Nothing But the Truth

by Frederic Stewart Isham

CHAPTER XVIII—A FORMIDABLE ADVERSARY

What a merry mad wag that hammer-thrower really must be at heart! thought Bob. How he was chuckling inside, or laughing in his sleeve most of the time while he went around with that heavy, serious, reliable visage of his! And that ponderous manner?—What lively little imps of mischief or fancy it concealed! That simulated slow tread, too?—Bob surmised he could get around pretty fast on occasions, if he wanted to, or had to. He was dancing very seriously with Miss Gerald now, seeming to take dancing as a kind of a moral lesson. Oh, that “duty talk” to Bob! He would “consider” Bob’s case!—He wanted to ponder over it—he? And how painfully in earnest he had been when he had sprung what his father had said about not giving a fellow a shove when he was down!

Bob disentangled himself as soon as he could from the temperamental little thing and went into the billiard room, where he began to toy with the ivories. If there was one thing he could do, it was play billiards. But he retired to the seclusion of the billiard room now principally for the reason that he expected the hammer-thrower would follow him there. He felt almost sure the other would seek him. So, though Bob proceeded to execute one or two fancy shots with much skill, his thoughts were not on the ivories. He was considering his position in relation to the hammer-thrower. He (Bob) might entertain a profound conviction regarding the latter’s profession, but could he prove anything?

True, he now remembered and could point out that the latter had attended all those functions where losses had occurred. But that wasn’t in itself particularly significant. Other people, also, had attended all the functions in question. Bob couldn’t even actually swear he had seen the other in his room when he had dropped something from Bob’s window to some one lurking below. Bob hadn’t had the chance to recognize him on that occasion. As far as evidence went, the “boot was all on the other leg.” The hammer-thrower was obviously in a position to use Bob to pull chestnuts out of the fire for him.

But why had he not denounced Bob to the entire household, then and there, when he had discovered him before Gee-gee’s door? Perhaps the hammer-thrower didn’t yet know that any one knew there had been substituted one or two imitation articles of jewelry for real ones. If this were so, then from his point of view a denunciation of Bob might lead to an investigation which would reveal the fact that substitutions had occurred and in consequence he would be but curtailing the period of his own future activities in this decidedly fertile field. He hadn’t, of course, refrained through any feeling of charity or commiseration for Bob. He had, moreover, paved the way to use Bob in the future, if need be, by discreetly mentioning the incident to Miss Gerald. Bob might prove serviceable as an emergency man. All this had no doubt been floating through the hammer-thrower’s brain while he had stood there with that puzzled, aggrieved and righteous expression.

A slight sound behind him caused Bob to turn quickly and, as he had expected, he beheld the hammer-thrower. Here was renewed confirmation of that which he had just learned.

“I felt it my duty to inform Miss Gerald of what occurred last night,” began the hammer-thrower without prelude.

“I know that already,” said Bob, continuing his play.

“Ah, then I am wasting time. But having concluded that it was incumbent on me to take that course, I thought it but right to come to you and tell you what I had done. Square thing, you know.”

Bob grinned. “Say it in Latin,” he observed flippantly.

A slight frown gathered on the other’s brow. “I really fail to understand. You placed me in an unpleasant position. It was not easy to speak of such a matter.”

“Then why did you?” said Bob lightly, executing a difficult play.

“You do not seem to realize there are some things we have to do.”

“Duty, eh?” observed Bob with another grin.

“Without wishing to pose as puritanical, or as a prig, I may say you have hit the nail fairly on the head.”

“Oh, you aren’t a prig,” said Bob. “You’re a lu-lu.”

“I don’t know whether you mean to be complimentary or not,” returned the hammer-thrower with unvarying seriousness. “As I believe I have remarked before, you appear totally not to comprehend your own position. I might have awakened the house and what would have been your status then? There have of late been so many mysterious burglaries at large country-houses and in the big city homes of the affluent that a guest, found rambling about in pajamas at unseemly hours, courts, to put it mildly, suspicion. Anyhow, for my own protection, I had to speak to Miss Gerald. You see that, don’t you? We’ll waive the moral side.”

“‘Your own protection’ is good,” said Bob, sending his ball twice around the table and complacently observing the result.

“I mean that if it became known that I had secreted you in my room and said nothing about it, it would, in a measure, place me in the light of being an accomplice,” returned the hammer-thrower, ignoring the point in Bob’s last words. “I don’t know whether anything will be discovered missing here or not, but if there should be—?”

“Things will be discovered missing, all right,” returned Bob. “What was that you dropped out of the window in my room last night?”

The hammer-thrower stared at him. “I?—your room?” he said at length very slowly, with the most genuine amazement written all over his serious reliable features.

“You! My room!” repeated Bob. “You didn’t expect me to come back. I gave you quite a surprise, didn’t I? You are certainly some sprinter.”

Still the hammer-thrower continued to stare. “Mad!” he said at last. “I hardly credited it before, but now—That private sanatorium!—No doubt, it was best.”

Bob laughed. “That sanatorium fits in fine, doesn’t it? You’ll be trying the little abduction act next, yourself, I suppose.”

