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THE MADNESS OF MAY

by

MEREDITH NICHOLSON

With illustrations by Frederic Dorr Steele







[Illustration: "I didn't know it was _your_ moon," he said.
[_Page_ 60]]


Upon the morn they took their horses with the queen, and rode
a-maying in woods and meadows, as it pleased them.
                                        --The Age of Chivalry.

New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1917

Copyright, 1917, by
Charles Scribner's Sons

Published March, 1917



TO
MRS. CHARLES THOMAS KOUNTZE



ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                                  PAGE

"I didn't know it was _your_ moon," he said.            _Frontispiece_

"The young person left in haste, that's clear enough,"
remarked Hood.                                                      30

"I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant,
no matter how unworthy. You may remain."                           123

"Throw up your hands, boys; it's no use!" cried Hood
in mock despair.                                                   166






THE MADNESS OF MAY

I


Billy Deering let himself into his father's house near Radford Hills,
Westchester County, and with a nod to Briggs, who came into the hall to
take his hat and coat, began turning over the letters that lay on the
table.

"Mr. Hood has arrived, sir," the servant announced. "I put him in the
south guest-room."

Deering lifted his head with a jerk. "Hood--what Hood?"

"Mr. Hood is all I know, sir. He said he was expected--you had asked him
for the night. If there's a mistake----"

Deering reached for his hat and coat, which Briggs still held. His face
whitened, and the outstretched hand shook visibly. Briggs eyed him with
grave concern, then took a step toward the stairway.

"If you wish, sir----"

"Never mind, Briggs," Deering snapped. "It's all right. I'd forgotten I
had a guest coming; that's all."

He opened a letter with assumed carelessness and held it before his eyes
until the door closed upon Briggs. Then his jaws tightened. He struck his
hands together and mounted the steps doggedly, as though prepared for a
disagreeable encounter.

All the way out on the train he had feared that this might happen. The
long arm of the law was already clutching at his collar, but he had not
reckoned with this quick retribution. The presence of the unknown man in
the house could be explained on no other hypothesis than the discovery of
his theft of two hundred thousand dollars in gilt-edged bonds from the
banking-house of Deering, Gaylord & Co. It only remained for him to kill
himself and escape from the shame that would follow exposure. He must do
this at once, but first he would see who had been sent to apprehend him.
Hood was an unfamiliar name; he had never known a Hood anywhere, he was
confident of that.

The house was ominously quiet. Deering paused when he reached his own
room, glanced down the hall, then opened the door softly, and fell back
with a gasp before the blaze of lights. There, lost in the recesses of a
comfortable chair, with his legs thrown across the mahogany table, sat a
man he had never seen before.

"Ah, Deering; very glad you've come," murmured the stranger, glancing up
unhurriedly from his perusal of a newspaper.

He had evidently been reading for some time, as the floor was littered
with papers. At this instant something in the page before him caught his
attention and he deftly extracted a quarter of a column of text, pinched
it with the scissors' points and dropped it on a pile of similar cuttings
on the edge of the table.

"Just a moment!" he remarked in the tone of a man tolerant of
interruptions, "and do pardon me for mussing up your room. I liked it
better here than in the pink room your man gave me--no place there to put
your legs! Creature of habit; can't rest without sticking my feet up."

He opened a fresh newspaper and ran his eyes over the first page with the
trained glance of an expert exchange reader.

"The Minneapolis papers are usually worthless for my purposes, and yet
occasionally they print something I wouldn't miss. I'm the best friend
the 'buy your home paper' man has," he ran on musingly, skimming the page
and ignoring Deering, who continued to stare in stupefied amazement from
the doorway. "Ah!"

The scissors flashed and the unknown added another item to his
collection.

"That's all," he remarked with a sigh. He dropped his feet to the floor,
rose, and lazily stretched himself.

Tall, compactly built, a face weather-beaten where the flesh showed above
a close-clipped brownish beard, and hair, slightly gray, brushed back
smoothly from a broad forehead--these items Deering noted swiftly as he
dragged himself across the threshold.

"Really, a day like this would put soul into a gargoyle," the stranger
remarked, brushing the paper-shavings from his trousers. "Motored up from
Jersey and had a grand time all the way. I walk, mostly, but commandeer a
machine for long skips. To learn how to live, my dear boy, that's the
great business! Not sure I've caught the trick, but I'm working at it,
with such feeble talents as the gods have bestowed."

He filled a pipe deftly from a canvas bag, and drew the strings together
with white, even teeth.

This cool, lounging stranger was playing a trick of some kind; Deering
was confident of this and furious at his utter inability to cope with
him. He clung to the back of a chair, trembling with anger.

"My name," the visitor continued, tossing his match into an ash-tray, "is
Hood--R. Hood. The lone initial might suggest Robert or Roderigo, but if
your nursery library was properly stocked you will recall a gentleman
named Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. I don't pretend to be a
descendant--far from it; adopted the name out of sheer admiration for one
of the grandest figures in all literature. Robin Hood, Don Quixote, and
George Borrow are rubricated saints in my calendar. By the expression on
your face I see that you don't make me out, and I can't blame you for
thinking me insane; but, my dear boy, such an assumption does me a cruel
wrong. Briefly, I'm a hobo with a weakness for good society, and yet a
friend of the under dog. I confess to a passion for grand opera and
lobster in all its forms. Do you grasp the idea?"

Deering did not grasp it. The man had protested his sanity, but Deering
had heard somewhere that a confident belief in their mental soundness is
a common hallucination of lunatics. Still, the stranger's steady gray
eyes did not encourage the suspicion that he was mad. Deering's own
reason, already severely taxed, was unequal to the task of dealing with
this assured and cheerful Hood, who looked like a gentleman but talked
like a fool.

"For God's sake, who are you and what do you want?" he demanded angrily.

Hood pushed him gently into a chair, utterly ignoring his fury.

"What time do we dine? Seven-thirty, I think your servant told me. I
shan't dress if you don't mind. Speaking of clothes, that man of yours is
a very superficial observer; let me in on the strength of my automobile
coat, and I suppose the machine impressed him too. If he'd looked under
the surface at these poor rags, I'd never have got by! That illustrates
an ancient habit of the serving class in thinking all is gold that
glitters. Snobs! Deplorable weakness! Let's talk like sensible men till
the gong sounds."

Deering shook himself impatiently. This absurd talk, carefully
calculated, he assumed, to prolong his misery, had torn his nerves to
shreds. Hood sat down close to him in a straight-backed chair, crossed
his legs, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

"My dear boy, in the name of all the gods at once, cheer up! To satisfy
your very natural curiosity, I'll say that I fancied you were in trouble
and needed a strong arm to sustain you in your hour of trial. Laudable
purpose--ah, I see you begin to feel more comfortable. I have every
intention of playing the big brother to you for a few hours, weeks, or
months, or till you come out of your green funk. You wonder, of course,
what motive I have for intruding in this way--lying to your servant, and
making myself at home in your house. The motive, so far as there is any,
is the purely selfish one of finding enjoyment for myself, while
incidentally being of service to you. And you're bound to admit that
that's a fair offer in this world of greed and selfishness. The great
trouble with most of us is that the flavor so soon wears out of the
chewing-gum. Do you remember the last time you had a good, hearty laugh?
I'll wager you don't!"

Deering scowled, but Hood continued to expound his philosophy:

"The world's roaring along at such a rate we can't find happiness
anywhere but in the dictionary. It's worrying me to death, just the
spectacle of the fool old human race never getting a chance to sit down
by the side of the road and pick the pebbles out of its shoes.
Everybody's feet hurt and everybody's carrying a blood pressure that's
bound to blow the roof off. I tell you, Deering, civilization hasn't got
anything on the gypsies but soap and sanitary plumbing, I'm just
forty-five and for years I've kept in motion most of the time. Alone of
great travellers William Jennings Bryan has reviewed more water-tanks
than I. I find the same delight in Butte, Peoria, Galesburg, Des Moines,
Ashtabula, and Bangor, in Tallahassee, Birmingham, and Waco, that others
seek in London, Paris, and Vienna--and it's all American stuff--business
of flags flying and Constitution being chanted offstage by a choir of a
million voices! I've lived in coal-camps in Colorado, wintered with Maine
lumbermen, hopped the ties with hobos, and enjoyed the friendship of
thieves. I don't mean to brag, but I suppose there isn't a really
first-rate crook in the country that I don't know. And down in the
underworld they look on me--if I may modestly say it--as an old reliable
friend. I've found these contacts immensely instructive, as you may
imagine. Don't get nervous! I never stole anything in my life."

He thrust his fingers into his inside waistcoat pocket, and drew out a
packet of bills, neatly folded, and opened them for Deering's wondering
inspection.

"I beg of you don't jump to the conclusion that I roll in wealth. Money
is poison to me; I hate the very smell of it--haven't a cent of my own in
the world. This belongs to my chauffeur--carry it as a precaution
merely."

Hood relighted his pipe, and dreamily watched the match blacken and curl
in his fingers.

"Your chauffeur?" Deering suggested, like a child prompting a parent in
the midst of an absorbing story.

"Oh, yes! Cassowary"--he pronounced the word lingeringly as though to
prolong his pleasure in it--"real name doesn't matter. His father rolled
up a big wad cutting the forest primeval into lumber, and left it to
Cassowary--matter of a million or two. Cassowary had been driven to drink
by an unhappy love-affair when I plucked him as a brand from burning
Broadway. Nice chap, but too much self-indulgence; never had any
discipline. He's pretty well broken in now, and as we seemed to need each
other we follow the long trail together. Manage to hit it off first-rate.
He's still mooning over the girl; tough that he can't have the only thing
in the world he wants! Obstreperous parent adumbrated in the foreground,
shotgun in hand. I don't allow Cassowary to carry any money--would rather
risk contamination myself than expose him to it. If he stays with me for
a few years, his accumulated income will roll up so that he can endow
orchestras and art museums all through the prairie towns of the West, and
become a great benefactor of mankind."

Hood's story was manifestly absurd, and yet he invested it with a certain
plausibility. Even Cassowary, as Hood described him, seemed a wholly
credible person, and the bills Hood had drawn from his pocket bore all
the marks of honest money.

Dinner was announced, and Hood lounged down-stairs and into the
dining-room arm in arm with Deering. A tapestry on the wall immediately
attracted his attention. After pecking at the edges with his long,
slender fingers he turned to his seat with a sigh.

"Preposterous imitation! I dare say it was passed off as a real Gobelin,
but I know the artist who fakes those things--a New Jersey genius and
very smooth at the game."

Deering had never paid the slightest attention to the tapestry, which had
hung in the room for a dozen years, but he apologized in a vein of irony
for its spuriousness, and steeled himself against complaints of the food;
but after tasting the soup Hood praised it with enthusiasm. He was wholly
at ease, and his table manners were beyond criticism. He seemed
indifferent to the construction Deering or the bewildered Briggs might
place upon his confessions, to which he now glibly addressed himself.

"A couple of years ago I was roaming through the Western provinces with a
couple of old friends who persist--against my advice, I assure you--in
the childish pastime of safe-blowing. We got pinched _en bloc_, and as I
was broke I had to sponge on the yeggs to get me out of jail."

Briggs dropped a plate and Deering frowned at the interruption. Hood went
on tranquilly:

"However, I was immured only three weeks, and the experience was
broadening. That was in Omaha, and I'll say without fear of contradiction
that the Omaha jail is one of the most comfortable in the Missouri
Valley. I recommend it, Deering, without reservation, to any one in
search of tranquillity. After they turned me loose I introduced myself to
an old college classmate--fraternity brother--no danger of exposure. I
had him put me up at the Omaha Club, and then I gave a dinner to the
United States commissioner who heard my case, the district attorney, and
the United States marshal. I wanted to ask the yeggs too--it seemed only
square--but the judge was out of town, and the marshal was afraid his
Honor might cite him for contempt if he brought his prisoners to my
party. These things probably seem to you most banal, but take it all
round I do manage to keep amused. Of course, now and then I pay more for
my fun than it's worth. Last summer I mixed in with some moonshiners in
Tennessee. Moonshining is almost a lost art, and I wanted the experience
before the business became extinct. An unsociable lot, the lone still
boys, and wouldn't warm up to me a bit. The unhappy result was a bullet
through my left lung. I got patched up by a country doctor, but had to
spend two months in a Philadelphia hospital for the finishing touches."

Deering's uneasiness increased. This man who spoke so blithely of
imprisonment and bullets in his lung must have a motive for his visit.
With a jerk of the head he sent Briggs from the room.

"This is all very amusing," he remarked with decision as he put down his
salad-fork, "but will you pardon me for asking just why you came here? I
have your own word for it that your favorite amusement is consorting with
criminals, and that money you flashed may have been stolen for all I
know! If you have any business with me----"

"My dear boy, I don't blame you for growing restless," replied Hood
amiably. "Of course, I know that your father and sister are away, and
that you are alone. Your family history I am pretty familiar with; your
antecedents and connections are excellent. Your mother, who died four
years ago, was of the Rhode Island Ranger family--and there is no better
blood in America. Your sister Constance won the Westchester golf
championship last year--I learned that from the newspapers, which I read
with a certain passion, as you have observed. If I hadn't thought you
needed company--my company particularly--I shouldn't have landed on your
door-step. You dined Monday night at the Hotel Pendragon--at a table in
the corner on the Fifth Avenue side, and your dejection touched me
deeply. Afterward you went down to the rathskeller, and sat there all
alone drinking stuff you didn't need. It roused my apprehensions. I
feared things were going badly with you, and I thought I'd give you a
chance to unburden your soul to me, Hood, the enchanted hobo----"

"For sheer cheek--" began Deering hotly.

