The Foundlings

H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.

ORD DE LYS turned in his chair and listened. There was certainly the bell, and as certainly a knock on the door. He looked at his watch, which showed him the hour was not yet nine; and he did not expect the Marchmonts or Jardine before ten. It was not likely that they would break up the dinner-party till then. It might conceivably be Peter Bale or— He listened, and heard Jacob’s deliberate steps approach from the kitchen.

His own house was in the hands of the decorators, who were lingering beyond their contract, and he was occupying Jack Hazlitt’s luxurious flat during an unexpected visit to town in May. He settled back in his armchair, and lifted his cigarette again, as he lifted also his book. Suddenly there intervened on his senses a sound, a familiar sound, and an unexpected sound, the sound of rustling silk and low, murmuring voices. He got to his feet just as the door of the room opened, and the immaculate Jacob appeared in the opening.

“The Misses Selkirk!” he announced evenly.

De Lys, his cigarette half-way to his mouth, stared. Through the doorway entered two rather tall, fair, and quite young ladies who were utterly unknown to him. They were in gala dress, equipped for conquest, and their pretty flushed faces were wreathed in fine silk mufflers. De Lys stared in amazement; and beholding him suddenly the young ladies came to a halt and stared also.

“We thought Mrs.—” began the elder one, and then turned swiftly to Jacob, who was disappearing through the door. “It was Mrs. Bellamy we wanted,” she called in distressed confusion.

“Oh, Delia, you never told him; you just walked in,” protested the younger.

Jacob had gone; it was de Lys who spoke.

“Mrs. Bellamy?” he said sweetly. “Now I wonder who Mrs. Bellamy is?”

“Don’t you know who she is? Isn’t she here?” exclaimed the Misses Selkirk breathlessly.

De Lys shook his head. “My dear young ladies,” he said pleasantly, “it grieves me to disappoint you; but I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Bellamy, and she certainly does not live here.”

“Oh!” Dismay gasped at him from two pretty mouths.

“Have you got the letter, Delia?” asked the younger and fairer one.

“No-o,” responded Delia faintly. “I left it behind. But I know it was Audley Court.” She looked at de Lys appealingly.

“This is certainly Audley Court,” he said. “What was the number?”

“One hundred and ten,” said the younger girl promptly.

That was the identical number of Jack Hazlitt’s flat in which they were standing at the moment.

“This is one hundred and ten,” said de Lys after a slight pause, and then, “Come, please sit down, and let us talk it over. If I can be of help, command me,” he said, smiling, and under his smile, or his offer, their timid reluctance melted.

“Oh, Delia!” said the younger girl tragically. “Whatever shall we do? You got the wrong address.”

“I’m sure, Marjorie, I’m sure it was the right address,” protested the accused.

“I don’t suppose there will be any terrible difficulty in finding the correct address,” de Lys assured them, “but I think you must tell me first a little more.”

“Mrs. Bellamy was to take us to a dance,” said Miss Marjorie plaintively.

“Where?” de Lys cross-questioned the innocents.

“We don’t know,” they answered in a breath.

“Somewhere in Mayfair,” said Marjorie.

“Don’t be silly, Marjorie; it wasn’t—it was somewhere in Westminster,” corrected Delia, “or Bayswater,” she added as an afterthought.

“I see,” said de Lys. “Well, we ought to be able to hunt up Mrs. Bellamy’s name in a post-office directory, or a Red Book, shouldn’t we? I think Hazlitt’s got the latter.”

He went out, and returned presently with the book, to find the girls apparently exchanging sisterly recriminations, which, however, died away on his entrance. He had found the place in the Red Book, and began to read the various addresses of Bellamys aloud. The girls shook their heads at each initial with growing reluctance to part with hope as the tally dwindled.

“That’s all, I’m afraid,” said de Lys at last. They looked at him sadly, and then at each other.

