“That remains to be seen, sir.”
“I thought Mrs. Welton’s diamonds were stolen?”
“Bless my soul, sir!” he exclaimed, “the woman is worth four or five millions—don’t you suppose she’s bought new ones? Go, now, and do your very best.”
I left the office feeling that I had shouldered a big responsibility.
Hurrying home I dressed in my swallow tail and took a cab to Mrs. Welton’s. I had cards with all sorts of names engraved on them then. I remember the one I handed to the butler bore the name of Mr. Winfield Went. I eyed the man and saw at a glance that he was disguised. I thought I recognized him, but more on that matter later on.
Once by the door, of course I passed into the parlors unchallenged, my assumed name was announced, and Mrs. Welton greeted me most effusively. Whether she knew me or not for what I really was I cannot say.
Mr. Opdyke was there, and so was Marcus Welton, but I am sure neither of these gentlemen had the faintest suspicion that I was not straight.
The parlors were a perfect blaze of light; beautiful women and correctly attired men were moving in every direction; hidden behind a bank of flowers a noted orchestra discussed Lanner, Strauss, Offenbach, and other noted composers of that day.
Did I join in and dance?