Hood lifted his hand deprecatingly.

"Please don't!" he remarked soothingly. "With the tinkle of a bell you
can call your man and have me bounced. I repacked my bag after taking a
bath in your very comfortable guest-room, and we can part immediately.
But let us be sensible, Deering; just between ourselves, don't you really
need me?"

His tone was ingratiating, his manner the kindest. Deering had walked the
streets for two days trying to bring himself to the point of confessing
his plight to one of a score of loyal friends--men he had known from
prep-school days, and on through college: active, resourceful, wealthy
young fellows who would risk much to help him--and yet in his fear and
misery he had shrunk from approaching them. Hood, he was now convinced,
was not a detective come to arrest him; in fact his guest's sympathies
and connections seemed to lie on the other side of the law's barricade.

They had coffee in the living-room, where Hood, inspired by specimens of
the work of several of the later French painters, discussed art with
sophistication. Deering observed him intently. There was something
immensely attractive in Hood's face; his profile, clean-cut as a cameo,
was thoroughly masculine; his head was finely moulded, and his gray eyes
were frank and responsive.

"It's possible," said Deering, after a long silence in which Hood smoked
meditatively, "that you may be able to help me."

On a sudden impulse he rose and put out his hand.

"Thank you," said Hood gravely, "but don't tell me unless you really want
to."




II


"So after all the bother of stealing two hundred thousand dollars' worth
of negotiable securities you _lost_ them!" Hood remarked when Deering
ended his recital.

Deering frowned and nodded. Not only had he told his story to this utter
stranger, but he had found infinite relief in doing so.

"Let us go over the points again," said Hood calmly. "You set down your
suitcase containing two hundred K. & L. Terminal 5's in the Grand Central
Station, turned round to buy a ticket to Boston, and when you picked up
the bag it was the wrong one! Such instances are not rare; the strong
family resemblance between suitcases has caused much trouble in this
world. Only the other day a literary friend told me the magazine editors
have placed a ban on mixed suitcases as a fictional device; but of course
that doesn't help us any in this affair. I've known a few professional
suitcase lifters. One of the smoothest is Sammy Tibbots, but he's doing
time in Joliet, so we may as well eliminate Sammy."

"No, no!" Deering exclaimed impatiently. "It was a girl who did the
trick! She was at the local ticket window, just behind me. You see, I was
nervous and after I bought my ticket it dropped to the floor, and while I
was picking it up that girl grabbed my suitcase and beat it for the
gate."

"Enter the girl," Hood muttered. "'Twas ever thus! Of course, you
telegraphed ahead and stopped her--that was the obvious course."

"There you go! If I'd done that, there wouldn't have been any publicity;
oh, no!" Deering replied contemptuously. "People don't carry big bunches
of bonds around in suitcases; they send 'em by registered express. Of
course, if the girl was honest she'd report the matter to the railroad
officials and they'd notify the police, and they'd be looking for the
thief! And that's just what I don't want."

"Of course not," Hood assented readily. "That was Wednesday and this is
Friday, and you haven't seen any ads in the papers about a suitcase full
of bonds? Well, I'd hardly have missed such a thing myself. What did the
girl look like?"

"Small, dressed in blue and wearing a white veil. She made a lively
sprint for the gate, and climbed into the last car just as the train
started. The conductor yelled to her not to try it, but the porter jumped
out and pushed her up the steps."

At Hood's suggestion Deering brought the suitcase that had been exchanged
for his own, and disclosed its contents--a filmy night-dress, a silk
shirt-waist, a case of ivory toilet articles bearing a complicated
monogram, a bottle of violet-water, half empty, a pair of silk stockings,
a novel, a pair of patent-leather pumps, all tumbled together.

[Illustration: "The young person left in haste, that's clear enough,"
remarked Hood.]

"The young person left in haste, that's clear enough," remarked Hood,
balancing one of the pumps in his hand. "'Bonet, Paris,'" he read,
squinting at the lining. "Most deplorable that we have both slippers; one
would have been a clew, and we could have spent the rest of our lives
measuring footprints. Very nice slippers, though; fastidious young person,
I'll wager. The monogram on these trinkets is of no assistance--it might
be R. G. T., or T. G. R., or G. R. T. Monograms are a nuisance, a
delusion, a snare!"

Deering flung the faintly scented violet-tinted toilet-case into the bag
resentfully.

"The silly little fool; why didn't she mind what she was doing!" he
exclaimed angrily, "and not steal other people's things!"

"Pardon me," Hood remonstrated, "but from your story the less you speak
of stealing the better. But it isn't clear yet why you sneaked the bonds.
Your father has a reputation for generosity; you're an only son and
slated to succeed him in the banking-house. Just what was your idea in
starting for Boston with the loot?"

"It was to help Ned Ranscomb, an old pal of mine," Deering blurted--"one
of the best fellows on earth, who has pulled me out of a lot of holes.
He'd taken options on Mizpah Copper for more than he could pay for and
fell on my neck to help him out. And the rotten part of it is that I
can't find him anywhere! I've telephoned and telegraphed all over
creation, but he's fallen off the earth! I tell you everything from the
start has gone wrong. I guess I didn't tell you that I already had a
couple of hundred thousand in Mizpah--all I could put up personally, and
now I've lost the two hundred thousand I stole, and Ned's got cold feet
and drowned himself, and here I'm talking about it to a man who may be a
crook for all I know!"

"This disappearance of Ranscomb has a suspicious look," remarked Hood,
ignoring the fling. "Either money or a woman, of course."

"Ranscomb," Deering retorted savagely, "is all business and never fools
with women. And you can bet that with this big copper deal on he wouldn't
waste time on any girl that ever was born."

"Human beings are as we find them," observed Hood judicially, "but you're
entirely too tragic about this whole business. If it isn't comedy, it's
nothing. I'll wager the girl who skipped with your stolen boodle has a
sense of humor. The key-note to her character is in this novel she
grabbed as she hastily packed her bag--'The Madness of May.' That's one
of the drollest books ever written. A story like that is a boon to
mankind; it kept me chuckling all night. Haven't read it? Well, the
heroine excused herself from a dinner-table that was boring her to death,
ran to her room and packed a suitcase, and that was the last her friends
saw of her for some time. Along about this season it's in the blood of
healthy human beings to pine for clean air and the open road. It's the
wanderlust that's in all of us, old and young alike. It's possible that
the young lady who ran off with your bonds felt the spring madness and
determined to hit the trail as the girl did in that yarn. Finding herself
possessed of a lot of bonds belonging to a stranger, I dare say she is
badly frightened. Put yourself in that girl's place, Deering--imagine her
feelings, landing somewhere after a hurried journey, opening her suitcase
to chalk her nose, and finding herself a thief!"

"Rot!" sniffed Deering angrily.

One moment he distrusted Hood; the next his heart warmed to him. At the
table the light-hearted adventurer had kept him entertained and amused
with his running comment on books, public characters, the world's gold
supply, and scrapes he had been in, without dropping any clew to his
identity. He seemed to be a veritable encyclopaedia of places; apparently
there was not a town in the United States that he hadn't visited, and he
spoke of exclusive clubs and thieves' dens in the same breath. But
Deering's hopes of gaining practical aid in the search for the lost bonds
was rapidly waning.

"There's no use being silly about this; I'm going to telephone to a
detective agency and tell them to send out a good man, right
away--to-night----"

"As you please," Hood assented, "but if you do, you'll regret it to your
last hour. I know the whole breed, and you may count on their making a
mess of it. And consider for a moment that what you propose means putting
a hired bloodhound on the trail of a girl who probably never harmed a
kitten in her life. It would be rotten caddishness to send a policeman
after her. It isn't done, Deering; it isn't done! Of course, there's not
much chance that the sleuths would ever come within a hundred miles of
her, but what if they found her! You are a gentleman, Deering, and that's
not the game for you to play."

"Then tell me a better one! In ten days at the farthest father will be
back and what am I going to say to him--how am I going to explain
breaking into his safety box and stealing those bonds?"

"You can't explain it, of course, and it's rather up to you, son, to put
'em back. Every hour you spend talking about it is wasted time. That
girl's had your suitcase two days, and it's your duty to find her.
Something must have happened or she'd have turned it back to the railroad
company. Perhaps she's been arrested as a thief and thrown into jail!
Again, her few effects point to a degree of prosperity--she's not a girl
who would steal for profit; I'll swear to that. We must find that girl!
We'll toss a slipper and start off the way the toe points."

Indifferent to Deering's snort of disgust, Hood was already whirling the
slipper in the air.

"Slightly northeast! There you are, Deering--the clear pointing of Fate!
The girl wasn't going far or she wouldn't have been in the local ticket
line, and even a lady in haste packs more stuff for a long journey. We'll
run up to the Barton Arms--an excellent inn, and establish headquarters.
The girl who danced off with your two hundred thousand is probably around
there somewhere, bringing up her tennis for the first tournaments of the
season. Let's be moving; a breath of air will do you good."

"That's all you can do about it, is it?" demanded Deering. "Let me tell
my whole story--put myself in your power, and now the best you can do is
to flip a slipper to see which way to start!"

"Just as good a way as any," remarked Hood amiably.

He pressed the button, ordered his car, and then led the way back to
Deering's room.

"Throw some things into a bag. You'll soon forget your sordid money
affairs and begin to live, and you'd better be prepared for anything that
turns up. I'll fold the coats; some old fishing-togs for rough work and
jails, and even your dress suit may come in handy."

He fell to work, folding the suits neatly, while Deering moved about like
a man in a trance, assembling linen and toilet articles.

"Something tells me we're going to have a pretty good time," continued
Hood musingly. "I'll show you untold kingdoms, things that never were on
sea or land. We shall meet people worn with the world-old struggle for
things they don't need, and who are out in the tender May air looking for
happiness--the only business, my dear boy, that's really worth while. And
you'll be surprised, son, to find how many such people there are."

"Ah, you're ready, Cassowary!" remarked Hood as they stepped out of the
side door where a big touring-car was drawn up in the driveway. "Just a
moment till I get my stick."

Briggs had placed their bags in the car, and Deering had a moment in
which to observe the chauffeur, who stood erect and touched his cap.
Hood's protege proved to be a tall, dark, well-knit young fellow
dressed in a well-fitting chauffeur's costume.

"It's a good night for a run," Deering suggested, eying the man in the
light from the door.

"Fine, sir."

"I hope the people in the house took good care of you."

"Very good, sir."

There was nothing in Cassowary's voice or manner to indicate that he was
the possessor of the fortune to which Hood had referred so lightly.
Deering's hastily formed impressions of Hood's chauffeur were wholly
agreeable and satisfying.

Hood, lingering in the hall, could be heard warning Briggs against the
further accumulation of fat. He recommended a new system of reducing, and
gave the flushed and stuttering butler the name of a New York specialist
in dietetics whom he advised him to consult without delay.

The chauffeur's lips twitched and, catching Deering's eye, he winked.
Deering tapped his forehead. Cassowary shook his head.

"Don't you believe it!" he ejaculated with spirit.

At this moment Hood appeared on the steps, banging his recovered stick
noisily as he descended.

"The Barton Arms, Cassowary," he ordered, and they set off at a lively
clip.




III


On the steps of the Barton Arms an hour later Hood and Deering ran into
two men who were just leaving the inn. Hood greeted them heartily as old
acquaintances and remained talking to them while Deering went to ask for
rooms.

"The suspicions of those fellows always tickle me," he remarked as he
joined Deering at the desk, where he scrawled "R. Hood, Sherwoodville,"
on the register. "Detectives--rather good as the breed goes, but not men
of true vision. Now and then I've been able to give them a useful
hint--the slightest, mind you, and only where I could divert suspicion
from some of my friends in the underworld. I always try to be of
assistance to predatory genius; there are clever crooks and stupid ones;
the kind who stoop to vulgar gun-work when their own stupidity gets them
into a tight pinch don't appeal to me. My artistic sensibilities are
affronted by clumsy work."

"Perhaps--" Deering suggested with a hasty glance at the door--"maybe
they're looking for me!"

"Bless you, no," Hood replied as they followed a boy with their bags;
"nothing so intelligent as that. On the contrary"--he paused at the
landing and laid his hand impressively on Deering's arm--"on the
contrary, they're looking for _me_!"

He went on with a chuckle and a shake of the head, as though the thought
of being pursued by detectives gave him the keenest pleasure. When he
reached their rooms he sat down and struck his knee sharply and chuckled
again. Deering turned frowningly for an explanation of his mirth.

"Oh, don't bother about those chaps! I repeat, that they are looking for
me, but"--he knit his fingers behind his head and grinned--"they don't
_know_ it!"

"Don't know you are you!" exclaimed Deering.

"You never said a truer word! More than that, they're not likely to!
There are things, son, I--Hood, the frankest of mortals--can't tell even
you! I, Hood, the inexplicable; Hood, the prince of tramps, the
connoisseur in all the arts--even I must have my secrets; but in time, my
dear boy, in time you shall know everything! But there's work before us!
The long arm of coincidence beckons us. We shall test for ourselves all
the claptrap of the highest-priced novelists."

Deering walked to the window and stared out at the landscape, then strode
toward Hood angrily.