“Delia, I think that one beginning F. C. might be the one,” suggested Marjorie, unwilling to despair.

“Twenty Stanthope Square,” read out de Lys promptly.

“No, it was Something Court, and his name is Arthur,” said Delia dolefully; and then added quickly, “Besides, the address wouldn’t be there, as they’ve only lived there a few months.”

“H’m! That settles it, I fear,” remarked de Lys. “Well, never mind. It’s a nuisance, but I’m afraid you'll have to go home, and make a new start. I wish I could have—”

“But we can’t go home,” deplored Marjorie, plaintively earnest. “We can’t possibly.”

De Lys looked at Delia for an explanation. ‘You see, we came by train from Halstead, and the trains don’t run later than—”

De Lys rushed off hastily for an A. B. C. guide, and returned with it. He consulted his watch. “If you started now in a cab you would just miss the last train by five minutes,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Oh, Delia!” Marjorie fell back on the tragic. She clasped her hands over her knees. In her pretty ball-dress, she was a living picture of despair.

“Well, we’re not beaten yet,” said de Lys cheerfully, and rang the bell. To Jacob on his appearance he said, “I want you to go down to the porter, and make inquiries as to the number of Mrs. Bellamy.”

The door shut after the servant, and Marjorie beamed at de Lys. “How silly! I never thought of that. It’s the number you got wrong, Delia. Perhaps it was ten.”

Delia looked as if she were anxious to be convinced, and so until Jacob’s return they chatted of other things, of London, which they knew only very slightly, of the modest country home from which they came, of the brilliance and romance and wonder of the London season, and, generally, of the niceness of most things. It was Marjorie who talked most, for she did not show the same sense of uneasiness at the unusual position which obsessed her elder sister. She was telling him about her terrier when Jacob entered.

“If you please, my lord, the porter says no one of the name of Bellamy lives here.”

“Oh, Delia!” Marjorie broke out again in distress. It was manifestly by an effort that Delia retained her composure. On de Lys it began to dawn for the first time that the situation had a serious aspect.

“Oh, we’re not beaten yet,” he said, feeling in his heart that they were.

Marjorie, easily encouraged, threw her burden of doubt and care on his shoulders with the promptness of a child, and waited on his words. As she watched him she recalled the manner of his man’s address. He had said, “my lord.” Was this then a real live lord, such as she had read of and wanted often to see? She examined him with new interest. He was not so very old, about thirty-five, she thought; at any rate not fifty, and he was quite good looking. She liked the way his mustache went, and he had a beautiful smile. Delia had seized the Red Book, and was feverishly turning the pages in a vague hunt for a Bellamy and an unknown address. She knew it was Something Court, and she was certain of coming to it in time. Audley Court caught her eye as she ran through the pages, and she went down the list of names, stopping at No. 110. “Captain J. F. Hazlitt.” Delia reflected. She, like Marjorie, had noticed the “my lord” in Jacob’s report. But this was Captain Hazlitt’s flat. She had read, like Marjorie, of lords often enough, but she had also read of bogus lords, as well as of wicked lords, who were not to be trusted, and whom, particularly, innocent and pretty young girls should avoid like poison. Out of the tail of her eye she scrutinized de Lys. Was he one of the wicked ones? She wondered what his name was. He did not look wicked just then as he mused over the problem that confronted him.

“They can’t go home,” he was reflecting, “and they can’t go to Mrs. Bellamy. I suppose they must go to some other friend whose address they do know.”

He put this suggestion before them, and learned that they did not know any friends in London, except some one at Hampstead, and they didn’t know more definitely where she lived.

He decided at last in despair that the foundlings must spend the night at a friendly hotel, and he broke it to them. It was obvious that he had thrown up the problem, and as the girls recognized it their discomfiture showed. Delia was the more restrained, but she was manifestly agitated, and Marjorie was frankly on the border of tears.

“But we can’t—we haven’t any money,” she wailed.