“I’m trying to make up my mind whether you aren’t really a dangerous person to be at large,” said the hammer-man heavily. “You might say something like that to some one else. You appear absolutely irresponsible.”

“I might,” observed Bob tentatively. Oh, if he only could!

“However, I hardly think you will,” remarked the other in his heaviest manner. “By the way, you play pretty good billiards.”

“Thanks awfully. Want to play?”

“Don’t mind.” And the hammer-thrower took down a cue.

“I should dearly like to beat you,” said Bob in wistful tones.

“And I should as dearly like not to be beaten by you, or any one else,” returned the other.

“I know,” conceded Bob, not without a touch of admiration, “you’re a great chap for winning prizes and things. You’ve taken no end of cups, haven’t you? I mean, legitimately.”

“Yes; I usually go in to win.” The other professed not to hear Bob’s last words.

“And you’ve been feted some, in consequence, too, haven’t you?” said Bob suddenly. “You were at the Duke of Somberland’s, I remember.” Meaningly. He remembered, too, that articles of great value had disappeared from the duke’s place at the same time.

“I believe I was. Met no end of interesting people!”

“And weren’t you at Lord Tumford’s?” Bob recalled reading how jewels had mysteriously vanished in the case of Lord Tumford’s guests, also.

“Yes, got asked over for the shooting. Believe I did very well for an American not accustomed to the British method of slaughter.”

“No doubt,” said Bob. The hammer-thrower was getting bigger in his way every moment. Now he had become an operator of international importance.

“Speaking about winning, you were on the losing team at college, weren’t you?” he observed significantly.

“Quite so!” answered Bob. “We worked awfully hard and ought to have won, but fate, I guess, was against us.”

“We,” said the hammer-man in his ponderous way, “are fate. Arbiters of our destinies! We succeed, or we don’t. And when we fail, it is we that fail. Fate hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” assented Bob. “I don’t know. Anyhow, it’s a test of true sportsmanship to know how to lose.”

“Not to whine, you mean? True. But it’s better not to lose. Now go ahead and try to beat me.”

Bob tried his best. He let the other name the game and the number of points, and for a time it was nip and tuck. Once Bob ran a string of seventy. Then the hammer-thrower made one hundred and one. His playing was brilliant. Some of the heaviness seemed to have departed from his big frame. His steps nearly matched Bob’s for litheness while his big fingers handled the cue almost daintily. All the inner force of the man seemed focused on the task of winning. He had made up his mind he couldn’t lose. Bob was equally determined, too, not to lose.

The game seemed symbolical of that bigger game they were playing as adversaries, and more and more Bob realized here was an opponent not to be despised. He was resourceful, delicate, subtle, as he permitted Bob now to gaze behind that shield of heaviness. He had never before exhibited his real self at the table, playing heretofore in ponderous fashion, but this time, perhaps, he experienced a secret delight in tantalizing an enemy. Those big fingers seemed capable of administering a pretty hard squeeze when the hour arrived; they might even not hesitate at a death-clutch. The game now was very close.

“Shall we make it a thousand for the winner?” suggested the hammer-thrower.

“Haven’t that much,” said Bob. “Only got about seven dollars and a half, or so.”

“I’ll bet you seven dollars and a half, then.”

Bob accepted, and immediately had a run of luck. He was within two points of being out. The hammer-thrower had about fifty to go.

“Get that seven dollars and a half ready,” he said easily as he began his play.

“Maybe I shan’t have to,” replied Bob.

“Yes, you will.” He spoke as one not capable of making mistakes about what he could do. And he didn’t make a mistake this time. He ran out. Bob paid with as good grace as he could. Then the hammer-thrower moved heavily away and left Bob alone.

The latter didn’t feel quite so jubilant now over his secret knowledge as he had a little earlier. The hammer-thrower had permitted him to test his mettle—indeed, he had deliberately put himself out to do so, and make Bob realize even more thoroughly that he might just about as well not know anything for all the good it would do him (Bob). His lips might as well be sealed, as far as his being able to prove anything; if he did speak, people would answer as the hammer-thrower had. “Mad!” Or worse! That sanatorium incident was certainly unfortunate.

Bob put his hand in his pocket to get his handkerchief to wipe a few drops of perspiration from his brow. He drew out his handkerchief, but he also drew out something else—something hard—that glittered-a ring—a beautiful one—with perfect blue white diamonds—a ring he remembered having seen on certain occasions adorning one of Miss Gerald’s fingers.

Bob stared at it. He stood like one frozen to the spot. That hammer-man had done more than beat him at billiards. While he (Bob) had extended a portion of his person over the table to execute difficult shots the other had found it an easy trick to slip Miss Gerald’s ring in the coat-tail pocket of Bob’s garment. Could you exceed that for diabolical intention? Now what on earth was Bob to do with Miss Gerald’s ring?

