An ejaculation of "True" from the judge brought smiles. Jachin Fell continued whimsically:
"Regarding these very conditions many years ago, gentlemen, I was tempted to change my profession—but to what? I was tempted to enter the church until I saw that the same conditions hold good of a clergyman. I was tempted to enter medicine until I saw that they also held true of a doctor. I was tempted to other things, always with the like result. Well, you know the story of Aunt Dixie and her black underwear—'Honey, I ain't ashamed of mah grief; when I mourns, I mourns!' Even so with the law——"
A burst of laughter drowned him out, and the original argument was forgotten. Maillard, standing before a small wall safe that flanked the open hearth, lifted his silver goblet, asteam with beads. The moment for which he had been waiting was here; he launched his little thunderbolt with an air of satisfied importance.
"My friends, I have a confession to make!" he announced. "To-day I received a note from the Midnight Masquer stating that he would be with us this evening, presumably at the hour of midnight, his usual time."
These words brought an instant silence. Uncle Neb, from his corner, uttered a startled "Fore de lawd!" that rang through the room; yet no one smiled. The half-dozen men were tense, watchful, astonished. But Maillard swung up his silver cup and laughed gaily.
"I took full precautions, gentlemen. The hour of danger is past, and the notorious bandit has not arrived—or, if he has arrived, he is now in the hands of the law. After all, that note may have been something in the nature of a carnival jest! So up with your cups, my friends—a lifelong health to Mardi Gras, and damnation to prohibition and the Midnight Masquer!"
From everyone broke a swift assent to the toast, a murmur of relieved tension. The silver goblets were lifted, touched in a musical clinking of edges, and the aromatic breath of juleps filled the library as the drinkers, in true Southern fashion, buried noses in the fragrant mint. Then, as the cups were lowered, from the recess of the curtained windows at one end of the room came a quiet voice:
"I thank you, gentlemen! But I must remind you, Maillard, that there was not a time limit set in the note."
With a simultaneous gasp everyone turned. Maillard staggered; his face went livid. Uncle Neb, who had been advancing to refill the cups, dropped his silver tray with a crash that went unheeded, indeed unheard. Every eye was fastened upon that amazing figure now advancing from the shadows of the recess.
It was the figure of an aviator, clad in leather from top to toe, the goggles and helmet shield completely masking his head and features from recognition. In his hand he held an automatic pistol, which covered the group of men before him with its threatening mouth.