“Oh, you must let me be your banker for the nonce,” he answered lightly.

A certain terror seized Delia, who seemed to recollect the way wicked lords spoke. “Marjorie!” she said in rebuke, and to de Lys, “Thank you, that will not be necessary.”

“But we can’t go without money,” protested Marjorie tearfully, “or else we will be arrested. And besides we can’t go at all,” she decided more firmly, as she suddenly remembered. “Delia, how could you forget? We’ve got to wait for some one.”

“Oh!” cried Delia startled.

“Some one?” said de Lys hopefully.

“Yes, she’s to be here at ten. She missed our train,” said Marjorie, now quite restored to calm.

De Lys’s spirits sank, but rose again as he said, “Oh, then she will look after you.”

He doubted not that this was news of some more convincingly adult person at least than now conversed with him.

But Marjorie’s next words staggered him. “Oh, no, Lois is only eighteen.”

“Eighteen!” he said weakly.

Marjorie nodded. “She’s a year younger than me.”

“Just wait a moment,” he got out. “I’ll be back in a very little. Meanwhile see if these magazines are at all amusing.”

In the next room he mixed himself a glass of whiskey and soda. “The innocents!” he murmured. “But heavens, what am I to do? And a still greater innocent coming!” He glanced at the clock. Lois would be here, landed from a cab, in ten minutes. He all but groaned, gulped down his whiskey, and went back to his charges.

Marjorie was sunk in the pictures, as if there was never a problem in the world; but Delia sat by the fire, frightened now, her heart beating fast. Her silk wrap still veiled her hair, but disclosed a bewildered, scared, and pretty face. Marjorie’s wrap had fallen, and she sat in her chair over her pictures, a slim and beautiful nymph in white.

“I propose,” said de Lys cheerfully, “that we wait until Miss Lois comes, and then take action. In the meantime, why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves?”

Poor Delia’s terrible misgivings recurred. To her he did not seem so old as to Marjorie; and she was able, by her superiority of three years or so, to recognize the obvious experience and command of the handsome man before her. She began to tremble. It was plain he wanted them all; he would wait for Lois! That often happened in books. What was to be done? Here was poor, silly Marjorie, leaning familiarly and trustingly over the picture-book, just a tit-bit for the ogre. And Lois— “I don’t think we need worry over it,” the cool, pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. “I haven’t any doubt we shall pull through.”

As a matter of fact de Lys had just remembered, and had called himself a fool for not remembering before, that Mrs. Marchmont was a woman, and that she would be arriving almost at once with her husband. It was a little bridge-party to while away a few late hours. But the very ease of his manner and his obvious enjoyment served to start fresh fears in Delia’s breast. His smile was wicked. Oh! She cast about for a means of deliverance, but saw none. Wild panic suddenly seized her, and she rose.

“Thank you, we must go now,” she got out all in one word. “Marjorie!”

Marjorie looked up. “Oh, Delia, we can’t. Where are we going? And we can’t leave Lois.”

“I don’t see what you could do if you went,” said de Lys mildly. “You see, you don’t know anyone, and the trains are gone. If you will allow me to propound my plans perhaps—”

He was interrupted by the sound of the bell.

“Lois!” cried Marjorie.

De Lys was afraid it might be Peter Bale or Connor or another of the card-party. The situation would have its comic aspects, but on the whole he would prefer that Peter Bale, Connor, and the rest did not meet these innocents in the present circumstances. On the other hand, it might be the Marchmonts, in which case honor was saved, and he could breathe more freely.

“Please come this way,” he said hastily, ushering them from the room as a hen might its chickens. Marjorie went with confidence, Delia with black doubt. Whither was this specious and bogus lord leading them? He conducted them at a quick rate, which showed his guilt, down a broad corridor, and opened a door, switching on the light. Jack Hazlitt’s flat was very spacious and comfortable. Delia found herself in a fine chamber which might have passed for a study if it had been supplied with more books, and would have been called a boudoir if it had belonged to a woman. As it was, it was a luxurious nondescript room, which made it the more suspicious.