"I don't like this!" he wailed despairingly. "You promised to help me
find those stolen bonds, and now you're talking like a lunatic again. If
I can't find the bonds, I've got to find Ranscomb, and get back that
first two hundred thousand I gave him. I can't stand this--detectives
waiting for us wherever we stop, and you babbling rot--rot--" Words
failed him; he clinched his hands and glared.

"Don't bluster, son, or I shall grow peevish," Hood replied tolerantly.
"At the present moment I feel like taking a walk under the mystical May
stars. The night invites the soul to meditation; the stars may have the
answer to all our perplexities. Stop fretting about your bonds and your
friend Ranscomb; very likely he's busted, clean broke; that's what usually
happens to fellows who take money from their friends and put it into the
metals. Possibly he swallowed poison, and went to sleep forever just to
escape your wrath. Let us take counsel of the heavens and try to forget
your sins. We must still move the way the slipper pointed--northeast. The
road bends away from the inn just right for a fresh start. We depart, we
skip, we are on our way, my dear boy!"

They had walked nearly a mile when Deering announced that he was tired,
and refused to go farther. He clambered upon a stone wall at the
roadside. On a high ridge some distance away and etched against the stars
was a long, low house.

"Splendid type of bungalow," Hood commented, throwing his legs over the
wall. "I'm glad you have an eye for nice effects--the roof makes a pretty
line against the stars, and those pines beyond add a touch--a distinct
touch. Bungalows should always be planned with a view to night effects;
too bad architects don't always consider little points like that."

Deering growled angrily. Suddenly as his eyes gazed over the long,
sloping meadow that rose to the house he started and laid his hand on
Hood's knee.

"Steady, steady! Always give a ghost a chance," murmured Hood.

If the figure that danced across the meadow was a ghost, it was an agile
one, and its costume represented a radical departure from the traditional
garb of spirits doomed to walk the night.

"A boy, kicking up before he goes to bed," suggested Deering, forgetting
his sorrows for the moment as he contemplated the dancing apparition.

"In a clown's suit, if I'm any judge," said Hood, jumping down from the
wall and moving cautiously up the <DW72>. The dancing figure suddenly
darted away through a clump of trees.

"Of course," remarked Hood when they had reached the level where the
figure had executed its fantastic gyrations, "of course, it's none of our
affair; but, in that story I was telling you about, the heroine danced
around at night in strange costumes scaring people to death. I'm not
saying this ghost has read that book--I'm merely stating a fact."

They found a path that zigzagged across the meadow and followed it to the
edge of a ravine. Below they heard the ripple of running water; and as an
agreeable accompaniment some one was whistling softly.

In a moment the rattle of loosened gravel caused them to drop down by the
path. The pantalooned figure came up, still whistling, and paused for a
moment to take breath. Deering, throwing himself back from the path,
grasped a bush. The twigs rattled noisily, and with a frightened "Oh!"
the clown darted away, nimbly and fleetly. They followed a white blur in
the starlight for an instant and heard the patter of light feet.

"A girl," whispered Deering.

"I believe you are right," remarked Hood, feeling about in the grass,
"and here's a part of her costume." He picked up something white and held
it to his face. "She dropped her clown's cap when you began shaking the
scenery. I seem to remember that a girl's hair is sweet like that! In old
times the clown's cap was supposed to possess magic. Son, we have begun
well! A girl masquerading, happy victim of the May madness--this is the
jolliest thing I've struck in years--a girl, out dancing all by her
lonesome under the stars--Columbine playing Harlequin!"

"We might as well be off," he added, relighting his pipe. "We frightened
her ladyship, and she will dance no more to-night. However, we have her
cap, which points the way for to-morrow's work."

"You're going to hang around here watching a girl cut monkey-shines!"
moaned Deering. "You haven't forgotten what we're looking for, have you!"
he demanded, shaking his fist in Hood's face.

"Once more, be calm! Don't you see that you're on the verge of a new
'Midsummer Night's Dream'; that the world's tired of work and gone back
to play! Don't talk like a tired business man whose wife has dragged him
to see one of Ibsen's frolics--'Rosmersholm,' for example--where they
talk for three hours and then jump in the well! The fact that there's one
girl left in the world to dance under stars ought to hearten you for
anything. We don't find in this world the things we're looking for,
Deering; we've got to be ready for surprises. I won't say that that's the
girl who ran off with your bonds; all I can say is that she's as likely
to be the one as any girl I can think of. Tut! Don't imagine I don't
sympathize with you in your troubles; but forget them, that's the ticket.
This will do for to-night. We'd better go back to the Barton and to bed."

He yawned sleepily and started toward the road. Deering caught him by the
arm.

"I was just thinking--" he began.

"Thinking is a bad habit, my boy. Thought is the curse of the world. The
less thinking we do the better off we are. Down at Pass Christian last
winter I sat under a tree for a solid month and never thought a think.
Most profitable time I ever spent in my life. Camped with a sneak-thief
who was making a tour of the Southern resorts--nice chap; must tell you
about him sometime."

He chuckled as though the recollection of his larcenous companion pleased
him tremendously.

"I don't believe I'll go back to the Barton just yet," Deering suggested
timidly. "It's possible, you know, that that girl _might_----"

"You've got it!" exclaimed Hood eagerly, clapping his hands upon
Deering's shoulders. "The spell is taking hold! Wait here a thousand
years if you like for that kid to come back, and don't bother about me.
But cut out your vulgar bond twaddle, and don't ask her if she stole your
suitcase! As like as not she'll lead you to the end of the rainbow, and
show you a meal sack bulging with red, red gold. Here's her cap--better
keep it for good luck."

Deering stood, with the clown's cap in his hand, staring after Hood's
retreating figure. It was not wholly an illusion that he had experienced
a change of some sort, and he wondered whether there might not be
something in Hood's patter about the May madness. At any rate, his
troubles had slipped from him, and he was conscious of a new and
delightful sense of freedom. Moreover, he had been kidnapped by the
oddest man he had ever met, and he didn't care!




IV


Beyond the bungalow rose a dark strip of woodland, and suddenly, as
Deering's eyes caught sight of it, he became aware that the moon, which
had not appeared before that night, seemed to be lingering cosily among
the trees. Even a victim of May madness hardly sees moons where they do
not exist, but to all intents and purpose this _was_ a moon, a large
round moon, on its way down the horizon in the orderly fashion of elderly
moons. He turned toward the road, then glanced back quickly to make sure
his eyes were not playing tricks upon him. The moon was still there,
blandly staring. His powers of orientation had often been tested; on
hunting and fishing trips he had ranged the wilderness without a compass,
and never come to grief. He was sure that this huge orb was in the north,
where no moon of decent habits has any right to be.

With his eyes glued to this phenomenon, he advanced up the <DW72>. When he
reached the crest of the meadow the moon still hung where he had first
seen it--a most unaccountable moon that apparently lingered to encourage
his investigations.

He jumped a wall that separated the meadow from the woodland, and
advanced resolutely toward the lunar mystery. He found Stygian darkness
in among the pines: the moon, considering its size, shed amazingly little
light. He crept toward it warily, and in a moment stood beneath the
outward and visible form of a moon cleverly contrived of barrel staves
and tissue-paper with a lighted lantern inside, and thrust into the
crotch of a tree.

As he contemplated it something struck him--something, he surmised, that
had been flung by mortal hand, and a pine-cone caught in his waistcoat
collar.

"Please don't spoil my moon," piped a voice out of the darkness. "It's a
lot of trouble to make a moon!"

Walking cautiously toward the wall, he saw, against the star dusk of the
open, the girl in clown costume who had danced in the meadow. She sat the
long way of the wall, her knees clasped comfortably, and seemed in nowise
disturbed by his appearance.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I didn't know it was _your_ moon. I
thought it was just the regular old moon that had got lost on the way
home."

"Oh, don't apologize. I rather hoped somebody would come up to have a
look at it; but you'd better run along now. This is private property, you
know."

"Thanks for the hint," he remarked. "But on a night when moons hang in
trees you can't expect me to be scared away so easily. And besides, I'm
an outlaw," he ended in a tone meant to be terrifying.

She betrayed neither surprise nor fear, but laughed and uttered a
"Really!" that was just such a "really" as any well-bred girl might use
at a tea, or anywhere else that reputable folk congregate, to express
faint surprise. Her way of laughing was altogether charming. A girl who
donned a clown's garb for night prowling and manufactured moons for her
own amusement could not have laughed otherwise, he reflected.

"A burglar?" she suggested with mild curiosity.

"Not professionally; but I'm seriously thinking of going in for it. What
do you think of burgling as a career?"

"Interesting--rather--I should think," she replied after a moment's
hesitation, as though she were weighing his suggestion carefully.

"And highway robbery appeals to me--rather. It's more picturesque, and
you wouldn't have to break into houses. I think I'd rather work in the
open."

"The chances of escape might be better," she admitted; "but you needn't
try the bungalow down there, for there's nothing in it worth stealing. I
give you my word for that!"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of the bungalow. I had it in mind to begin by
holding up a motor. Nobody's doing that sort of thing just now."

"Capital!" she murmured pleasantly, as though she found nothing
extraordinary in the idea. "So you're really new at the game."

"Well, I've _stolen_ before, if that's what you mean, but I didn't get
much fun out of it. I suppose after the first fatal plunge the rest will
come easier."

"I dare say that's true," she assented. There was real witchery in the
girl's light, murmurous laugh.

It seemed impossible to surprise her; she was taking him as a matter of
course--as though sitting on a wall at night, and talking to a strange
young man about stealing was a familiar experience.

"I've joined Robin Hood's band," he continued. "At least I've been adopted
by a new sort of Robin Hood who's travelling round robbing the rich to pay
the poor, and otherwise meddling in people's affairs--the old original
Robin Hood brought up to date. If it hadn't been for him I might be cooling
my heels in jail right now. He's an expert on jails--been in nearly every
calaboose in America. He's tucked me under his wing--persuaded me to take
the highway, and not care a hang for anything."

"How delightful!" she replied, but so slowly that he began to fear that
his confidences had alarmed her. "That's too good to be true; you're
fooling, aren't you--really?"

His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and her profile was now
faintly limned in the dusk. Hers was the slender face of youth. The
silhouette revealed the straightest of noses and the firmest of little
chins. She was young, so young that he felt himself struggling in an
immeasurable gulf of years as he watched her. Apparently such
sophistication as she possessed was in the things of the world of wonder,
the happy land of make-believe.

"Keats would have liked a night like this," she said gently.

Deering was silent. Keats was a person whom he knew only as the subject
of a tiresome lecture in his English course at college.

"Bill Blake would have adored it, but he would have had lambs in the
pasture," she added.

"Bill Blake?" he questioned. "Do you mean Billy Blake who was half-back
on the Harvard eleven last year?"

She tossed her head and laughed merrily.

"I love that!" she replied lingeringly, as though to prolong her joy in
his ignorance. "I was thinking of a poet of that name who wrote a nice
verse something like this:

                'I give you the end of a golden string;
                  Only wind it into a ball,
                It will lead you in at Heaven's gate,
                  Built in Jerusalem's wall.'"

No girl had ever quoted poetry to him before, and he was thinking more of
her pretty way of repeating the stanza--keeping time with her hands--than
of the verse itself.

"Well," he said, "what's the rest of it?"

"Oh, there isn't any rest of it! Don't you see that there couldn't be
anything more--that it's finished--a perfect little poem all by itself!"

He played with a loosened bit of stone, meekly conscious of his
stupidity. And he did not like to appear stupid before a girl who danced
alone in the starlight and hung moons in trees.

"I'm afraid I don't get it. I'd a lot rather stay by this wall talking to
you than go to Jerusalem."

"You'd be foolish to do that if you really had the end of the golden
string, and could follow it to Paradise. I think it means any nice
place--just any place where happiness is."

He was not getting on, and to gain time he bade her repeat the stanza.

"I think I understand now; I've never gone in much for poetry, you know,"
he explained humbly.

"Burglars are natural poets, I suppose," she continued. "A burglar just
has to have imagination or he can't climb through the window of a house
he has never seen before. He must imagine everything perfectly--the
silver on the sideboard, the watch under the pillow, and the butler
stealing down the back stairs with a large, shiny pistol in his hand."

"Certainly," Deering agreed readily. "And if he runs into a policeman on
the way out he's got to imagine that it's an old college friend and
embrace him."

"You mustn't spoil a pretty idea that way!" she admonished in a tone that
greatly softened the rebuke. "Come to think of it, you haven't told me
your name yet; of course, if you become a burglar, you will have a great
number of names, but I'd like awfully to know your true one."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because you seem nice and well brought up for a burglar, and I liked
your going up to the moon and poking your finger into it. That makes me
feel that I'd like to know you."

"Well, the circumstances being as they are, and being really a thief, you
mustn't ask me to tell my real name; for all I know you may be a
detective in disguise."

"I'm not--really," she said--he found her "reallys" increasingly
enchanting.

"You might call me Friar Tuck or Little John. I'm travelling with Robin
Hood, you remember."

"Mr. Tuck--that will be splendid!"

"And now that you know my name it's only fair to tell me yours."

"Pierrette," she answered.

"Not really!"

His unconscious imitation of her manner of uttering this phrase evoked
another merry laugh.

"Yes, really," she answered.

"And you live somewhere, of course--not in the tree up there with your
moon, but in the bungalow, I suppose."

"I live wherever I am; that's the fun of playing all the time," she
replied evasively. "_Poste restante_, the Little Dipper. How do you like
that?"

