Chapter VIII

At breakfast, Henry wore a puzzled and anxious look, for which Pat and I did not find it hard to account. Apparently urged by a twinge of remorse, he had paid a secret visit to the cellar earlier in the morning, and to his great consternation and alarm, had found the reporter missing. Up to breakfast time, he was, of course, unaware of Pat's doings, and had only his own knowledge to go on. Niki had kept his silence, for a very good reason, which was--Pat.

Olinski was a few minutes late in joining us. Luckily only the four of us were seated at the table. Prince Matani had caught an early train for the city. Jane had remained in bed with a nervous headache. Olinski lost no time in making inquiry about the imprisoned reporter. Leaning over to Henry, he asked, in a low voice: "Is everything all right?"

"Disappeared!" Henry replied, in a low aside, using his morning paper, the Times, as a screen for the sub rosa conversation, which then ensued. "Clean gone!" he added.

Olinski looked positively sick for a moment. "Odd, isn't it?" he remarked.

"The whole affair's odd," Henry returned, placing a finger to his lips, to indicate the need for secrecy and caution.

Pat and I were both listening attentively, but camouflaging our attention with some silly chatter and laughter, as if deprecating any idea that we wished to listen in.

"Supposing someone got rid of him--Niki, for instance," Olinski suggested, sotto voce. "Niki's an Oriental. He may have misunderstood your motives. Faithful servant, you know. Heard of cases of that sort myself, in the Orient, not in this country, though."

Henry's eyes seemed to pop, and his face blanched at the suggestion of murder. "Oh, but I think that's impossible," he asserted, unconsciously raising his voice.

"What's impossible, Uncle Henry?" asked Pat.

"Oh!" said Henry, taken wholly by surprise. "Mr. Olinski and I were--er--we were just discussing a rather peculiar happening of last night, after you'd gone to bed. Something of a mystery, which seems difficult of solution."

"Perhaps I can solve it for you," Pat suggested demurely, giving me a knowing wink.

Olinski, who was watching Pat attentively, signed to Henry to remain quiet, and said: "I'm afraid your distinguished uncle has got himself into a peck of trouble."

"The thing's done, and can't be undone," Henry protested vehemently.

"What's done, Henry?" I inquired in a perfectly innoxious tone.

As Henry hesitated, Pat spoke. "Oh, I may as well blurt it straight out," she said. "Uncle Livingston and I were going to announce it, in due form, but I'd just as soon tell you now. Mr. McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter, whom you cruelly attacked and locked up in the cellar, last night, received proper attention, and was put to bed in the Blue Room, after you and Mr. Olinski had retired. He's now having his breakfast, very comfortably, I hope, in bed."

Henry stared at Pat incredulously. "Um!" he exclaimed at last.

Thereupon, she gave a plain, straightforward account of things. Told all she knew, while I corroborated and amplified her statements whenever necessary. And two more surprised-looking men, I never saw in my life before. As she proceeded, Henry's face cleared. "Um!" he said again, when the full story had been told.

"I don't think I'm much of a hand at advising in such matters," Pat went on, "but in view of the nice mess of things you've made, Uncle Henry--"

As she paused uncertainly, Henry caught my eye. "What do you say, Livingston?" he asked.

"Well, if you ask me, Henry, I agree entirely with Pat," I replied, with decision. "Assault of this reporter, and his detention in the cellar, rank as an act in contravention of the criminal code, the penalties for which, as you are no doubt aware, are very severe."

"We don't want any more scenes like last night, do we, Uncle Henry?" Pat put in, ingenuously.

"Um! Um!" said Henry, reflectively.

Mentally he must have seen a picture of what might be if he did not patch things up with the reporter, who was in a position to bring a civil action and mulct him in very substantial damages. "I--I suppose I did treat him rather roughly," he admitted finally, now that the ground had been cut from under his feet. "What would you suggest, Livingston?" he asked, meekly, again turning to me.

Struck by a sudden, happy thought, I replied: "I would suggest offering the reporter the exclusive rights for the story of your amazing discovery, on condition that he is not to publish it until you've given him permission, or set a release date. Try that, and see how it works."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Olinski.

"Very good," said Henry.

At that moment, Orkins came into the room, and informed Henry that McGinity was in the hall, and would be obliged if Henry would see him for a few minutes. Henry accordingly hastened into the hall, and, as we learned afterwards, greeted the reporter with an open hand and a cordial smile.