“That’s right,” said de Lys. “Make yourselves comfortable, and if it’s Miss Lois I'll bring her to you at once.”

He vanished, and the door shut.

“Marjorie!” panted Delia, white faced and large eyed.

Marjorie was walking about the room inspecting it with youthful inquisitiveness. “Oh, what a dear little cupboard!” she exclaimed. “It’s Sheraton, Delia.”

“Come away, Marjorie.” Delia clutched her sister’s hand feverishly, as if to pull her from a source of danger.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the younger girl in surprise. “Oh, Delia, don’t say you think we sha’n’t get home,” she pleaded. “I’m sure this Mr.—this Lord Something, will see we are all right. Don’t you think he’s rather handsome, though rather old, of course?”

It was the handsomeness that Delia distrusted.

Meanwhile Jacob had admitted a middle-sized, thick-set young man with dark eyes and dark hair, who entered the card-room with an ingratiating grin.

“Servant, my lord,” said he, touching his forelock.

“Peter Bale!” exclaimed de Lys in dismay.

Sir Peter Bale was an empty-headed, good-natured, larky young man with a bias toward practical jokes and an appreciation of elementary forms of wit and humor. “Why not Peter Bale?” he retorted. “Overslept myself this morning, and I’ve been a couple of hours late for everything ever since.”

“My dear Peter,” said de Lys gravely, “let me call your attention to the fact that you’re not late but early.”

“Yes,” said Bale coolly, “but I cut out the Van-Webber’s dinner, so as to get even, and came on to you. I flatter myself I’ve caught up with my engagements now; and I’m awfully hungry.”

“If you think you’re going to get dinner here,” said de Lys violently, “you’re jolly well mistaken.”

“Don’t lose your hair, old man. “I’ll hunt round and forage. Where do you keep the grub?”

“Go to—the kitchen,” said de Lys.

“Right-o!” The young man had marched out of the room and was half-way down the hall before de Lys realized that he had sent him toward the room in which the girls were. He had caught Peter up with the intention of seeing that no harm resulted when there was another ring at the door.

“Hulloa! Bet that’s old Jardine,” said Peter, coming to a pause on his way to the larder and Jacob.

“You get on,” remarked de Lys.

“I want to see if old Jardine—” began the refractory youth, but he was seized in a nervous grip and urged forward.

“Jacob!” called his master to that individual on his way to answer the door. “Take Sir Peter Bale and put him in the kitchen, and get him something to eat. I'll see to the door.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jacob’s immobility suffered no eclipse. Reassured for the moment, de Lys hurried back and threw open the door of the flat. It was lucky indeed that he had taken strong measures with Peter Bale—there in the doorway was quite a small girl in all the familiar wrappings of dancing-gear.

“Please come in,” he said pleasantly. “Miss Selkirk and Miss Marjorie are waiting for you.”

“Oh!” She gave vent to a pretty little laugh, and followed without a moment’s hesitation.

“Another innocent!” reflected de Lys, as he led the way toward Jack Hazlitt’s boudoir. He opened the door, and introduced his companion.

“Lois!” cried Marjorie ecstatically.

“Oh, Lois!” said Delia dismally.

“Did you find any difficulty in getting here?” asked Marjorie.

“No, I had the address you gave me. Where’s Mrs. Bellamy?” said Lois, looking at de Lys with a certain wonder and a little coquetry.

Like a coward he left the explanation to the two girls, and retired to reconnoiter in the vicinity of the kitchen. He heard Peter Bale conversing cheerfully as he ate, and returned. Miss Lois was a little red of face, but he did not think she was very much distressed by the news she had received. Marjorie had evidently thrown all her burden on him. It was necessary for him to justify her confidence.

