CHAPTER XXVI
HOW MARY’S DREAM CAME TRUE
A tiny dressing-room opened off this very private supper-room, and into this they moved Jack and drew the curtains. Then the two men sat down and in a silence which had as its background the laughter and the wild, harsh dance music without, they smoked for half an hour—Clifford wondering how this pale, grim man was going to bear himself, and how, and as what, Mary would emerge from the double situation toward which she was hurrying.
Presently there was a knock. “That’s our party,” said Clifford, and crossed and opened the door.
But instead of Mary, there entered Bradley and behind him little Peter Loveman. Both halted in seeming surprise. Instinctively Clifford knew that Hilton had sent quick warning to the pair.
“Been on the track of your son, Mr. Morton,” explained Bradley; “and we just trailed him here. Was going to shoot you word we’d located him.”
“You’re right on the job,” Morton said curtly. “But since I have him in hand, I guess I won’t need you gentlemen. Good-night.”
Loveman stepped quickly forward; Clifford could guess the nervous fear that prompted the keen-witted little man to want to be at hand in what he sensed as a moment of peril to himself and the delicately balanced edifice of his schemes.
“Pardon me, Mr. Morton,” he said firmly, in a voice of sympathetic concern, “but I’m sure we might be of some service, and should remain.”
“I’m giving orders here,” snapped Mr. Morton. “Good-night!”
They stood a moment, Morton’s cold gray eyes commandingly fixed on them; then they backed toward the door. Clifford thought rapidly: These two, leaving here, might stumble across Mary Regan, so long searched for by them, and prepared as he knew they always were to act on the instant of discovery, they might somehow manage to put their daring plan, whatever it might be, into instant execution. That risk must be avoided.