She was not sure at first that this strange looking being who fanned her in such an amazing fashion was the young friend of the real Travers Gladwin who had appeared on the scene from time to time during that fateful afternoon, for his features were far from 256 being in repose. Positive torture was written on his clean-cut boyish face as he wielded that fast fan in his handcuffed hands as if it were a task imposed upon him by some evil spirit.
Certainly there was no grace in the savage gestures of his arms as his wrists twisted and writhed in their shackles, but he stuck to his task desperately, now and then hissing over his shoulder at Bateato to learn why in thunder he didn’t find smelling salts or whiskey or brandy or something with which to restore the young lady to consciousness.
And on his part, Bateato was racing about like a scared mouse, diving into mysterious chests and cabinets or under divans or climbing up the walls to explore recessed shelves. His activities were confined to that one chamber, for a big, implacable policeman stood at the entrance, with orders to keep his eye on the young woman and the Jap and see that they did not escape or attempt to assist the vanished picture expert in concealing himself or getting away.
As Helen’s dazed faculties gradually resumed their normal activities and she realized that Whitney Barnes was a reality, the humor of the situation suddenly struck her fancy and she smiled. She was smiling with eyes and lips when young Barnes turned back his head from another reproach of Bateato and looked to see how she was coming on.
“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were dead. I wanted to go out for a doctor, but these 257 confounded policemen wouldn’t let me––yes, and they wouldn’t unlock me. Have I fanned enough? I’m pretty well tuckered out, and these feathers get in one’s nose so. Then this is an extraordinary kind of a fan––they use them in harems or something of the sort, and I’ve never fanned in harems.”
“Please stop, then,” laughed Helen, “and I’m a thousand times obliged to you. If I could only have a glass of water I think I would be myself again.”
Bateato had at last pried into a cabinet that contained a decanter of brandy and strange looking Moorish goblets, and from some curtained enclosure he obtained cold water from a faucet. A sip of the potent brandy and draught of water brought the color back to the girl’s cheeks and the light to her eyes. The change was so reassuring that Whitney Barnes actually beamed and for a few moments dropped all thought of his handcuffs.
“My, but you are beautiful!” he said impulsively. “I don’t blame Travers for going daffy in the Ritz, and do you know your eyes are exactly like your cousin’s!”
Helen laughed in spite of herself at the young man’s headlong gush of words, then became suddenly serious.
“We haven’t time to talk about eyes now,” she said soberly. “You must assist me in telling these policemen how I brought this terrible embarrassment upon Mr. Gladwin.”