Clifford thought a moment. Then he sought out the superintendent of the building, and after some very confidential talk, and a showing of credentials, which the superintendent verified by calling up Police Headquarters, he departed, bearing with him a pass-key to all the apartments of the Mordona.
CHAPTER XII
A GENTLEMAN OF PLEASURE
There were at least four persons that Clifford knew it was desirable to keep under surveillance—Bradley, Peter Loveman, Mr. Morton, and Hilton; but the professional ladies’ man he regarded as the best clue to the immediate situation. “Yes, you stick to Hilton,” Uncle George agreed decisively that evening at dinner. “When it comes to twisting women, that dear limber guy is a better committee on ways and means than any charmer that ever adorned himself in a smile, pumps, and a dress suit.”
That night Clifford trailed Hilton from restaurant to theater, and then to three of the smartest hotel ballrooms, and then, toward three in the morning, saw him to his hotel. He picked Hilton up at noon the next morning; lunched (it was Hilton’s breakfast) at a table near him at the Ritz-Carlton; followed him to a few restaurants where afternoon dancing was under way; and at exactly half-past five he followed him into the Mordona.
He gave Hilton a minute’s start, then rode up to the “Graysons’” apartment. Hilton had evidently been admitted, for the corridor was empty. Muffling the lock with a handkerchief, Clifford slipped in the pass-key, and swiftly, but with velvet caution, he opened the door. Inside, he closed the door with as great care, and stood, unbreathing, listening kitchenward for the maid—fingers on lips and a bill held out to check immediately any words should that young lady appear: a needless stratagem, since Mary had given her maid that afternoon out. Hearing nothing, he moved softly to the curtained doorway of the drawing-room, and glanced in. Apparently Mary had planned to go out to an early dinner, for she wore an evening gown. She was standing erect in the middle of the room, gazing with level eyes at the immaculate Mr. Hilton.
“I am here at five-thirty, as I said I’d be,” Hilton was saying, smiling pleasantly. “I hope you have seen the wisdom of my remarks and have reconsidered your defiant attitude of yesterday. You undoubtedly have a very good plan, and it would be most unfortunate”—his voice was soothingly argumentative—“if you compelled me to tell Mr. Morton about the marriage, and tell them both who your relatives are, and just who is Mary Regan. Most unfortunate, I assure you.”
“You need not squander your emotion. I have the money.”
“I approve your good sense! You have the full amount?”
“You may count it for yourself.” She held out a little roll.
“Ten five-hundred-dollar bills. Correct. Though it pinches me that you could not make it the ten thousand I asked for. However! I suppose”—in high good humor—“you’d like a receipt for this. It might help you in court if you ever decided to bring action against me.”