CHAPTER XXXIX.
“WE TWO WILL MEET AGAIN.”
““That’s a pretty thing to keep hid away!” snarls the now thoroughly angry detective.”—[page 278].
There may have been times in Alan Warburton’s life—such times come to most fastidious city-bred people—when he doubted the wisdom of Providence in permitting the “street musician” to inherit the earth, and, especially to transport so much of his “heritage,” wheresoever he might go, upon his person. But to-day, for the first time, he fancies that he sees some reason for the existence of the species, and he finds himself looking down almost complacently upon the crouching minstrel who has lawlessly invaded the sanctity of his splendid cabinet.
This strange intruder has brought him at least a respite; and he breathes a sigh of relief even as he asks sternly:
“Fellow, how long have you been hiding in that cabinet?”
But the culprit is once more a mute; again the pathetic look is in his eyes, and with Grip’s hand still clutching his shoulder, he begins a terrified pantomime.
“Bah!” says Mr. Grip, pushing his prisoner away contemptuously, “that won’t wash. You ain’t deaf—not much; nor dumb, neither. Answer me,” giving him a rough shake, “how came you here?”
There is no sign that the fellow hears or understands; he continues to gesticulate wildly.
Mr. Grip releases his hold, and bends upon Alan a look of impatience. In a moment, the organ-grinder bounds to the cabinet and, dragging forth his organ, turns back, displaying it and slinging it across his shoulder with grimaces of triumph.
“That won’t go down, either,” snarls Mr. Grip. “Put that thing on the floor, presto!”
But the minstrel only grins with delight, and throwing himself into an attitude, begins to grind out a doleful air. With an angry growl, Mr. Grip makes a movement toward him. But the organist retreats as he advances, and the doleful tune goes on.
It is a ludicrous picture, and Alan smiles in spite of himself, even while he wishes that Leslie would come now,—now, while he might warn her; now, while Mr. Augustus Grip, in his pursuit of the intruding musician, has put the width of the room between himself and his chosen place of concealment.
But Leslie does not come. And Mr. Grip’s next remark shows that he has not forgotten himself. With a sudden movement, he wrests the organ from the hands of its manipulator, and converting the strap of the instrument into a very serviceable lasso, brings the fellow down upon his knees with a quick, dexterous throw, and holding him firmly thus, says over his shoulder, to Alan:
“This is a fine thing to happen just now! The fellow must be got out of the way, and kept safe until I have time to discover his racket. He’s not such a fool as he looks. Can’t you get in a policeman quietly? We don’t want any servants to gossip over it, or to see me.”
Alan turns his face toward the closet. “Can’t we lock him up again?” he suggests.
“My dear sir,” says Grip coolly, “this fellow is probably a spy.”
“What!” Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder. Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, “nonsense; look at that stolid countenance.”
“Umph!” mutters Grip; “too much hair and dirt.” Then turning toward the side window: “I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get in a policeman somehow; try the window.”
As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state of utter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp of Mr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew his pleading, terrified pantomine.
“Ah,” says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, “this window must have been the place where he entered.” Then, after a prolonged look up and down the street: “I don’t see an officer anywhere.”
“No; I presume not. Try the other windows.”
“The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds.”
“Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and come and guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment.”
Alan turns again, and looks down into the street.
“I think,” he says, quietly, “that we will just drop him back into the street whence he came.”
“You seem to want this fellow to escape,” snarls the detective, casting upon Alan a glance of suspicion. “He shall not escape; I’ll take care of him!”
At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie, breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room.
“Mr. Alan,” she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants of the room; “we can’t find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!”
“What!” Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment.
“Ah-h-h!” Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full of meaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed.
“Impossible, Millie,” says Alan sharply; “go to Miss French—”
“I did, sir, and she is—”
She pauses abruptly, for there in the doorway is Winnie French, pale and tearful, an open letter in her hand.
“Read that, sir,” she says, going straight up to Alan and extending to him the letter. “See what your cruelty has done. Leslie Warburton is gone!”
“Gone!”
This time Grip and Alan both utter the word, both start forward.
For just one moment the hand that clutches the collar of the organ-grinder relaxes its hold, but that moment is enough. With amazing agility, and seemingly by one movement, the prisoner has freed himself and is on his feet. In another second, by a clever wrestler’s manœuvre, he has thrown Mr. Grip headlong upon the floor. And then, before the others can realize his intentions, he has bounded to the open window, and flung himself out, as easily and as carelessly as would a cat.
But Mr. Grip, discomfited for the moment, is not wanting in alertness. He is on his feet before the man has cleared the window. He bounds toward it, and drawing a small revolver, fires after the fugitive—once—twice.
“Stop!” It is Alan Warburton’s voice, stern and ringing. He has seized the pistol arm, and holds it in a grasp that Mr. Grip finds difficult to release.
“Hands off!” cries Grip, now hoarse with rage. “That man’s a spy!”
“No matter; we will have no more shooting.”
“We!” struggling to release his arm from Alan’s firm grasp; “who are you that—”
“I am master here, sir.”
With an angry hiss, the detective from Scotland Yards throws himself upon Alan, and they engage in a fierce struggle. But Alan Warburton is something more than a ball-room hero; he is an adept in the manly sports, and fully a match for Mr. Grip.
Panting and terrified, Winnie and Millie stand together near the door; and the eyes of the latter damsel wander from the combatants near the window, to something that has fallen close at her feet, and that lies half hidden by the folds of her dress.
But disaster has befallen Mr. Grip. While they wrestle, Alan’s quick eye has detected something that looks like a displacement of Mr. Grip’s cranium, and with a sudden, dexterous, upward movement, he solves the mystery. There is an exclamation of surprise, another of anger, and the two combatants stand apart, both gazing down at the thing lying on the floor between them.
It is a wig of curling auburn hair, and it leaves the head of Mr. Grip quite a different head in shape, in size, in height of forehead, and in general expression!
“So,” sneers Alan, “Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards, saw fit to visit me in disguise. Is your name as easily altered as your face, sir?”
The discomfited wrestler stoops down, and picking up his wig adjusts it carefully on his head once more; bends again to take up his fallen pistol; lifts his hat from a chair, and returns to the window.
“My name is not Augustus Grip,” he says coolly. “Neither will you find me by inquiring at police headquarters. But you and I will meet again, Mr. Warburton.”
“Drawing a small revolver, he fires after the fugitive—once—twice!” [page 283].
And without unseemly haste, he places his hand upon the window-sill, swings himself over the ledge, resting his feet upon the iron railings, and drops down upon the pavement.
By this time some people have collected outside, attracted by the pistol-shots. Two laggard policemen are hastening down the street. A group of servants are whispering and consulting anxiously in the hall, and cautiously peeping in at the study door.
The coolness of the false Mr. Grip takes him safely past the group of inquiring ones.
“It was a sneak thief,” he explains, as he leaps down among them. “Don’t detain me, friends; I must report this affair at police headquarters.”
A few quick strides take him across the street to where a carriage stands in waiting. He enters it, and in a moment more, Mr. Grip and carriage have whirled out of sight.
“I’d give a hundred dollars to know what that fellow was in hiding for,” he mused, as the carriage rolled swiftly along. “Could he have been put there by Warburton? But no—Confound that Warburton, I’ll humble his pride before we cry quits, or my name is not Van Vernet!”
But Vernet little dreamed that he had that day aimed a bullet at the life of a brother detective; that his disguise had been penetrated and his plans frustrated, by Richard Stanhope!