On returning from his interview with the reporter, I was surprised to see him kiss Pat affectionately on the cheek. "I want to thank you, my dear," he said, "for saving me from a world of trouble."

Pat blushed and smiled, and kissed him back, then turned away to hide her tears.

"Family pride is a powerful instinct," I remarked, "and we still bear an honored name, thanks to Pat."

Henry had good reason to be thankful to Pat, who had saved him from what might have been an extremely serious contretemps. We all had, for that matter. Pat had a head on her lovely shoulders. True to her romantic disposition, she waved adieu to McGinity from a mullioned window, high up in the castle, where she must have appeared to him in the likeness of a fairy princess, as he rode off, in company with Olinski, to the railroad station.

Henry appeared in a placid and cheerful mood during the rest of the morning. He had managed things pretty well so far. Knowing the value of publicity, I considered McGinity and the tabloid he represented, with its tremendous circulation, the best medium Henry would be able to find for the exploitation of his discovery. I knew he hated making terms with the reporter, his keen dislike and distrust of newspapermen seemed inherent, but McGinity had somehow to be caught and tamed, and unless it were done quickly, McGinity might be catching him. And that would never do.

Towards noon, Henry sent for me, and I joined him in the library, where I found him rummaging amongst the books and papers on his desk. He looked worried. There was something heavy bearing on his mind. As it turned out, there were several things that harassed him.

"What now?" I asked, a note of impatience in my voice.

"Livingston," he began, with a sudden compression of his lips, and motioning me to sit down, "will you answer a question that has been occurring to me all morning? During the time that this reporter, McGinity, and Pat were together, last night, did he show--well, any sentimental interest in her? I want to know--particularly."

"No, I'm sure he did not," I replied promptly. "I recall hearing him use such expressions as 'your delightful companionship,' 'this incredulous you,' and 'beautiful princess!'"

"What!" Henry exclaimed, with an awkward attempt to suppress an unbelieving smile; "do I understand you to say you attach no sentimental significance to such expressions?"

"Why, certainly," I answered. "I attributed his romantic talking to the after-effects of the knockout blow. At times, he appeared to be dazed."

Henry regarded me gravely for a moment, then he said: "Livingston, you are without a doubt the perfect ass!" He brought his fist down with a thud on his desk to emphasize more completely his opinion of me.

"Whatever do you mean?" I demanded.

"Listen to me," said Henry, leaning over the desk towards me. "What happened last night between Pat and this reporter is going to bring an alarming new situation in our household. Pat has become romantically interested in this young scallywag, and I feel sure he's fallen in love with her."

"You wouldn't say that unless you'd some grounds for it," I observed. "Have you?"

"Nothing that I can personally vouch for," was the reply; "it's only something that I suspect after putting two and two together. Now, after hearing you repeat those silly, sentimental expressions that fell from the reporter's lips, while Pat was treating him to supper, and speculating on what he may have said to her during the quarter of an hour you were secreted in the elevator, I feel I have grounds for my suspicions."

He leaned still further across the desk as he continued. "Now, this McGinity fellow was in his right mind and senses, take my word for it, when he called our Pat 'incredulous you,' 'beautiful princess,' and so on, and also in a perfectly normal state of mind, this morning, when he turned down my offer to square and hush up last night's unfortunate affair. I guess Olinski was right. I must have been 'cock-eyed.' Anyway, the amount I offered him was $50,000. It was a good bargain, a damned good bargain. What's surprising you?"

"Do you mean to say McGinity turned down such a large offer of money, which had nothing to do with holding out on the story, nothing in the nature of a bribe, simply a stated sum in lieu of damages, say for assault and detention?"

"I do," Henry replied. "The young nincompoop fixed his own price, and declared he would be well satisfied if he got it."

"And what was that?"

"All he wanted, he said--now, listen carefully to what I'm telling you--all he wanted was the exclusive rights to the Mars story, the release terms of which he promised faithfully to obey. As for last night's occurrences--assault and detention, as you term them--he simply said: 'Let's forget that.'"

"Is that a fact?" I asked, amazed.

Henry nodded, and continued. "Do you get it? He's in love with our Pat, or he wouldn't have turned my offer down. Think of it--$50,000. Enough to start him in the newspaper publishing business on his own hook."

