CHAPTER XXXIX.
"WE TWO WILL MEET AGAIN."
""That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarls the nowthoroughly angry detective."--page 278.]
There may have been times in Alan Warburton's life--such times come tomost fastidious city-bred people--when he doubted the wisdom ofProvidence in permitting the "street musician" to inherit the earth,and, especially to transport so much of his "heritage," wheresoever hemight go, upon his person. But to-day, for the first time, he fanciesthat he sees some reason for the existence of the species, and he findshimself looking down almost complacently upon the crouching minstrel whohas lawlessly invaded the sanctity of his splendid cabinet.
This strange intruder has brought him at least a respite; and hebreathes a sigh of relief even as he asks sternly:
"Fellow, how long have you been hiding in that cabinet?"
But the culprit is once more a mute; again the pathetic look is in hiseyes, and with Grip's hand still clutching his shoulder, he begins aterrified pantomime.
"Bah!" says Mr. Grip, pushing his prisoner away contemptuously, "thatwon't wash. You ain't deaf--not much; nor dumb, neither. Answer me,"giving him a rough shake, "how came you here?"
There is no sign that the fellow hears or understands; he continues togesticulate wildly.
Mr. Grip releases his hold, and bends upon Alan a look of impatience. Ina moment, the organ-grinder bounds to the cabinet and, dragging forthhis organ, turns back, displaying it and slinging it across his shoulderwith grimaces of triumph.
"That won't go down, either," snarls Mr. Grip. "Put that thing on thefloor, _presto_!"
But the minstrel only grins with delight, and throwing himself into anattitude, begins to grind out a doleful air. With an angry growl, Mr.Grip makes a movement toward him. But the organist retreats as headvances, and the doleful tune goes on.
It is a ludicrous picture, and Alan smiles in spite of himself, evenwhile he wishes that Leslie would come now,--now, while he might warnher; now, while Mr. Augustus Grip, in his pursuit of the intrudingmusician, has put the width of the room between himself and his chosenplace of concealment.
But Leslie does not come. And Mr. Grip's next remark shows that he hasnot forgotten himself. With a sudden movement, he wrests the organ fromthe hands of its manipulator, and converting the strap of the instrumentinto a very serviceable lasso, brings the fellow down upon his kneeswith a quick, dexterous throw, and holding him firmly thus, says overhis shoulder, to Alan:
"This is a fine thing to happen just now! The fellow must be got out ofthe way, and kept safe until I have time to discover his racket. He'snot such a fool as he looks. Can't you get in a policeman quietly? Wedon't want any servants to gossip over it, or to see me."
Alan turns his face toward the closet. "Can't we lock him up again?" hesuggests.
"My dear sir," says Grip coolly, "this fellow is probably a _spy_."
"What!" Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder.Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, "nonsense;look at that stolid countenance."
"Umph!" mutters Grip; "too much hair and dirt." Then turning toward theside window: "I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get ina policeman somehow; try the window."
As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state ofutter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp ofMr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew hispleading, terrified pantomine.
"Ah," says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, "this window musthave been the place where he entered." Then, after a prolonged look upand down the street: "I don't see an officer anywhere."
"No; I presume not. Try the other windows."
"The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds."
"Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and comeand guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment."
Alan turns again, and looks down into the street.
"I think," he says, quietly, "that we will just drop him back into thestreet whence he came."
"You seem to want this fellow to escape," snarls the detective, castingupon Alan a glance of suspicion. "He shall not escape; I'll take care ofhim!"
At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie,breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room.
"Mr. Alan," she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants ofthe room; "we can't find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!"
"What!" Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment.
"Ah-h-h!" Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full ofmeaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed.
"Impossible, Millie," says Alan sharply; "go to Miss French--"
"I did, sir, and she is--"
She pauses abruptly, for there in the doorway is Winnie French, pale andtearful, an open letter in her hand.
"Read that, sir," she says, going straight up to Alan and extending tohim the letter. "See what your cruelty has done. Leslie Warburton isgone!"
"Gone!"
This time Grip and Alan both utter the word, both start forward.
For just one moment the hand that clutches the collar of theorgan-grinder relaxes its hold, but that moment is enough. With amazingagility, and seemingly by one movement, the prisoner has freed himselfand is on his feet. In another second, by a clever wrestler'sman[oe]uvre, he has thrown Mr. Grip headlong upon the floor. And then,before the others can realize his intentions, he has bounded to the openwindow, and flung himself out, as easily and as carelessly as would acat.
But Mr. Grip, discomfited for the moment, is not wanting in alertness.He is on his feet before the man has cleared the window. He boundstoward it, and drawing a small revolver, fires after thefugitive--once--twice.
"Stop!" It is Alan Warburton's voice, stern and ringing. He has seizedthe pistol arm, and holds it in a grasp that Mr. Grip finds difficult torelease.
"Hands off!" cries Grip, now hoarse with rage. "That man's a _spy_!"
"No matter; we will have no more shooting."
"_We_!" struggling to release his arm from Alan's firm grasp; "who areyou that--"
"I am master here, sir."
With an angry hiss, the detective from Scotland Yards throws himselfupon Alan, and they engage in a fierce struggle. But Alan Warburton issomething more than a ball-room hero; he is an adept in the manlysports, and fully a match for Mr. Grip.
Panting and terrified, Winnie and Millie stand together near the door;and the eyes of the latter damsel wander from the combatants near thewindow, to something that has fallen close at her feet, and that lieshalf hidden by the folds of her dress.
But disaster has befallen Mr. Grip. While they wrestle, Alan's quick eyehas detected something that looks like a displacement of Mr. Grip'scranium, and with a sudden, dexterous, upward movement, he solves themystery. There is an exclamation of surprise, another of anger, and thetwo combatants stand apart, both gazing down at the thing lying on thefloor between them.
It is a wig of curling auburn hair, and it leaves the head of Mr. Gripquite a different head in shape, in size, in height of forehead, and ingeneral expression!
"So," sneers Alan, "Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards, saw fit to visit me indisguise. Is your name as easily altered as your face, sir?"
The discomfited wrestler stoops down, and picking up his wig adjusts itcarefully on his head once more; bends again to take up his fallenpistol; lifts his hat from a chair, and returns to the window.
"My name is not Augustus Grip," he says coolly. "Neither will you findme by inquiring at police headquarters. But you and I will meet again,Mr. Warburton."
"Drawing a small revolver, he fires after thefugitive--once--twice!" page 283.]
And without unseemly haste, he places his hand upon the window-sill,swings himself over the ledge, resting his feet upon the ironrailings, and drops down upon the pavement.
By t
his time some people have collected outside, attracted by thepistol-shots. Two laggard policemen are hastening down the street. Agroup of servants are whispering and consulting anxiously in the hall,and cautiously peeping in at the study door.
The coolness of the false Mr. Grip takes him safely past the group ofinquiring ones.
"It was a sneak thief," he explains, as he leaps down among them. "Don'tdetain me, friends; I must report this affair at police headquarters."
A few quick strides take him across the street to where a carriagestands in waiting. He enters it, and in a moment more, Mr. Grip andcarriage have whirled out of sight.
"I'd give a hundred dollars to know what that fellow was in hiding for,"he mused, as the carriage rolled swiftly along. "Could he have been putthere by Warburton? But no--Confound that Warburton, I'll humble hispride before we cry quits, or my name is not _Van Vernet_!"
But Vernet little dreamed that he had that day aimed a bullet at thelife of a brother detective; that his disguise had been penetrated andhis plans frustrated, by _Richard Stanhope_!