“You hear we’re in a bit of a stew, Miss Lois,” he began. “Your sisters—”

“She’s not our sister. She’s the rector’s daughter,” interposed Marjorie, anxious to have important facts clear.

“Well, the three of you have made a bad shot at an address,” he resumed, “and owing to the crass stupidity of the London Directory and the Red Book and the Court Guide, and other things, it is impossible to correct your mistake. However, I have an old friend, Mrs. de Courcy Marchmont, of Hill Street, coming to me presently with her husband; and I’m going to ask her to take you back with her. She’s plenty of room, and she would love to. I’m sorry you should miss your fun, but if you will do me the honor to put up with this room and what you can find in it for half an hour, we will do our best to give you some sort of entertainment.”

His smile was distributed among the three of them, but Marjorie got most of it. Lois was beaming, and there were murmurs as to his kindness, and his trouble.

“I’ll see you have books, and Jacob shall make you tea or coffee and sandwiches, or whatever you will. Here are some chocolates to go on with. I believe there are some ices, too. And now, please excuse me for a little,” he ended hastily, as he became aware of the bell once more. If only this should prove to be the Marchmonts! But it didn’t: it was old Jardine, old Jardine who was just over thirty and a merry money-spender admired of Sir Peter Bale.

“We can start a rubber when the next man comes,” he said cheerfully. “Shall I drag Peter out?”

“No, no,” said de Lys. “We'll ring for him.”

He was duly rung for, and entered the card-room with a huge sandwich in one hand and a glass of whiskey and soda in the other.

When de Lys left the boudoir Delia stepped to the door. She listened intently to the voices that came down the hall. More men were coming. It was awful. She turned the key desperately.

“Oh, Delia, what’s that for? Why are you locking us in?” Marjorie asked plaintively.

Delia put her finger to her lips. “Hush!” she whispered dramatically. The others drew to her in fear and wonder. “Did you see his face?” she asked. “His eyes?”

“No, tell us,” said Lois eagerly.

“I thought he looked very nice. I like his eyes,” commented Marjorie dispassionately.

“Oh, you don’t understand,” said Delia despairingly. “I don’t trust him. Don’t you see? Who are those people coming in? Why does he put us here? They’re all men,” she said passionately. “All men. We're lost.”

Marjorie looked a little concerned at this announcement, but Lois did not seem upset. She had found a mirror on the wall in which her small face appeared, and was examining it critically and approvingly.

“There!” Delia clutched her sister. “That’s another ring and more men.”

“But,” said Marjorie with her mouth full of chocolate, “he said he was going to get Mrs. Marchmont to take us.”

“I don’t mind if they are men,” said the rector’s eighteen-year-old daughter demurely.

“Chocs, Lois?” inquired Marjorie, holding out a box. “I say, Delia, sha’n’t we have some tea or lemonade or something? He promised, only you’ve locked the door. I wonder if he has got ices.”

“Child, don’t be a fool!” commanded poor Delia desperately. “Hark, what’s that?”

“Let me—I’ll go out and explore,” volunteered Lois.

Delia was violently opposed to this bold suggestion, but the two younger girls carried the day. The key was turned, and the door opened gingerly and allowed Lois to squeeze through. She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, while her friends waited in breathless suspense. In the kitchen was a composed-looking, clean-shaven man, who did not seem at all staggered by this unexpected apparition.

“I say—oh, are you Jacob?” opened Miss Lois brightly. “Would you please bring us some tea and coffee and—” her eyes wandered round the kitchen on a voyage of discovery, “and sandwiches and—ices, you know.”

“Yes, miss,” said the staid Jacob.

Lois lingered. “How many has Lord—Lord, you know, got here?” she asked confidentially.

“Two bridge-tables, miss,” said Jacob.

""

“Oh!” This conveyed no meaning to Lois, who, seeing no further use for Jacob, left him with an affable nod and a smile. She retraced her steps, went past the boudoir, and reached the door of the card-room from behind which issued the sound of male voices.