"But just now your true domicile is the bungalow?" he persisted.

"Oh, I've been stopping there for a few days, that's all. I haven't any
home--not really," she added as though she found her homelessness the
happiest of conditions. She snapped her fingers and recited:

        "Wherever stars shine brightest, there my home shall be,
        In the murmuring forest or by the sounding sea,
        With overhead the green bough and underfoot the grass,
        Where only dreams and butterflies ever dare to pass!"

"Is that Keats or Blake?" he ventured timidly.

"It's _me_, you goose! But it's only an imitation--why, Stevenson, of
course, and pretty punk as you ought to know. Gracious!"

She jumped down from the wall, on the side toward the bungalow, and
stared up at the tree she had embellished with her moon.

"The moon's gone out, and I've got to go _in_!"

"Please, before you go, when can I see you again?"

"Who knows!" she exclaimed unsympathetically; but she waited as though
pondering the matter.

"But I must see you again!" he persisted.

"Oh, I shouldn't say that it was wholly essential to your happiness--or
mine! I can't meet burglars--socially!"

"Burglars! But I'm not--" he cried protestingly.

She bent toward him with one hand extended pleadingly.

"Don't say it! Don't _say_ it! If you say you're _not_, you won't be any
fun any more!"

"Well, then we'll say I am--a terrible freebooter--a bold, bad pirate,"
he growled. "Now, may I come?"

She mused a moment, then struck her hands together.

"Come to the bungalow breakfast; that's a fine idea!"

"And may I bring Hood?" he asked, leaning half-way across the wall in his
anxiety to conclude the matter before she escaped. "He's my boss, you
understand, and I'm afraid I can't shake him."

"Certainly; bring Mr. Hood. Breakfast at eight."

"And your home--your address--is there in the bungalow?"

"I've told you where my home is, in a verse I made up specially; and my
address is care of the Little Dipper--there it is, up there in the sky,
all nice and silvery."

His gaze followed the pointing of her finger. The Little Dipper, as an
address for the use of mortals, struck him as rather remote. To his
surprise she advanced to the wall, rested her hands upon it, and peered
into his face.

"Isn't this perfectly killing?" she asked in a tone wholly different from
that in which she had carried on her share of the colloquy.

He experienced an agreeable thrill as it flashed upon him that this was
no child, but a young woman who, knowing the large world, had suddenly
awakened to a consciousness that encounters with strange young men by
starlight were not to be prolonged forever. In the luminous dusk he noted
anew the delicate perfectness of her face, the fine brow about which her
hair had tumbled from her late exertions. Her eyes searched his face with
honest curiosity--for an instant only.

Then she stepped back, as though to mark a return to her original
character, and answered her own question with an air of amused
conviction:

"It _is_ perfectly killing!"

His hand fumbled the cap in his pocket.

"Here's something I found down yonder--your clown's cap."

She took it with a murmur of thanks, and darted away toward the bungalow.
He heard her light step on the veranda and then a door closed with a
sharp bang.

Deering walked back to the inn with his head high and elation throbbing
in his pulses. He observed groups of people playing bridge in the inn
parlor, and he was filled with righteous contempt for them. The May air
had changed his whole nature. He was not the William B. Deering who had
meditated killing himself a few hours earlier. A new joy had entered into
him; he was only afraid now that he might not live forever!

Hood slept tranquilly, his bed littered with the afternoon's New York
papers which evidently he had been scissoring when he fell asleep.
Deering's attitude toward the strange vagrant had changed since his
meeting with Pierrette. Hood might be as mad as the traditional hatter,
and yet there was something--indubitably something--about the man that
set him apart from the common run of mortals.

Deering lay awake a long time rejoicing in his new life, and when he
dreamed it was of balloon-like moons cruising lazily over woods and
fields, pursued by innumerable Pierrettes in spotted trousers and pointed
caps.




V


He awoke at seven, and looked in upon Hood, who lay sprawled upon his bed
reading one of the battered volumes of Borrow he carried in his bag.

"Get your tub, son; I've had mine and came back to bed to let you have
your sleep out. Marvellous man--Borrow. Spring's the time to read him.
We'll have some breakfast and go out and see what the merry old world has
to offer."

With nice calculation he tossed the book into the open bag on the further
side of the room, rose, and stretched himself. Deering stifled an impulse
to scoff at his silk pajamas as hardly an appropriate sleeping garb for
one who professed to have taken vows of poverty. Hood noted his glance.

"Found these in some nabob's house at Bar Harbor last fall. Went up in
November, after all the folks had gone, to have a look at the steely blue
ocean; camped in a big cottage for a few days. Found a drawer full of
these things and took the pink ones. Wrote my thanks on the villa's
stationery and pinned 'em to the fireplace. I hate to admit it, son, but
I verily believe I could stand a little breakfast."

"We're going out for breakfast," Deering remarked with affected
carelessness. "I accepted an invitation for you last night. A girl up
there at the bungalow asked me; I told her about you, and she seemed
willing to stand for it."

"The thought pleases me! You are certainly doing well, my boy!" Hood
replied, dancing about on one foot as he drew a sock on the other.

He explained that a man should never sit down while dressing; that the
exercise he got in balancing himself was of the greatest value as a
stimulus to the circulation.

"She's a very nice girl, I think," Deering continued, showing his
lathered face at the bathroom door.

He hadn't expected Hood to betray surprise, and he was not disappointed
in the matter-of-course fashion in which his companion received the
invitation.

"Breakfast is the one important meal of the day," Hood averred as he
executed a series of hops in his efforts to land inside his trousers.
"All great adventures should be planned across breakfast tables;
centrepiece of cool fruits; coffee of teasing fragrance, the toast crisp;
an egg perhaps, if the morning labors are to be severe. I know a chap in
Boston who cuts out breakfast altogether. Most melancholy person I ever
knew; peevish till one o'clock, then throws in a heavy lunch that ruins
him for the rest of the day. What did you say the adorable's name was?"

"Pierrette," Deering spluttered from the tub.

"Delightful!" cried Hood, flourishing his hair-brushes. "Then you met the
dancing-girl! I must say----"

"She had hung a moon in a tree! I followed the moon and found the girl!"

"Always the way; it never fails," Hood commented, as though the finding
of the girl had fully justified his philosophy of life. "But we can't
fool away much time at the bungalow; we've got a lot to do to-day."

"Time!" cried Deering, "I'm going to stay forever! You can't expect me to
find a girl whose post-office address is the Little Dipper, and then go
coolly off and forget about her!"

"That's the right spirit, son," Hood remarked cautiously; "but we'll see.
I'll have a look at her and decide what's best for you. My business right
now is to keep you out of trouble. You can't tell about these moon girls;
she may have a wart on her nose when you see her in daylight."

Deering hooted.

"And she probably has parents who may not relish the idea of having two
strange men prowling about the premises looking for breakfast. There are
still a few of those old-fashioned people left in the world. It may be
only a backdoor hand-out for us, but I've sawed wood for breakfast before
now. I'll wait for you below; I want to see how old Cassowary's standing
the racket. The boy seemed a little cheerfuller last night."

They walked to the bungalow which, to Deering's relief, was still perched
on the ridge as he had left it. He was beset with misgivings as they
entered the gate and followed a hedge-lined path that rose gradually to
the house; it might be a joke after all; but Hood's manner was
reassuring. He swung his stick and praised the landscape, and when they
reached the veranda banged the knocker noisily. A capped and aproned maid
opened the door immediately.

Deering, struck with cowardice, found his legs quaking and stepped back
to allow Hood to declare their purpose.

"We have come for breakfast, lass," Hood announced, "and have brought our
appetites with us if that fact interests you."

"You are expected," said the maid; "breakfast will be served
immediately."

She led the way across a long living-room to the dining-room beyond,
where a table was set for three. The tangible presence of the third plate
caused Deering's heart to thump.

"The host or hostess--?" Hood inquired as the girl waited for them to be
seated.

"The lady of the house wished me to say that she would be here--in
spirit! Pressing duties called her elsewhere."

Deering's spirits sank. Pierrette, then, was only a dream of the night,
and had never had the slightest intention of meeting him at breakfast!
The maid curtsied and vanished through a swing door.

Hood, accepting the situation as he found it, expressed his satisfaction
as a bowl of strawberries was placed on the table, and as the door ceased
swinging behind the maid, laid his hand on Deering's arm. "Don't worry;
mere shyness has driven our divinity away: you can see for yourself that
even a girl who hangs moons in trees might shrink from the shock of a
daylight meeting with a gentleman she had found amusing by starlight. Let
it suffice that she provided the breakfast according to schedule--that's
highly encouraging. With strawberries at present prices she has been
generous. This little disappointment merely adds zest to the adventure."

The hand of the maid as she changed his plate at once interested Deering.
It was a slender, supple, well-kept hand, browned by the sun. Her maid's
dress was becoming; her cap merely served to invite attention to her
golden-brown hair. Her coloring left nothing for the heart to desire, and
her brown eyes called immediately for a second glance. She was deft and
quick; her graceful walk in itself compelled admiration. As the door
closed upon her, Hood bent a look of inquiry upon his brooding companion.

"Perhaps she's the adorable--the true, authentic Pierrette," he
suggested.

Deering shook his head.

"No; the other girl was not so tall and her voice was different; it was
wonderfully sweet and full of laughter. I couldn't be fooled about it."

"There's mystery here--a game of some kind. Mark the swish of silken
skirts; unless my eyes fail me, I caught a glimpse of silken hose as she
flitted into the pantry."

When an omelet had been served and the coffee poured (she poured coffee
charmingly!) Hood called her back as she was about to leave them.

"Two men should never be allowed to eat alone. If your mistress is not
returning at once, will you not do us the honor to sit down with us?"

"Thank you, sir," she said, biting her lip to conceal a smile.

Deering was on his feet at once and drew out the third chair, which she
accepted without debate. She composedly folded her arms on the edge of
the table as though she were in nowise violating the rules set down for
the guidance of waitresses. Hood, finding the situation to his taste,
blithely assumed the lead in the conversation.

"It is perfectly proper for you to join us at table," he remarked, "but
formal introductions would not be in keeping. Still, your employer
doubtless has some familiar name for you, and you might with propriety
tell us what it is, so we won't need to attract your attention by
employing the vulgar 'Say' or 'Listen'!"

"My mistress calls me Babette," she answered, her lashes drooping
becomingly.

"Perfect!" cried Hood ecstatically. "And we are two outlaws whose names
it is more discreet for us to withhold, even if it were proper to
exchange names with a mere housemaid."

Deering winced; it was indecent in Hood to treat her as though she were a
housemaid when so obviously she was not.

"My friend doesn't mean to be rude," he explained; "the morning air
always makes him a little delirious."

"I hope I know my place," the girl replied, "and I'm sure you gentlemen
mean to be kind."

"You needn't count the spoons after we leave," said Hood; "I assure you
we have no professional designs on the house."

"Thank you, sir. Of course, if you stole anything, it would be taken out
of my wages."

Deering's interest in her increased.

She rested her chin on her hand just as his sister often did when they
lingered together at table. He was a good brother and Constance was his
standard. He was sure that Constance would like Pierrette's maid. He
resented Hood's patronizing attitude toward the girl, but Hood's spirits
were soaring and there was no checking him.

"Babette," he began, "I'm going to trouble you with a question, not
doubting you will understand that my motives are those of a philosopher
whose whole life has been devoted to the study of the human race. May I
ask you to state in all sincerity whether you consider apple sauce the
essential accompaniment of roast duck?"

"I do not; nor do I care for jelly with venison," she answered readily.

"Admirable! You are clearly no child of convention but an independent
thinker! May I smoke? Thanks!"

He drew out his pipe and turned beaming to the glowering Deering.

"There, my boy! Babette is one of us--one of the great company of the
stars! Wonderful, how you find them at every turn! Babette, my sister, I
salute you!"

She smiled and turned toward Deering.

"Are you, too, one of the Comrades of Perpetual Youth?" she inquired
gravely.

"I am," Deering declared heartily, and they smiled at each other; "but
I'm only a novice--a brother of the second class."

She shook her head.

"There can be no question of classes in the great comradeship--either we
are or we are not."

"Well spoken!" Hood assented, pushing back his chair and crossing his
legs comfortably.

"And you--do you and Pierrette think about things the same way?" Deering
asked.

"We do--by not thinking," Babette replied. "Thinking among the comrades
is forbidden, is it not?"

"Absolutely," Hood affirmed. "Our young brother here is still a little
weak in the faith, but he's taking to it splendidly."

"I'm new myself," Babette confessed.

"You're letter-perfect in the part," said Hood. "Perhaps you were driven
to it? Don't answer if you would be embarrassed by a confession."

The girl pondered a moment; her face grew grave, and she played nervously
with the sugar-tongs.

"A man loved me and I sent him away, and was sorry!" The last words fell
from her lips falteringly.

"He will come back--if he is worthy of one of the comradeship," said Hood
consolingly. "Even now he may be searching for you."

"I was unkind to him; I was very hard on him! And I've been
afraid--sometimes--that I should never see him again."

Deering thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. She rose hastily and
asked with a wavering smile:

"If there's nothing further----"

"Not food--if you mean that," said Hood.

"But about Pierrette!" Deering exclaimed despairingly. "If she's likely
to come, we must wait for her."

"I rather advise you against it," the girl answered. "I have no idea when
she will come back."

They rose instinctively as she passed out. The door fanned a moment and
was still.

"Well?" demanded Deering ironically.