He couldn’t keep it and yet he didn’t want to throw away her property. It seemed as if he would be forced to, though. After an instant’s hesitation he made up his mind that he would toss it out of the window and then write her anonymously where it could be found. The hammer-man hadn’t calculated Bob would discover it on his person so soon, or perhaps he had told himself the odds were against Bob’s discovering it at all. He would, of course, have preferred that others should discover it on Bob. The latter now strode to the window; the glittering ring seemed fairly to burn his fingers. He raised the curtain as softly as he could—the window was already open—and then suddenly started back.

The light from within, shining on the garden, revealed to him with disconcerting abruptness a man’s face. The man sprang back with considerable celerity, but not before Bob had recognized in him that confounded maniac-medico. He had tracked Bob here, but not wishing to create a scene among Mrs. Ralston’s guests, was no doubt waiting outside with his assistants and the first time Bob stepped out of the house, he expected to nab him. All the while Bob had been playing billiards, that miserable maniac-medico had probably been spying upon him, peeping from under the curtain.

Bob moved from the window, the ring still in his fingers, and at this inopportune moment, the monocle-man walked in. He seemed to have timed his coming to a nicety. Perhaps he had noticed that little episode at the window. Bob, in a panic, thrust the ring hurriedly into his waistcoat pocket and tried to face the other without showing undue agitation, but he feared guilt was written all over his countenance.

“Hot,” muttered Bob. “Thought a breath of fresh air would do me good.”

“Quite so. We English believe in plenty of fresh air,” returned the monocle-man, just as if he swallowed the reason the other had given for going to the window.

But after that Bob couldn’t get rid of him. It was as if he knew something was wrong and that Bob needed watching. He began to fool with the balls, telling how hard it was for him to get accustomed to these small American tables. The British game was far better, he went on, all the while keeping his eyes pretty closely on Bob, until the latter got desperate and went back to where people were. But the monocle-man went, too. By this time Bob was convinced the other knew what was in his pocket. “Caught with the goods!” That’s the way the yellow press would describe his predicament.

“Aren’t you the regular hermit-crab?” It was the temperamental little thing’s reproachful voice that at this point broke in upon his sorrowful meditations, and Bob turned to her quickly. At the moment he was awfully glad she had come up. “What have you been doing?” she went on.

“Oh, just rolling the balls. Will you dance?” Eagerly.

“Can’t! Engaged. You should have asked me sooner and not run away.” Then perhaps she saw how disappointed Bob looked or caught that desperate expression in his eyes, for she added: “Yes, I will. Can say I was engaged to you first and forgot. Come on.”

Bob did. He was a little afraid the monocle-man might not let him, but the other permitted him to dance. Perhaps he wouldn’t have done so if he had known what was in Bob’s mind. That young man felt as if he had now truly reached his last ditch.

“Say, I’m in an awful hole,” he breathed to the temperamental little thing, as they glided over the floor.

“Are you?” She snuggled closer. “Anything worse than has been?”

“A heap worse! I’ve got something I simply must get rid of.”

“What is it?” she said in a thrilling whisper.

“A ring.” Hoarsely.

“No. Whose?”

“Miss Gerald’s.” More hoarsely still.

“How wildly exciting! Though I didn’t think you would rob her.” In an odd voice.

“I didn’t.”

“But you say you’ve got her ring?”

“Some one put it in my pocket.”

“Isn’t it the funny little hermit-crab, though!” she answered.

“Well, never mind whether you believe me or not. The point is, I’ve got to get rid of it and I can’t. That monocle-man is watching me. I need help.”

“Mine?” Snuggling once more.

“Yours. Will you do it?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’d go through fire and water for you? Am I not now your eternal and everlasting chum? Say it.”

“What?”

“That jolly-little-pal talk.”

“Jolly little pal!” he breathed in her ear.

She sighed happily. “Now what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to take this ring”—slipping it into her fingers—“and return it to Miss Gerald’s room. You can slip in without attracting any attention. Besides no one would think anything of your going in her room, even if you were seen doing so—you’re such friends.”

“But,” she said wonderingly, “I don’t see why you took it at all if—” She broke off—“Unless that monocle-man knows you’ve got it on you?”

“That’s the point,” observed Bob hoarsely.

“All right,” she assented. “I’ll do it. When?”

“Now.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Not until our dance is over. I want every bit of it. That’s—that’s my salary. My! I feel awful wicked with that ring in my hand. You can take a firmer hold of me if you want—the way you did that first day! I need reassuring!”

Bob laughed in spite of himself, but he reassured “jolly little pal,” in the manner indicated.

“Now just fly around,” she said.

And Bob “flew” with a recklessness that satisfied even her. When it was over she turned to him with an odd look.

“I’ve got another condition.”

“What is it?”

“That you ask Miss Gerald to dance!”

“But—” he began, disconcerted as well as surprised.

“That’s the condition.”

“She would only refuse.” Gloomily.

“Do you agree?” There was something almost wistful in the temperamental eyes of little pal at that moment.

“I—can’t.” Desperately.

“Very well. Take back the—”

“All right. I will,” Bob half-groaned.

As he walked over toward Gwendoline Gerald, he saw the temperamental little thing moving toward the stairway. Half-way up, she stopped and looked back over the banister. Perhaps she wanted to see if Bob was fulfilling his part of the contract.