The door was slightly ajar, and softly she pushed it wider open, till she could peep in through a murky, smoky atmosphere. Eight men sat at two tables playing hard, with glasses at their hands. One rose and frightened Lois into flight; she fled noiselessly back, entered the boudoir, and slammed the door. Delia locked it promptly.

“What did you see?” she asked eagerly. “What are they doing there?”

Lois was breathless. “Oh, they’re all smoking like anything,” she said, “and drinking awfully.”

“Drinking what?” demanded Marjorie.

“Out of long glasses,” said Lois. “Whiskey and things like that.”

“I knew it,” said Delia. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” said Lois in surprise. “I ran away. Oh, and I say, Jacob’s coming with some ices and things. I believe that’s him,” she said as a knock fell on the door.

“No,” said Delia resisting, but Lois was first; the door opened and admitted Jacob with a delightful silver tray, which he deposited on a table. Delia locked the door again after his retreat. The two younger girls drifted frankly to the table and the tray.

“Oh, Delia, pink ices,” cried Marjorie.

De Lys, having given Jacob his instructions, and, as he imagined, having quieted and reassured his accidental guests, was kept busy with the arrival of the bridge-players. Presently he was absorbed in his game, and only when he was dummy remembered the three girls. He got up, left the room, and paused outside the boudoir. The cheerful voices of Marjorie and Lois, evidently talking with their mouths full, reassured him, and he returned to the card-room. So far the Marchmonts had not put in an appearance, but he expected them every moment.

Now it fell out that Peter Bale, experiencing renewed pangs of hunger, and serving his turn as dummy, made an excursion to the kitchen in search of another sandwich. On his way back he was arrested by the sound of female voices. Pausing, he made exploration: the voices came from behind a door just near him. Who the deuce was it? He returned to his seat, and the rubber was won in the next deal. De Lys was playing at the other table.

“I say, Jardine,” Peter beckoned his partner mysteriously from the room. “There’s some girls here,” he said knowingly.

“Where?” asked Jardine.

“Over there,” said Peter, nodding at the boudoir door.

“Nonsense,” said Jardine. “Jack Hazlitt’s household’s evacuated, and de Lys has only his man.”

“That’s what I thought, but come and listen.”

They listened.

“Do you like- the pink or the white best?” came muffled through the door to the listeners.

“Oh, Marjorie, how can you?” followed.

Jardine gave a low whistle. “I say, it ain’t a bedroom, this, I know,” said Peter. “It was old Jack’s bureau, he called it. Let’s go in.”

He turned the handle, but the door would not budge; turned again, and stared at Jardine.

“Locked!” he commented. “I say, ain’t de Lys a Bluebeard, what?”

They returned to the card-room, having sent Delia into a panic of terror. There they found that de Lys’s table had broken up, and Peter Bale took him aside with Jardine.

“I say, old man,” he said reproachfully, “if I'd known your real character earlier I wouldn’t have come, nor would Jardine. We’re going to keep this scandal quiet for the present for the sake of our former friendship. But you must thoroughly understand that our acquaintance ends after to-night.”

“If, Peter, you would explain more definitely what I have to thank for that blessed news I should be grateful,” said de Lys urbanely.

“That Bluebeard chamber, old man—I mean, you ogre. Who’s in there?”

“Oh!” De Lys suddenly understood. “Why, the maids, of course.”

“First place, you haven’t got any maids,” said Peter. “Second place, you don’t lock maids in.”

“Lock!” De Lys was surprised, but replied promptly, “I always do.”

“I’ll tell you what they are, de Lys,” said the incorrigible Peter. “They’re either your respective wives by their several marriages, or your second cousins by your first.”

“Peter, this is serious,” said de Lys. “You’re the last person I wanted to find out. The fact is they’re angels unawares, and I’m waiting for Mrs. Marchmont.”