"Please don't speak to me in that tone," responded Hood. "This was your
breakfast, not mine; you needn't scold me if it didn't go to suit you!
Ah, what have we here!"

He had drawn back a curtain at one end of the dining-room, disclosing a
studio beyond. It was evidently a practical workshop and bore traces of
recent use. Deering passed him and strode toward an easel that supported
a canvas on which the paint was still wet. He cried out in astonishment:

"That's the moon girl--that's the girl I talked to last night--clown
clothes and all! She's sitting on the wall there just as I found her."

"A sophisticated brush; no amateur's job," Hood muttered, squinting at
the canvas. "Seems to me I've seen that sort of thing somewhere
lately--Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, and Clown--latest fad in
magazine covers. We're in the studio of a popular illustrator--there's a
bunch of proofs on the table, and those things on the floor are from the
same hand. Signature in the corner a trifle obscure--Mary B. Taylor."

"She may be Babette," Deering suggested. "Suppose I call her and ask?"

Hood, having become absorbed in a portfolio of pen-and-ink sketches of
clowns, harlequins, and columbines, subjects in which the owner of the
studio apparently specialized, paid no heed to the suggestion. When
Deering returned he was gazing critically at a sketch showing a dozen
clowns executing a spirited dance on a garden-wall.

"She's skipped! There isn't a soul on the place," Deering announced
dejectedly.

"Not at all surprising; probably gone to join her model, Pierrette. And
we'd better clear out before we learn too much; life ceases to be
interesting when you begin to find the answers to riddles. Pierrette is
probably a friend of the artist, and plays model for the fun of it. The
same girl is repeated over and over again in these drawings--from which I
argue that Pierrette likes to pose and Babette enjoys painting her. We
mustn't let this affect the general illusion. The next turn of the road
will doubtless bring us to something that can't be explained so easily."

"If it doesn't bring us to Pierrette--" began Deering.

"Tut! None of that! For all you know it may bring us to something
infinitely better. Remember that this is mid-May, and anything may happen
before June kindles the crimson ramblers. Let us be off."

Half-way across the living-room Deering stopped suddenly.

"My bag--my suitcase!" he shouted.

A suitcase it was beyond question, placed near the door as though to
arrest their attention. Deering pounced upon it eagerly and flung it
open.

"It's all right--the stuff's here!" he cried huskily.

He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing
hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly.

"Most unfortunate," he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on
Deering's face as he continued his examination. "Now that you've found
that rubbish, I suppose there'll be no holding you; you'll go back to
listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!"

"It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn't have been this artist girl,"
said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the
packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His
face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. "Robbed! Tricked!" he groaned,
staring at Hood.

Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal.

"S. J. Deering, personal," he read in the wax. "You don't suppose that
girl has taken the trouble to forge your father's private seal, do you?"

Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.

"All alike; the stuff's gone!"

Perspiration beaded his forehead. He stared stupidly at the worthless
paper.

"You ought to be grateful, son," said Hood; "yesterday you thought
yourself a thief--now that load's off your mind, and you know yourself
for an honest man. General rejoicing seems to be in order. Looks as
though your parent had robbed himself--rather a piquant situation, I must
say."

He carried the wrappers to the window-seat and examined them more
closely.

"Seals were all intact. 'The Tyringham estate,'" he read musingly. "What
do you make of that?" he asked Deering, who remained crumpled on the
floor beside the suitcase.

"That's an estate father was executor of--it's a long story. Old man
Tyringham had been a customer of his, and left a will that made it
impossible to close the estate till his son had reached a certain age.
The final settlement was to be made this summer. But my God, Hood, do you
suppose father--my father could be----"

"A defaulter?" Hood supplied blandly.

"It's impossible!" roared Deering. "Father's the very soul of honor."

"I dare say he is," remarked Hood carelessly. "So were you till greed led
you to pilfer your governor's strong box. Let us be tolerant and withhold
judgment. It's enough that your own skirts are clear. Put that stuff out
of sight; we must flit."

Hood set off for the Barton Arms at a brisk pace, talking incessantly.

"This whole business is bully beyond my highest expectations. By George,
it's almost too good to be true! Critics of the drama complain that the
average amateur's play ends with every act; but so far in our adventures
every incident leads on to something else. Perfectly immense that
somebody had beaten you to the bonds!"

Deering's emotions were beyond utterance. It was a warm morning, and he
did not relish carrying the suitcase, whose recovery had plunged him into
a despair darker than that caused by its loss.

At a turn in the road Hood paused, struck his stick heavily upon the
ground, and drew out the slipper. He whirled it in the air three times
and twice it pointed east. He thrust it back into his pocket with a sigh
of satisfaction and brushed the dust from his hands.

"Once more we shall follow the pointing slipper. Yesterday it led us to
the moon girl, the bungalow, and the suitcase; now it points toward the
mysterious east, and no telling what new delights!"




VI


Hood and Deering found Cassowary sitting in the machine in the inn yard
reading a newspaper; this Hood promptly seized and scanned with his
trained eye.

"Are the bags aboard? Ah, I see you have been forehanded, Cassowary!"

Deering went to the inn office and came out with a number of telegrams
which he read as he slowly crossed the yard.

"What do you think of this?" he asked weakly. The yellow sheets shook in
his hand and his face was white. "I wired to a bank and a club in San
Francisco last night, and they've answered that father isn't in San
Francisco and hasn't been there! And I wired the people Constance was to
visit at Pasadena, and they don't know anything about her. Just look at
these things!"

"Sounds like straight information, but why worry?" remarked Hood,
scanning the telegrams.

"But why should father lie to me? Why should Constance say she was going
to California if she wasn't?"

"My dear boy, don't ask me such questions!" Hood remarked with an injured
air. "You are guilty of the gravest error in sending telegrams without
consulting me! How can we trust ourselves to Providence if you persist in
sending telegrams! If you do this again, I shall be seriously displeased,
and you mustn't displease Hood. Hood is very ugly in his wrath."

Deering was at the point of tears. Hood was a fool, and he wished to tell
him so, but the words stuck in his throat.

"We move eastward toward the Connecticut border, Cassowary," Hood ordered
and pushed Deering into the machine.

Hood was as merry as the morning itself, and talked ceaselessly as they
rolled through the country, occasionally bidding Cassowary slow down and
give heed to his discourse. The chauffeur listened with a grin, glancing
guardedly at Deering, who stared grimly ahead with an unlighted cigar in
his mouth. He was not to be disturbed in his meditations upon the
blackness of the world by the idiotic prattle of a madman. For half an
hour Hood had been describing his adventures with a Dublin University
man, whose humor he pronounced the keenest and most satisfying he had
ever known. He had gathered from this person an immense fund of lore
relating to Irish superstitions.

"He left me just when I had learned to love him," Hood concluded
mournfully. "Became fascinated with a patent-medicine faker we struck at
a county fair in Indiana. He was so tickled over the way the long-haired
doctor played the banjo and jollied the crowd that he attached himself to
his caravan. That Irishman was one of the most agreeable men to be in
jail with that I ever knew; even hardened murderers would cotton to him.
That spire over there must be Addington. The inn is nothing to boast of,
but we'd better tackle it."

His gayety at luncheon once more won Deering to a cheerier view of his
destiny. Hood called for the proprietor and lectured him roundly for
offering canned-blueberry pie. The fact that blueberries were out of
season made no difference to the outraged Hood; pie produced from a can
was a gross imposition. He cited legal decisions covering such cases and
intimated that he might bring proceedings. As the innkeeper strode
angrily away an elderly woman at a neighboring table addressed the
dining-room on the miserable incompetence of the pastry-cooks of these
later times, winding up by thanking Hood heartily for his protest. She
was from Boston, she announced, and the declining intellectual life of
that city she attributed to the deterioration of its pie.

Hood rose and gravely replied in a speech of five minutes, much to the
delight of two girls at the old lady's table. Hood wrote his name on the
menu card, and bade the giggling waitress hand it to the lady from
Boston. Her young companions conferred for a moment, and then sent back a
card on which appeared these names neatly pencilled:

                     Maid Marian
                     The Queen of Sheba
                     The Duchess of Suffolk (Mass.)

"My dear boy," Hood remarked to Deering after he had bowed elaborately to
the trio, "I tell you the whole world's caught step with us! That lady
and her two nieces, or granddaughters as the case may be, are under the
spell, just as you and I are and Cassowary and your Pierrette and Babette
of the bungalow. If only you could yield yourself to the May spirit, how
happy we might be! Just think of Cassowary; worth a million dollars and
eating his lunch with the chauffeurs somewhere below stairs and picking
up much information that he will impart to me later! What a bully world
this would be if all mankind followed my system: stupid conventions all
broken-down; the god of mirth holding his sides as he contemplates the
world at play! You may be sure that old lady is a stickler for the
proprieties when she's at home; widow of a bishop most likely. Those
girls have been carefully reared, you can see that, but full of the
spirit of mischief. The moment I tackled that stupid innkeeper about his
monstrous pie they felt the drawing of the mystic tie that binds us
together with silken cords. Very likely they, like us, are in search of
adventure, and if our own affairs were less urgent I should certainly
cultivate their further acquaintance."

The lady who called herself the Duchess of Suffolk (Mass.) was
undoubtedly a person of consequence and the possessor of a delightful
humor. Deering assumed that she and her companions were abroad upon a
lark of some kind and were enjoying themselves tremendously. Hood's spell
renewed its grip upon him. It occurred to him that the whole world might
have been touched with the May madness, and that the old order of things
had passed forever. It seemed ages since he had watched the ticker in his
father's office. As they sat smoking on the veranda the Duchess of
Suffolk, the Queen of Sheba, and Maid Marian came out and entered a big
car. The old lady bowed with dignity as the car moved off; the girls
waved their hands.

"Perfect!" Hood muttered as he returned their salutations. "We may never
meet again in this world, but the memory of this encounter will abide
with me forever."

"I don't want to appear fussy, Hood," Deering began good-naturedly, "but
would you mind telling me what's next on your programme?"

"Not in the slightest. It's just occurred to me that it would be well to
dine to-night in one of the handsome villas scattered through these
hills. Still following the slipper, we shall choose one somewhere east of
the inn and present ourselves confidently at the front door. Failing
there, we shall assault the postern and, perhaps, enrich our knowledge of
life with the servants' gossip."

"There are some famous kennels in this neighborhood, and I'd hate awfully
to have an Airedale bite a hole in my leg," Deering suggested.

"My dear boy, that's the tamest thing that could happen to us! My calves
are covered with scars from dogs' teeth; you soon get hardened to canine
ferocity. We'll take a tramp for an hour to work the fuzz off our gray
matter, and then a nap to freshen us up for the evening. We shall learn
much to-night; I'm confident of that."

There seemed to be no way of escaping Hood or changing his mind once he
announced a decision. The programme was put through exactly as he had
indicated. The important thing about the tramp was that Cassowary
accompanied them on the walk, and Deering found him both agreeable and
interesting. He discoursed of polo, last year's Harvard-Yale football
game, and ice-boating, in which he seemed deeply experienced.

Hood left them to look for hieroglyphics on a barn which he said was a
veritable palimpsest of cryptic notations of roving thieves.

Cassowary's manner underwent a marked change when he and Deering were
alone.

"If you're going to give the old boy the slip," he said earnestly, "I
want you to give me notice. I'm not going to be left alone with him."

Their eyes met in a long scrutiny; then Deering laughed.

"I don't know how you feel about it, but, by George, I'm afraid to shake
him!"

"That's exactly my fix," Cassowary answered. "I was in a bad way when he
picked me up: just about ready to jump off a high building and let it go
at that. And I must say he does make things seem brighter. He mustn't see
us talking off key, as he'd say, but I'd like to ask you this: what's he
running away from? That's what worries me. What's he grabbing newspapers
for all the time and slashing out ads and other queer stuff?"

"You've got me there," Deering replied soberly. "We ran into some men the
other night who he said were detectives looking for him, but it didn't
seem to worry him any."

"There's nothing new in _that_. We've struck a number of men who
apparently were looking for somebody, and he greatly enjoys chaffing
them. If he's really a crook, he wouldn't be exposing himself to arrest
as he does."

Hood was now returning from his investigations of the barn, and as he
crossed the pasture was examining a bunch of the newspaper clippings with
which his pockets were stuffed.

"You needn't be afraid of getting into trouble with him," Cassowary
remarked admiringly. "He pulls off things you wouldn't think could be
done. He's a marvel, that man!"

"Old Bill Fogarty's been ripping into the country stores in these parts,"
began Hood volubly; "found his mark on the barn, all right. Amusing cuss,
Fogarty. Sawed himself out of most of the jails between here and Bangor.
We'll probably meet up with him somewhere. It's about time to go back for
that snooze, boys. To the road again!"

He strode off singing, in a very good tenor voice, snatches from Italian
operas, and his pace was so rapid that his companions were hard pressed
to keep up with him.




VII


Evening dress was becoming to Hood, enhancing the distinction which his
rough corduroys never wholly obscured. He surveyed Deering critically,
gave a twist to his tie, and said it was time to be off. As they drove
slowly through the country he discussed the various houses they passed,
speculating as to the entertainment they offered. He finally ordered
Cassowary to stop at the entrance to an imposing estate, where a large
colonial mansion stood some distance from the highway.

"This strikes me as promising," he remarked, rising in the car and
craning his neck to gain a view of the house through the shrubbery.
"Drive in, Cassowary, and stand by with the car till you see whether we
have to run for it."

