppose I did treat him rather roughly," he admitted finally, now that the ground had been cut from under his feet. "What would you suggest, Livingston?" he asked, meekly, again turning to me.

Struck by a sudden, happy thought, I replied: "I would suggest offering the reporter the exclusive rights for the story of your amazing discovery, on condition that he is not to publish it until you've given him permission, or set a release date. Try that, and see how it works."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Olinski.

"Very good," said Henry.

At that moment, Orkins came into the room, and informed Henry that McGinity was in the hall, and would be obliged if Henry would see him for a few minutes. Henry accordingly hastened into the hall, and, as we learned afterwards, greeted the reporter with an open hand and a cordial smile.

On returning from his interview with the reporter, I was surprised to see him kiss Pat affectionately on the cheek. "I want to thank you, my dear," he said, "for saving me from a world of trouble."

Pat blushed and smiled, and kissed him back, then turned away to hide her tears.

"Family pride is a powerful instinct," I remarked, "and we still bear an honored name, thanks to Pat."