He briefly related the circumstances.

“Mrs. Marchmont!” echoed Jardine suddenly. “By Jove, I clean forgot. They’re not coming. Mrs. Marchmont’s got a chill and—”

“Not coming!” screamed de Lys. “Why the—oh, Jardine, I’ll be even with you some day for this.”

“Where are you going?” called Peter Bale as he sped. “We can’t make up a table without you.”

“Oh, go and make hay,” retorted de Lys. “I’m going to ring up Marchmont.”

He escaped to the little room in which the telephone apparatus was installed, and he gave the Marchmont’s number.

“That you, Marchmont?” he inquired.

“Yes, who is it? Oh, de Lys! Sorry we had to forego—”

“Oh, shut up, I don’t want you. Ask Mrs. Marchmont to come—what? In bed, is she? Oh, in dishabille! Well, ask her if she’ll be good enough to come. My dear dunderhead, I sha’n’t be able to see her. All right. That you, Mrs. Marchmont? I say, I’ve got three beautiful and visible angels here on my hands, and I want you to take them off. What? I'll tell you all about it. I’ve just had the greatest fright of my life hearing you weren’t coming. I want you to take a cab and drive here at once. Oh, yes, finish dressing, of course. Don’t be so sarcastic. I’m in desperate straits. Three beautiful angels, all fair, all fluffy, and ranging from eighteen to sweet and twenty. Oh, yes, I'll tell you.”

When a little later de Lys, relieved in mind, emerged from the telephone-room, he went to the boudoir, and turned the handle. The door was not locked; it opened easily. There was no one inside.

In some wonder and a little anxiety he made search in the other rooms. In the kitchen he found Peter Bale solemnly eating ices with Miss Lois; in the dining-room he discovered Jardine teaching Miss Marjorie how to play dominoes. There was no trace of Miss Delia. Neither of the culprits seemed ashamed, or even disturbed, on being thus run to earth. Peter Bale greeted his host in a cheerful, offhand way, and invited him to eat his own ices.

“Do, they are so nice,” urged Miss Lois.

“The pink ones are best,” said Peter critically.

“How many have you eaten?” inquired de Lys of the girl gravely. “I only ask, because I am responsible for you for the time, not this egregious glutton here, against whom I solemnly warn you.”

Miss Lois laughed, and lifted her spoon. “Six,” she said with deliberate defiance.

Jardine paid him even less attention. “I wish you’d go away, my dear fellow,” he said testily. “Looking over my hand always makes me nervous. And Miss Marjorie simply hates it, don’t you?”

Miss Marjorie looked guiltily at de Lys, and then said loyally: “No, I don’t mind at all. Please, do I put this crossways?”

“I suppose,” meditated de Lys aloud, “I suppose that I shall find Miss Delia in the card-room playing bridge with the others.”

Marjorie looked up seriously from her dominoes. “Oh, no,” she said, “Delia’s gone.”

“Gone!” he echoed. “Where?”

Marjorie colored slowly. “Oh,” she said in confusion, “she—she got frightened, at being lost, don’t you know, and she—she went to get help.”

“Went to get help!” he repeated feebly, as visions of a nymph in ball-room wraps flying down the ringing corridors of Audley Court flashed upon him. Went to get help! Now what did that mean? And what sort of help did she expect? He began dimly to guess at the sub-currents that had flowed in poor Delia’s mind. As he moved toward the card-room to see that his guests were all right there was a loud rap on the door of the flat.

“Mrs. Marchmont!” he cried as he dashed forward.

But it was not Mrs. Marchmont; it was an elderly gentleman of austere appearance and a stout, buxom matron who fronted him.

“I demand,” began the elderly gentleman in severe tones, “I demand the release of the two unfortunate young ladies who have fallen into your clutches.”

“Wretch!” cried the stout, buxom matron indignantly.