He gave the electric annunciator a prolonged push, and as a butler opened
the door advanced into the hall with his most authoritative air.

"Mr. Hood and Mr. Tuck. I trust I correctly understood that we dine at
seven." The man eyed them with surprise but took their coats and hats.
"We are expected. Please announce us immediately."

Deering followed him bewilderedly into the drawing-room and planted
himself close to the door.

"Assurance, my dear boy, conquers all things," Hood declaimed. "This
stuff looks like real Chippendale, and the rugs seem to be genuine." He
sniffed contemptuously as he posed before a long mirror for a final
inspection of his raiment. "It always pains me to detect the odor of
boiled vegetables when I enter a strange house. Architects tell me that
it is almost impossible to prevent----"

A woman's figure flashed in the mirror beside him, and he whirled round
and bowed from the hips.

"I trust you are not so lacking in the sense of hospitality that you find
yourself considering means of ejecting us. My comrade and I are weary
from a long journey."

Turning quickly, her gaze fell upon Deering, who was stealing on tiptoe
toward the door.

"Halt!" commanded Hood.

Deering paused and sheepishly faced his hostess.

She was a small, trim, graceful woman, of the type that greets middle
life smilingly and with no fear of what may lie beyond. Her dark hair had
whitened, but her rosy cheeks belied its insinuations. She viewed Deering
with frank curiosity, but with no indication of alarm. She was not a
woman one would consciously annoy, and Deering's face burned as he felt
her eyes inspecting him from head to foot. He had never before been so
heartily ashamed of himself; once out of this scrape, he meant to escape
from Hood and lead a circumspect, orderly life.

"Which is Hood and which is Tuck?" the woman asked with a faint smile.

"The friar is the gentleman standing on one foot at your right," Hood
answered. "Conscious of my unworthiness, I plead guilty to being
Hood--Hood the hobo delectable, the tramp incomprehensible!"

"Incomprehensible," she repeated; "you strike me as altogether obvious."

"You never made a greater mistake," Hood returned with asperity. "But the
question that now agitates us is simply this: do we eat or do we not?"

Deering looked longingly at a chair with which he felt strongly impelled
to brain his suave, unruffled companion. Hood apparently was hardened to
such encounters, and stood his ground unflinchingly. All Deering's
instincts of chivalry were roused by the little woman, who had every
reason for turning them out of doors. He resolved to make it easy for her
to do so.

"I beg your pardon--" he faltered.

Hood signalled to him furiously behind her back to maintain silence.

"No apology would be adequate," she remarked with dignity. "We'd better
drop that and consider your errand on its strict merits."

"Admirably said, madam," Hood rejoined readily. "We ask nothing of you
but seats at your table and the favor of a little wholesome and
stimulating conversation, which I refuse to believe you capable of
denying us."

A clock somewhere began to boom seven. She waited for the last stroke to
die away.

"I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant, no matter how
unworthy. You may remain."

[Illustration: "I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant,
no matter how unworthy. You may remain."]

Deering had hardly adjusted himself to this when an old gentleman entered
the room, and with only the most casual glance at the two pilgrims walked
to the grand piano, shook back his cuffs, and began playing Mendelssohn's
"Spring Song," as though that particular melody were the one great
passion of his life. When he had concluded he rose and shook down his
cuffs.

"If that isn't music," he demanded, walking up to the amazed Deering, who
still clung to his post by the door, "what is it? Answer me that!"

"You played it perfectly," Deering stammered.

"And you," he demanded, whirling upon Hood, "what have you to say, sir?"

"The great master himself would have envied your touch," Hood replied.

The old gentleman glared. "Rot!" he ejaculated; and then, turning to the
mistress of the house, he asked: "Do these ruffians dine with us?"

"They seem about to do us that honor. My father, Mr. Hood, and--Mr. Tuck.
Shall we go out to dinner?"

The gentleman she had introduced as her father glared again--a separate
glare for each--and, advancing with a ridiculous strut, gave the lady his
arm.

In the hall Hood intercepted Deering in the act of effecting egress by
way of the front door. His fingers dug deeply into his nervous
companion's arm as he dragged him along, talking in his characteristic
vein:

"My dear Tuck, it's a pleasure to find ourselves at last in a home whose
appointments speak for breeding and taste. The portrait on our right
bears all the marks of a genuine Copley. Madam, may I inquire whether I
correctly attribute that portrait to our great American master?"

"You are quite right," she answered over her shoulder. "The subject of
the portrait is my great-great-grandfather."

"My dear Tuck!" cried Hood jubilantly, still clutching Deering's arm,
"fate has again been kind to us; we are among folk of quality, as I had
already guessed."

The dining-room was in dark oak; the glow from concealed burners shed a
soft light upon a round table.

"You will sit at my right, Mr. Hood, and Mr. Tuck by my father on the
other side."

Deering pinched himself to make sure he was awake. The next instant the
room whirled, and he clutched the back of his chair for support. A girl
came into the room and walked quickly to the seat beside him.

"Mr Hood and Mr. Tuck, my daughter----"

She hesitated, and the girl laughingly ejaculated: "Pierrette!"

"Sit down, won't you, please," said the little lady; but Deering stood
staring open-mouthed at the girl.

Beyond question, she was the girl of the Little Dipper; there was no
mistaking her. At this point the old gentleman afforded diversion by
rising and bowing first to Hood and then to Deering.

"I am Pantaloon," he said. "My daughter is Columbine, as you may have
guessed."

"It's very nice to see you again," Pierrette remarked to Deering; "but,
of course, I didn't know you would be here. How goes the burgling?"

"I--er--haven't got started yet. I find it a little difficult----"

"I'm afraid you're not getting much fun out of the adventurous life," she
suggested, noting the wild look in his eyes.

"I don't understand things, that's all," he confessed, "but I think I'm
going to like it."

"You find it a little too full of surprises? Oh, we all do at first! You
see grandfather is seventy, and he never grew up, and mamma is just like
him. And I--" She shrugged her shoulders and flashed a smile at her
grandparent.

"You are wonderful--bewildering," Deering stammered.

The old gentleman was inveighing at Hood upon America's lack of mirth;
the American people had utterly lost their capacity for laughter, the old
man averred. Deering's fork beat a lively tattoo on his plate as he
attacked his caviar.

And then another girl entered and walked to the remaining vacant place
opposite him.

"Smeraldina," murmured the mistress of the house, glancing round the
table, and calmly finishing a remark the girl's entrance had interrupted.

Deering's last hold upon sanity slowly relaxed. Unless his wits were
entirely gone, he was facing his sister Constance. She wore a dark gown,
with white collar and cuffs, and her manner was marked by the restraint
of an upper servant of some sort who sits at the family table by
sufferance. He was about to gasp out her name when she met his eyes with
a glinty stare and a quick shake of the head. Then Pierrette addressed a
remark to her--kindly meant to relieve her embarrassment--referring to a
walk over the hills they had taken together that afternoon.

"Ah, Smeraldina!" cried Pantaloon, "how is that last chapter? Columbine
refuses to show me any more of the book until it is finished. I look to
you to make a duplicate for my private perusal."

Here was light of a sort upon the strange household; its mistress was a
writer of books; Constance was her secretary; but the effort to explain
how his sister came to be masquerading in such a role left him
doddering, and that she should refuse to recognize him--her own brother!

"If that new book is half as good as 'The Madness of May,'" Pantaloon was
saying, "I shall not be disappointed."

"Oh, it's much better; infinitely better!" Constance declared warmly.

"Tuck, do you realize we are in the presence of greatness?" cried Hood.
Then, turning to Columbine: "The author will please accept my heartiest
congratulations!"

"Thank you kindly," replied the hostess. "I'm fortunate in my secretary.
Smeraldina is my fifth, and the first who ever made a suggestion that was
of the slightest use. The others had no imagination; they all objected to
being called Smeraldina, and one of them was named Smith!"

"I'm afraid I'm the first who ever had the impertinence to suggest
anything," Constance answered humbly.

This was not the sister Deering had known in his old life before he fell
victim to the prevailing May madness. She was in servitude and evidently
trying to make the best of it. She had been the jolliest, the most
high-spirited of girls, and to find her now meekly acting as amanuensis
to a lady whose very name he didn't know sent his imagination stumbling
through the blindest of dark alleys.

Only the near presence of Pierrette and her perfect composure and
good-nature checked his inclination to stand up and shout to relieve his
feelings.

"I hope you don't mind my not turning up for breakfast," she remarked in
her low, bell-like tones.

Deering's hopes rose. That breakfast at the bungalow seemed the one
tangible incident of his twenty-four hours in Hood's company and,
perhaps, if he let her take the lead, he might find himself on solid
earth again.

"I'd been week-ending with Babette; she's an artist, you know, and I'm
posing for another of mamma's heroines. Babette got me up at daylight to
pose for the last picture and then--I skipped and left her to manage the
breakfast."

Her laugh as she said this established her identity beyond question. For
a moment the thought of the packages of worthless wrapping-paper he had
found in his suitcase chilled his happiness in finding her again; but it
had not been her fault; the unbroken seals fully established her
innocence.

"You understand, of course, that it's a dark secret that mother writes.
She had scribbled for her own amusement all her life, and published 'The
Madness of May' just to see what the public would do to it."

"I understand that it's immensely amusing," remarked Deering, thrilling
as she turned toward him.

"Oh, you haven't read it!" she cried. "Mamma, Mr. Tuck hasn't read your
book."

"My young friend is just beginning his education," interposed Hood. "I
unhesitatingly pronounce 'The Madness of May' a classic--something the
tired world has been awaiting for years!"

"Right!" cried Pantaloon. "You are quite right, sir. 'The Madness of May'
isn't a novel, it's a text-book on happiness!"

"Truer words were never spoken!" exclaimed Hood with enthusiasm.

"Do you know," began Deering, when it was possible to address Pierrette
directly again, "I don't believe I was built for this life. I find myself
checking off the alphabet on my fingers every few minutes to see if I
have gone plumb mad!"

She bent toward him with entreaty in her eyes. He observed that they were
brown eyes! In the starlight he had been unable to judge of their color,
and he was chagrined that he hadn't guessed at that first interview that
she was a brown-eyed girl. Only a brown-eyed girl would have hung a moon
in a tree! Brown eyes are immensely eloquent of all manner of pleasant
things--such as mischief, mirth, and dreams. Moreover, brown eyes are so
highly sensitized that they receive and transmit messages in the most
secret of ciphers, and yet always with circumspection. He was perfectly
satisfied with Pierrette's eyes and relieved that they were not blue, for
blue eyes may be cold, and the finest of black eyes are sometimes dull.
Gray eyes alone--misty, fathomless gray eyes--share imagination with
brown ones. But neither a blue-eyed nor a black-eyed nor a gray-eyed
Pierrette was to be thought of. Pierrette's eyes were brown, as he should
have known, and what she was saying to him was just what he should have
expected once the color of her eyes had been determined.

"Please don't! You must never try to _understand_ things like this! You
see grandpa and mamma love larking, and this is a lark. We're always
larking, you know."

Hood's voice rose commandingly:

"Once when I was in jail in Utica----"

Deering regretted his shortness of leg that made it impossible to kick
his erratic companion under the table. But a chorus of approval greeted
this promising opening, and Hood continued relating with much detail the
manner in which he had once been incarcerated in company with a
pickpocket whose accomplishments and engaging personality he described
with gusto. There was no denying that Hood talked well, and the strict
attention he was receiving evoked his best efforts.

Deering, covertly glancing at his sister, found that she too hung upon
Hood's words. Her presence in the house still presented an enigma with
which his imagination struggled futilely, but no opportunity seemed
likely to offer for an exchange of confidences.

Constance was a thoroughbred and played her part flawlessly. Her
treatment by her employer left nothing to be desired; the amusing little
grandfather appealed to her now and then with unmistakable liking, and
the smiles that passed between her and Pierrette were evidence of the
friendliest relationship.

The dinner was served in a leisurely fashion that encouraged talk, and
Deering availed himself of every chance for a tete-a-tete with
Pierrette. She graciously came down out of the clouds and conversed of
things that were within his comprehension--of golf and polo for
example--and then passed into the unknown again. But in no way did she so
much as hint at her identity. When she referred to her mother or
grandfather she employed the pseudonyms by which he already knew them.
While they were on the subject of polo he asked her if she had witnessed
a certain match.

"Oh, yes, I was there!" she replied. "And, of course, I saw you; you were
the star performer. At tea afterward I saw you again, surrounded by
admirers." She laughed at his befuddlement. "But it's against all the
rules to try to unmask me! Of course, I know you, but maybe you will
never know me!"

"I don't believe you are cruel enough to prolong my agony forever! I
can't stand this much longer!"

"Perhaps some day," she answered quietly and meeting his eager gaze
steadily, "we shall meet just as the people of the world meet, and then
maybe you won't like me at all!"

"After this the world will never be the same planet again. Hereafter my
business will be to follow you----"

She broke in laughingly, "even to the Little Dipper?"

"Even to the farthest star!" he answered.

After coffee had been served in the drawing-room, Hood, again dominating
the company (much to Deering's disgust), suggested music. Pierrette
contributed a flashing, golden Chopin waltz and Pantaloon Schubert's
"Serenade," which he played atrociously, whereupon Hood announced that he
would sing a Scotch ballad, which he proceeded to do surprisingly well.
The evening could not last forever, and Deering chafed at his inability
to detach Pierrette from the piano; but she was most provokingly
submissive to Hood's demand that the music continue. Deering had
protested that he didn't sing; he hated himself for not singing!