"Supposing it's true, that a romantic attachment has sprung up between them, what shall you do?"

"I shall be ruthless," Henry replied, in a stern voice. "Ruthless," he repeated, and then gazed round the room, rather guiltily, as though Orkins might be there to hear him.

"By the way," I said. "What's happened to Orkins? I haven't seen him round the premises since Olinski and McGinity left, shortly after breakfast?"

"Ah!" said Henry. "That reminds me of another strange occurrence. Orkins has gone--gone for good."

"Well, that's a queer thing, isn't it?"

"Decidedly queer," Henry concurred. "He came to me quite unexpectedly this morning and resigned; said he was leaving at once. No explanation, simply that he was going and wanted his back pay. I remonstrated about his not giving the usual two weeks' notice, but he was adamant, so I paid him off and let him go."

"Leaving you no address?"

"No address at all. What do you make of it?"

"It certainly looks queer," I replied. "But I've been rather suspicious of Orkins from the very start."

"Why?" asked Henry.

"It's always been my opinion," I replied, "that he was mixed up in some secret, something that we know nothing about. He was too crafty and reticent to suit me."

"The mere fact that he was crafty and reticent doesn't prove anything," said Henry.

"Well, then," I said, rather testily, "if Orkins didn't sell you out on the comet business, who the devil did?"

"I've no idea," said Henry.

"I think it is pretty certain that he also tipped off the Daily Recorder about your latest discovery, and got well paid for it."

"Even so," said Henry, "these suppositions on your part can have no possible connection with his leaving so abruptly."

"I've got a notion about that too," I said. "Supposing that he did sell you out, in both instances, and was assured that his tips would be treated confidentially, then he must have got scared when McGinity turned up."

"Scared about what?" asked Henry.

"Well, after what happened to the Daily Recorder reporter last night, and Orkins must have known about it--you'd be astonished how quickly news travels among the servants--my idea is that he was afraid McGinity, in reprisal, would betray his duplicity. So he got away as quickly as possible to save his face. But it was a foolish thing to do."

"Foolish?"

"Yes; for newspapers never, under any consideration, betray their source of news information. I doubt if McGinity himself knew where the tips came from. He was simply assigned by his City Editor to get the stories, and Orkins did not figure in them at all as far as he was concerned."

"At any rate," said Henry, "I'm rather sorry to lose Orkins. While he had odd ways, I always felt he could be depended upon. He was the perfect English butler if ever there was one."

"Oh, but he's not English at all," I said. "I learned from one of the other servants, not so long ago, that he's a Slav by birth, and acquired his perfect English name, speech and manners during a long period of buttling in London. By the way, on whose recommendation did you employ him?"

"Can't say," Henry replied, as he lighted a cigar. "Ah!" he added, after a thoughtful pause. "I have it! I employed him on Dr. LaRauche's recommendation, from whom he brought the most exceptional references. It's not likely, though, that Dr. LaRauche would have any ulterior reason in wanting me to give his former servant a place."

"After all," I suggested, "there's no getting away from the fact that Rene LaRauche hates you worse than poison."

"You're wrong, Livingston," said Henry, with emphasis. "Dr. LaRauche is only suspicious of my scientific achievements. He regards me as a rank amateur. A top-notch scientist himself, of international reputation, it is only natural that he should be jealous of any intrusion upon that which he feels is his own field. But hatred? Oh, no!"

"If we're going in for mere theorizing," I said, "here's one to cogitate over. Supposing Orkins, the sly, crafty devil, was a plant in this house; put here by LaRauche to spy on your scientific research work? Then what?"

"Well, give me the truth," Henry answered. "Truth's not so easy to come at in these matters, and I doubt if we shall get any substantial contribution to your theory. Certainly not by remaining quietly here, with our hands folded. Come to think of it, LaRauche borrowed a valuable book of mine more than two years ago, Lowell's 'Mars as the Abode of Life,' which I should like very much to have him return. Now, supposing you drop in on him. Haven't the least idea what you'll get besides the borrowed book, and I doubt if you get that. Anyhow," he added significantly, "you may find out something--one way or another."

The curiosity instinct, which was my second nature, rose, strong and eager, when I heard this announcement. "All right," I said, with a suddenly roused alertness; "I'll call on LaRauche this afternoon."