“My dear sir, my dear madam,” stammered de Lys, “I don’t understand—”

“Oh, yes—you do,” declared the lady excitedly. “The poor girl has told us all about it. I shall inform the police. You can’t hide them from them.”

“The point is,” said the elderly gentleman with extreme precision, “do you deny that you have two young ladies in your flat?”

“Well, no, not quite,” said de Lys, who was beginning to recover from the first shock of the attack.

“Ah!” said the gentleman.

“Shameful!” ejaculated matron.

“My dear good people,” said de Lys, “will you kindly tell me who you are?”

“I am Mr. Robert Baxter, and this is Mrs. Baxter, from number one hundred and five,” said the elderly gentleman with judicial severity, “and a young lady has just taken refuge with us from you—”

“Oh, my dear Mr. and Mrs. Baxter,” broke in de Lys heartily, “how I wish I’d known you were there and what you are. You would have saved me a terrible evening, and incidentally allowed me to get some bridge,” he added.

“Bridge!” said Mr. Baxter disapprovingly.

Mrs. Baxter sniffed censoriously at the smell of tobacco which the card-room exhaled into the hall. It was evident they regarded the scene as one of terrible dissipation, and the company as abandoned debauchees.

“Will you give them up?” demanded Mrs. Baxter fiercely.

“My dear lady, you shall enter and seek them. They shall do just as they think fit,” he said mildly.

Mrs. Baxter seemed afraid to step over the threshold of such a den of iniquity, but her husband’s presence encouraged her, and she entered. “Second on the right, and the kitchen,” he directed them. He remained to close the door, when something white in the dim-lit passage caught his attention. He knew it. She was hanging about, anxious for the rescue of the lambs.

“Oh, Miss Delia, Miss Delia!” he called out softly. “And I thought you believed in me. But come, my claws are cut. I can do no harm. I do not raven any longer. I can lie down with the lambs, and a little child may lead me.”

The white shadow seemed to shrink against the wall of the passage; but it did not retreat. And at the moment the lift stopped at the floor and two figures emerged and walked toward him.

“My dear lady,” he welcomed them with both hands. “You have come in the nick of time to save my character. I was desperate. Miss Delia,” he raised his voice, “here is Mrs. Marchmont to take you home with her. I hope she won’t give me a very bad character when you're alone.”

The white figure moved a little way, and Mrs. Marchmont, a tall, handsome woman of forty, went back. The two figures met.

“Marchmont, your wife is a brick, and you are an ass, and I’m thirsty. I’ve been wrestling with—with angels all the evening. Come, you can take a hand, now you are here.”

De Lys pushed his friend into the card-room, and then espied Mr. and Mrs. Baxter returning each with a young lady as captive, Peter Bale and Jardine in the background with bewilderment registered on their faces.

“Oh, Lord de Lys, must we go? Are we really to go?” inquired Lois as they came up with him.

Marjorie’s look was reluctant, and rueful, and plaintive.

“Your sister, my dear, is waiting,” said Mrs. Baxter, firmly retaining her hold of the youthful arm.

That sister at the moment was entering the flat from the hallway with Mrs. Marchmont.

“Delia!” cried Marjorie, making a rush forward.

“My dear, you’re all to come with me,” said Mrs. Marchmont affectionately, patting her head soothingly.

“It’s really me that should be treated like that,” murmured de Lys.

Under the electric light he caught Delia’s abashed and timid eye. “Oh, Miss Delia!” he murmured reproachfully.

She hastily moved away to the protection of Mrs. Marchmont, who was explaining the situation tersely to the Baxters.

“Mrs. Marchmont,” he cried, breaking in, “I have already told you you are an angel. But I don’t think I’ll see you into the brougham. Jacob shall. Good-by, Miss Marjorie, Miss Lois, and Miss Delia. Forget an aged, battered Bluebeard. I really must have that whiskey.” He entered the card-room.

[[Category:romance]