He fidgeted awhile; then, finding the others fully preoccupied with their
musical experiments, quietly left the drawing-room. It had occurred to
him that Constance, who had disappeared when they left the table, might
be seeking a chance to speak to him and he strolled through the library
(a large room with books crowding to the ceiling) to a glass door opening
into a conservatory, which was dark save for the light from the library.
He was about to turn away when an outer door opened furtively and
Cassowary stepped in from the grounds. The chauffeur glanced about
nervously as though anxious to avoid detection.

As Deering watched him a shadow darted by, and his sister--unmistakably
Constance in the dark gown with its white collar and cuffs that she had
worn at dinner--moved swiftly toward the chauffeur. She gave him both
hands; he kissed her eagerly; then they began talking earnestly. For
several minutes Deering heard the blurred murmur of rapid question and
reply; then, evidently disturbed by an outburst of merriment from the
drawing-room, the two parted with another hand-clasp and kiss, and
Cassowary darted through the outer door.

Constance waited a moment, as though to compose herself, and then began
retracing her steps down the conservatory aisle. As she passed his
hiding-place Deering stepped out and seized her arm.

"So this is what's in the wind, is it?" he demanded roughly. "I suppose
you don't know that that man's a bad lot, a worthless fellow Hood picked
up in the hope of reforming him! For all I know he may be the chauffeur
he pretends to be!"

She freed herself and her eyes flashed angrily.

"You don't know what you're saying! That man is a gentleman, and if he
went to pieces for a while it was my fault. I met him at the Drakes' last
year when you were away hunting in Canada. He came to our house
afterward, but for some reason father took one of his strong dislikes to
him, and forbade my seeing him again. I knew he was with this man Hood,
and when I left the table awhile ago I met him outside the servants'
dining-room and told him I would talk to him here."

"What does he call himself?" Deering asked.

"Torrence is the name the Drakes gave him," she answered with faint
irony. "He's a ranchman in Wyoming and was in Bob Drake's class in
college."

He knew perfectly well that the Drakes were not people likely to
countenance an impostor. His first instinct had been to protect his
sister from an unknown scamp, and he was sorry that he had spoken to her
so roughly. Her distress and anxiety were apparent, and he was filled
with pity for her. Since childhood they had been the best of pals, and if
she loved a man who was worthy of her he would aid the affair in every
way possible. He was surprised by the abruptness with which she stepped
close to him and laid her hand on his arm.

"Billy, who _is_ Hood?" she whispered.

"I don't know!" he ejaculated, and then as she eyed him curiously he
explained hurriedly: "I was in an awful mess when he turned up, Connie.
I'd gone into a copper deal with Ned Ranscomb and needed more money to
help him through with it. I put in all I had and touched one of father's
boxes at the bank for some more and lost it, or didn't lose it; God knows
what did become of it! It would take a week to tell you the whole story.
Ranscomb disappeared, absolutely, and there I was! I should have killed
myself if that lunatic Hood hadn't turned up and hypnotized me. But
what--what--" (he fairly choked with the question), "in heaven's name are
you doing here? Why did you cut out California? I tell you, Connie, if
I'm not crazy everybody else is! I nearly fainted when you came into the
dining-room."

Constance smiled at his despair, but hurried on with explanations:

"We can't talk here, but I can clear up a few things. Father read that
woman's book, and it went to his head. Yes," she added as Deering groaned
in his helplessness, "father's acting a good deal like those people in
the drawing-room. He's got the May madness, and I'm afraid I've got a
touch of it myself! Father started off to have adventures like the people
in that book and dragged me along to get my mind off Tommy----"

"Tommy?"

"Mr. Torrence!"

Billy swallowed this with a gulp.

"But, Billy," Constance continued seriously, "there's really something on
father's mind; he thinks he's looking for somebody, and I'm not sure
whether he is or not. That's how I come to be here. He made me answer an
advertisement and take this position to spy on these people."

"My God!" Deering gasped, "gone clean mad, the whole bunch of us. Who the
deuce are these lunatics anyhow?"

"I don't know, Billy; honestly I don't! You know nearly as much about
them as I do. Their mail goes to a bank in town, and I met my employer at
a lawyer's office in Hartford. Father suspects something and made me do
it, so I might watch them. The mother and daughter have been abroad a
great deal, and just came home a month ago. I never saw this man Hood
until to-night. The mother and daughter and the old gentleman call each
other by the names you heard at the table, and the books in the library
are marked with half a dozen names. Even the silver gives no clew. I've
been here a week and only one person has come to the house" (she lowered
her voice to a whisper), "and that was Ned Ranscomb!"

He clutched her hands, and the words he tried to utter became a queer,
inarticulate gurgle in his throat.

"Ned came here to see a girl," she went on: "an artist who made the
pictures for 'The Madness of May.' He's quite crazy about her. I did get
that much out of Pierrette. This artist's a victim of the madness too,
and seems to be leading Ned a gay dance!"

"Took my two hundred thousand and got me to steal two more," he groaned,
"and then went chasing a girl all over creation! And the fool always
bragged that he was immune; that no girl----"

"Another victim of the same disease, that's all," answered Constance with
a wry smile.

"Not Ned; not Ranscomb! That settles it! We've all gone <DW38>!"

"Well, even so, we mustn't be caught here," said Constance with decision
as the music ceased.

"Tell me, quick, where can I find the governor?" Deering demanded.

"If you _must_ know, Billy," she replied, her lips quivering with mirth,
"our dear parent is in jail--in _jail_! Tommy collected those glad
tidings at the garage."

Having launched this at her astounded brother, she pushed him from her
and ran away through the conservatory.




VIII


"Tuck, my boy, you should cultivate the art of music!" cried Hood as
Deering reappeared, somewhat pale but resigned to an unknown fate, in the
drawing-room. "And now that ten has struck we must be on our way. Madam,
will you ring for Cassowary, the prince of chauffeurs, as we must leave
your hospitable home at once?" He began making his adieus with the
greatest formality.

"Mr. Tuck," said the mistress of the house as Deering gave her a limp
hand, "you have conferred the greatest honor upon us. Please never pass
our door without stopping."

"To-morrow," he said, turning to Pierrette, "I shall find you to-morrow,
either here or in the Dipper!"

"Before you see me or the Dipper again, many things may happen!" she
laughed.

The trio--the absurd little Pantaloon; Columbine, laughing and gracious
to the last, and Pierrette, smiling, charming, adorable--cheerily called
good night from the door as Cassowary sent the car hurrying out of the
grounds.

"Well, what do you think of the life of freedom now?" demanded Hood as
the car reached the open road. "Begin to have a little faith in me, eh?"

"Well, you seemed to put it over," Deering admitted grudgingly. "But I
can't go on this way, Hood; I really can't stand it. I've got to quit
right now!"

"My dear boy!" Hood protested.

"I've heard bad news about my father; one of the--er--servants back there
told me he was in jail!"

"Stop!" bawled Hood. "This is important if true! Cassowary, I've told you
time and again to bring me any news you pick up in servants' halls. What
have you heard about the arrest of a gentleman named Deering?"

"He's been pinched, all right," the chauffeur answered as he stopped the
car and turned round. "The constables over at West Dempster are trapping
joy-riders, and they nailed Mr. Deering about sundown for speeding. I
learned that from the chauffeur at that house where you dined."

Hood slapped his knee and chortled with delight.

"There's work ahead of us! But probably he's bailed himself out by this
time."

"Not on your life!" Cassowary answered, and Deering marked a note of
jubilation in his tone, as though the thought of Mr. Deering's
incarceration gave him pleasure. "The magistrate's away for the night,
and there's nobody there to fix bail. It's part of the treatment in these
parts to hold speed fiends a night or two."

Again Hood's hand fell upon Deering's knee.

"A situation to delight the gods!" he cried. "Cassowary, old man, at the
next crossroads turn to the right and run in at the first gate. There's a
farmhouse in the midst of an orchard; we'll stop there and change our
clothes."

As the car started Deering whirled upon Hood and shook him violently by
the collar.

"I'm sick of all this rot! I can't stand any more, I tell you. I'm going
to quit right here!"

Hood drew his arm round him affectionately.

"My dear son, have I failed you at any point? Have you ever in your life
had any adventures to compare with those you've had with me? Stop whining
and trust all to Hood!"

Deering sank back into his corner with a growl of suppressed rage.

When they reached the farmhouse Hood drew out a key and opened the front
door with a proprietorial air.

"Whose place is this? I want to know what I'm getting in for," Deering
demanded wrathfully.

"Mine, dearest Tuck! Mine, and the taxes paid. I use it as a rest-house
for weary and jaded crooks, if that will ease your mind!"

Cassowary struck matches and lighted candles, disclosing a half-furnished
room in great disorder. Old clothing, paper bags that had contained food,
a violin, and books in good bindings littered a table in the middle of
the floor, and articles of clothing were heaped in confusion on a
time-battered settle. The odor of stale pipe smoke hung upon the air.
Under an empty bottle on the mantel Hood found a scrap of paper which he
scanned for a moment and then tore into pieces.

"Just a scratch from good old Fogarty; he's been taking the rest-cure
here between jobs. Skipped yesterday; same chap that left his mark for me
on that barn. One of the royal good fellows, Fogarty; does his work
neatly--never carries a gun or pots a cop; knows he can climb out of any
jail that ever was made, and that, son, gives any man a joyful sense of
ease and security. The Tombs might hold him, but he avoids large cities;
knows his limitations like a true man of genius. Rare bird; thrifty
doesn't describe him; he's just plain stingy; sells stolen postage-stamps
at par; the only living yegg that can put that over! By George, I
wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't sell 'em at a premium!"

As he talked he rummaged among the old clothes, chose a mud-splashed pair
of trousers, and bade Deering put them on, adding an even more
disreputable coat and hat. Cassowary helped himself to a change of
raiment, and Hood selected what seemed to be the worst of the lot.

"Three suspicious characters will be noted by the constabulary of West
Dempster within two hours!" cried Hood, hopping out of his dress
trousers. "Into the calaboose we shall go, my dear Tuck! Never say that I
haven't a thought for your peace and happiness. It will give me joy
unfeigned to bring you face to face with your delightful parent.
Cassowary, my son, I'm going to hide those bills of yours in the lining
of my coat for safety. If they found ten thousand plunks on me, they'd
never let us go!"

"Hood!" cried Deering in a voice moist with tears, "for God's sake what
fool thing are you up to now?"

"I tell you we're going to jail!" Hood answered jubilantly. "You've dined
in good company with the most charming of girls at your side; you've had
a taste of the prosperous life; and now it's fitting that we should touch
the other extreme. The moment we step out of this shack we're criminals,
crooks, gallows meat;" he rolled this last term under his tongue
unctuously. "This will top all our other adventures. Here's hoping
Fogarty may have preceded us. The old boy likes to get pinched
occasionally just for the fun of it."

He was already blowing out the candles, and, seizing his stick, led the
way back to the highway, with Deering and Cassowary at his heels. The car
had been run into an old barn, which had evidently served Hood before.
Within twenty-four hours they would be touring again, he announced. The
change from his dress clothes to ill-fitting rags had evidently wrought a
change of mood. Between whiffs at his pipe he sought consolation in
Wagner, chanting bars of "In _fernem_ Land."

Cassowary, who had adjusted himself to this new situation without
question, whispered in Deering's ear: "Don't kick; he's got something up
his sleeve. And he'll get you out of it; remember that! I've been in jail
with him before."

Deering drew away impatiently. He was in no humor to welcome confidences
from Torrence, _alias_ Cassowary, whom his sister met clandestinely and
_kissed_--the kiss rankled! And yet it was nothing against Cassowary that
he had been following Hood about like an infatuated fool. Deering knew
himself to be equally culpable on that score, and he was even now
trudging after the hypnotic vagabond with a country calaboose as their
common goal. The chauffeur's interview with Constance had evidently
cheered him mightily, and he joined his voice to Hood's in a very fair
rendering of "Ben Bolt." Deering swore under his breath, angry at Hood,
and furious that he had so little control of a destiny that seemed urging
him on to destruction.




IX


At one o'clock West Dempster lay dark and silent before them. As they
crossed a bridge into the town Hood began to move cautiously.

"Remember that we give up without a struggle: there's too much at stake
to risk a bullet now, and these country lumpkins shoot first, and hand
you their cards afterward."

He dived into an alley, and emerged midway of a block where a number of
barrels under a shed awning advertised a grocery.

"Admirable!" whispered Hood, throwing his arms about his comrades. "We
will now arouse the watch."

With this he kicked a barrel into the gutter, and jumped back like a
mischievous boy into the shelter of the alley. Footsteps were heard in a
moment, far down the street.

"These country cops are sometimes shrewd, but often the silly children of
convention like the rest of us. West Dempster has an evil reputation in
the underworld. The pinching of joy-riders is purely incidental; they run
in anybody they catch after the curfew sounds from the coffin factory."

A window overhead opened with a bang, and a blast from a police whistle
pierced the air shrilly. Deering started to run, but Hood upset him with
a thrust of his foot. Two men were already creeping up behind them in the
alley; the owner of the grocery stole out of the front door in a long
nightgown and began howling dismally for help.

"Throw up your hands, boys; it's no use!" cried Hood in mock despair.

Then the man in the nightgown, after menacing Hood with a pistol, stuck
the barrel of it into Deering's mouth, opened inopportunely to protest
his innocence. The policemen threw themselves upon Hood and Cassowary,
toppled them over, and flashed electric lamps in their faces.

"More o' them yeggs," announced one of the officers with satisfaction as
he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Cassowary's wrists. "Don't you fellows
try any monkey-shines or we'll plug you full o' lead. Trot along now."

The gentleman in the night-robe wished to detain the party for a recital
of his own prowess in giving warning of the attempted burglary. The
police were disposed to make light of his assistance, while Hood hung
back to support the grocer's cause, a generosity on his part that was
received ill-temperedly by the officers of the law. They bade the grocer
report to the magistrate Monday morning, and they parted, but only after
Hood had shaken the crestfallen grocer warmly by the hand, warning him
with the greatest solicitude against further exposure to the night air.
Two other policemen appeared; the whole force was doing them honor, Hood
declared proudly. He lifted his voice in song, but the lyrical impulse
was hushed by a <DW8> from a revolver. He continued to talk, however,
assuring his captors of his heartiest admiration for their efficiency. He
meant to recommend them for positions in the secret service--men of their
genius were wasted upon a country town.

[Illustration: "Throw up your hands, boys; it's no use!" cried Hood
in mock despair.]

When they reached the town hall a melancholy jailer roused himself and
conducted them to the lockup in the rear of the building. Careful search
revealed nothing but a mass of crumpled clippings and a pipe and tobacco
in Hood's pockets.

"Guess they dropped their tools somewhere," muttered one of the officers.

"My dear boy," explained Hood, "the gentleman in the nightie, whom I take
to be a citizen and merchant of standing in your metropolis, may be able
to assist you in finding them. We left our safe-blowing apparatus in a
chicken-coop in his back yard."

They were entered on the blotter as R. Hood, F. Tuck, and Cass
O'Weary--the last Hood spelled with the utmost care for the scowling
turnkey--and charged with attempt to commit burglary and arson.

Hood grumbled; he had hoped it would be murder or piracy on the high
seas; burglary and arson were so commonplace, he remarked with a sigh.

The door closed upon them with an echoing clang, and they found
themselves in a large coop, bare save for several benches ranged along
the walls. Two of these were occupied by prisoners, one of whom, a short,
thick-set man, snored vociferously. Hood noted his presence with
interest.

"Fogarty!" he whispered with a triumphant wave of his hand.

A tall man who had chosen a cot as remote as possible from his fellow
prisoner sat up and, seeing the newcomers, stalked majestically to the
door and yelled dismally for the keeper, who lounged indifferently to the
cage, puffing a cigar.

"This is an outrage!" roared the prisoner. "Locking me up with these
felons--these common convicts! I demand counsel; I'm going to have a writ
of habeas corpus! When I get out of here I'm going to go to the governor
of your damned State and complain of this. All Connecticut shall know of
it! All America shall hear of it! To be locked up with one safe-blower is
enough, and now you've stuck three murderers into this rotten hole. I
tell you I can give bail. I tell you----"

The jailer snarled and bade him be quiet. In the tone of a man who is
careful of his words he threatened the direst punishment for any further
expression of the gentleman's opinions. Whereupon the gentleman seized
the bars and shook them violently, and then, as though satisfied that
they were steel of the best quality, dropped his arms to his sides with a
gesture of impotent despair.

"Father!"

In spite of Constance's assertion, confirmed by Cassowary, Deering had
not believed that his father was in jail; but the outraged gentleman who
had demanded the writ of habeas corpus was, beyond question, Samuel J.
Deering, head of the banking-house of Deering, Gaylord & Co. Mr. Deering
was striding toward his bench with the sulky droop of a premium batter
who has struck out with the bases full.

Scorning to glance at the creature in rags who had flung himself in his
path, Samuel J. Deering lunged at him fiercely with his right arm. Billy,
ducking opportunely, saved his indignant parent from tumbling upon the
floor by catching him in his arms. Feeling that he had been attacked by a
ruffian, Mr. Deering yelled that he was being murdered.

"I'm Billy! For God's sake, be quiet!"

The senior Deering tottered to the wall.

"Billy! What are _you_ in for?" he demanded finally.

"Burglary, arson, and little things like that," Billy answered with a
jauntiness that surprised him as much as it pained his father, who
continued to stare uncomprehendingly.

"You've been reading that damned book, too, have you?" he whispered
hoarsely in his son's ear. "You've gone crazy like everybody else, have
you?"

"I've been kidnapped, if that's what you mean," Billy answered with a
meaningful glance over his shoulder, and then with a fine attempt at
bravado: "I'm Friar Tuck, and that chap smoking a pipe is Robin Hood."

Ordinarily his father's sense of humor could be trusted to respond to an
intelligent appeal. A slow grin had overspread Mr. Deering's face as
Friar Tuck was mentioned, but when Billy added Robin Hood his father's
countenance underwent changes indicative of hope, fear, and chagrin.
Clinging to Billy's shoulder, he peered through the gloom of the cage
toward Hood, who lay on a bench, his coat rolled up for a pillow,
tranquilly smoking, with his eyes fixed upon the steel roof.

"Hood!" Mr. Deering walked slowly toward Hood's bench.

Hood sat up, took his pipe from his mouth, and nodded.

"Hood, this is my father," said Billy.

"A great pleasure, I'm sure," Hood responded courteously, extending his
hand. "I suppose it was inevitable that we should meet sooner or later,
Mr. Deering."

"You--you _are_ Bob--Bob--Tyringham?" asked Deering anxiously.

"Right!" cried Hood in his usual assured manner. "And I will say for you
that you have given me a good chase. I confess that I didn't think you
capable of it; I swear I didn't! Tuck, I congratulate you; your father is
one of the true brotherhood of the stars. He's been chasing me for a
month and, by Jove, he's kept me guessing! But when I heard that he'd
been jailed for speeding, with a prospect of spending Sunday in this
hole, I decided that it was time to throw down the mask."

Lights began to dance in the remote recesses of Billy's mind. Hood was
Robert Tyringham, for whom his father held as trustee two million
dollars. Tyringham had not been heard of in years. The only son of a most
practical father, he had been from youth a victim of the _wanderlust_,
absenting himself from home for long periods. For ten years he had been
on the list of the missing. That Hood should be this man was
unbelievable. But the senior Deering seemed not to question his identity.
He sat down with a deep sigh and then began to laugh.

"If I hadn't found you by next Wednesday, I should have had to turn your
property over to a dozen charitable institutions provided for by your
father's will--and, by George, I've been fighting a temptation to steal
it!" His arms clasped Billy's shoulder convulsively. "It's been horrible,
ghastly! I've been afraid I might find you and afraid I wouldn't! I tell
you it's been hell. I've spent thousands of dollars trying to find you,
fearing one day you might turn up, and the next day afraid you wouldn't.
And, you know, Tyringham, your father was my dearest friend; that's what
made it all so horrible. I want you to know about it, Billy; I want you
to know the worst about me; I'm not the man you thought me. When I
started away with Constance and told you I was going to California I
decided to make a last effort to find Tyringham. I read a damned novel
that acted on me like a poison; that's why I've made a fool of myself in
a thousand ways, thinking that by masquerading over the country I might
catch Tyringham at his own game. And now you know what I might have been;
you see what I was trying to be--a common thief, a betrayer of a sacred
trust."

"Don't talk like that, father," began Billy, shaken by his father's
humility. "I guess we're in the same hole, only I'm in deeper. I tried to
rob _you_. I tried to steal some of that Tyringham money myself,
but--but----"

Hood, wishing to leave the two alone for their further confidences,
walked to the recumbent Fogarty, roused him with a dig in the ribs, and
conferred with him in low tones.

"You took the stuff from my box, Billy?" Mr. Deering asked.

Billy waited apprehensively for what might follow. It was possible that
his father had already robbed the Tyringham estate; the thought chilled
him into dejection.

"I _had_ stolen it. My God, I couldn't help it!" Deering groaned. "I left
that waste paper in the box to fool myself, and put the real stuff in
another place. I hoped--yes, that was it, I hoped--I'd never find
Tyringham and I could keep those bonds. But all the time I kept looking
for him. You see, Billy, I couldn't be as bad as I wanted to be; and
yet----"

He drew his hand across his face as though to shut out the picture he saw
of himself as a felon.

"Oh, you wouldn't have done it; you couldn't have done it!" cried Billy,
anxious to mitigate his father's misery. "If you hadn't hidden the real
bonds, I'd have been a thief! Ned Ranscomb was trying to corner Mizpah
and needed my help. I put in all I had--that two hundred thousand you
gave me my last birthday, and then he skipped. When I get hold of
_him_----!"

"You put two hundred thousand in Mizpah?"

"I did, like a fool, and, of course, it's lost! Ned went daffy about a
girl and dropped Mizpah--and my money!"

Mr. Deering was once more a business man. "What did Ranscomb buy at?" he
asked curtly.

"Seven and a quarter."

"Then you needn't kick Ned! The Ranscombs put through their deal and
Mizpah's gone to forty!"

Hood rejoined them, and they talked till daylight. He told them much of
himself. The responsibility of a great fortune had not appealed to him;
he had been honest in his preference for the vagabond life, but realized,
now that he was well launched upon middle age, that it was only becoming
and decent for him to alter his ways. Billy's liking for him, that had
struggled so rebelliously against impatience and distrust, warmed to the
heartiest admiration.

"Of course I knew you were married," the senior Deering remarked for
Billy's enlightenment, "and now and then I got glimpses of you in your
gypsy life. Your wife had a fortune of her own--she was one of Augustus
Davis's daughters--so of course she hasn't suffered from your
foolishness."

"My wife shared my tastes; there has never been the slightest trouble
between us. Our daughter is just like us. But now Mrs. Tyringham thinks
we ought to settle down and be respectable."

"I knew your wife and daughter had come home. I had got that far," Mr.
Deering resumed. "And after I began to suspect that you and Hood were the
same person I put my own daughter into your house on the Dempster road as
a spy to watch for you."

"My wife wasn't fooled for a minute," Hood chuckled. "We were having our
last fling before we settled down for the rest of our days. We all have
the same weakness for a springtime lark: my wife, my daughter, and I."

Billy ran his hands through his hair. "Pierrette! Pierrette is your
daughter!"

"Certainly," replied Hood; "and Columbine, the dearest woman in the
world, is my wife, and Pantaloon my father-in-law. In my affair with you
there was only one coincidence: everything else was planned. It was
Pierrette, whose real name is Roberta--Bobby for short, when we're not
playing a game of some sort--Bobby really did lift your suitcase by
mistake. And it was stowed away in Cassowary's car when I came to your
house intending to return it. But when I saw that you needed diversion I
decided to give you a whirl. It was an easy matter for Cassowary to move
the suitcase to the bungalow, where you found it. I steered you to the
house on purpose to see how you and Bobby would hit it off. The result
seems to have been satisfactory!"

Cassowary turned uneasily on his bench.

"And before we quit all this foolishness," Hood resumed with a glance at
the chauffeur, "there's one thing I want to ask you, Mr. Deering, as a
special favor. That chap lying over there is Tommy Torrence, whom you
kicked off your door-step for daring to love your daughter. He's one of
the best fellows in the world. Just because his father, the old senator,
didn't quite hit it off with you in a railroad deal before Tommy was born
is no reason why you should take it out on the boy. He started for the
bad after you made a row over his attentions to your daughter, but he's
been with me six months and he's as right and true a chap as ever lived.
You've got to fix it up with him or I'll--I'll--well, I'll be pretty hard
on your boy if he ever wants to break into my family!"

With this Hood rose and drew from his pocket a handful of newspaper
clippings which he threw into the air and watched flutter to the floor.

"Those are some of your advertisements offering handsome rewards for news
of me dead or alive. In collecting them I've had a mighty good time.
Let's all go to sleep; to-morrow night the genial Fogarty will get us out
of this. He's over there now sawing the first bar of that window!"




X


A year has passed and it is May again and the last day of that month of
enchantment. There has been a house-party at the Deering place at Radford
Hills. Constance came from Wyoming to spend May with her father, bringing
with her, of course, her husband, sometime known as Cassowary, who has
been elected to the legislature of his State and, may, it is reported, be
governor one of these days. The Tyringhams are there, and this includes
Robert Tyringham, _alias_ R. Hood, and his wife (whose authorship of "The
Madness of May," has not yet been acknowledged) and also her father,
Augustus Davis, who continues to find recreation in frequent attacks upon
any inoffensive piano that gets in his way. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ranscomb,
too, have shared Mr. Deering's hospitality. Marriage has not interrupted
Mrs. Ranscomb's career as an artist, though she has dropped illustrating,
and is specializing in children's portraits with distinguished success.

The senior Deering, wholly at peace with his conscience, does not work as
hard as he used to before his taste of adventurous life gained in the
pursuit of Hood. He is very proud of his daughter-in-law, whose brown
eyes bring constant cheer and happiness to his table. If she does not
hang moons in trees any more, she is still quite capable of doing so, and
has no idea of permitting her husband to wear himself out in the
banking-house. They are going to keep some time every year for play, she
declares, to the very end of their lives.

Hood had been devoting himself assiduously to mastering the details of
his business affairs, living as other men do, keeping regular office
hours in a tall building with an outlook toward the sea, and taking his
recreation on the golf-links every other afternoon.

"Mamma has been nervous all this month about papa," Roberta (known
otherwise as Pierrette or Bobby) was saying as she and Billy slowly paced
the veranda. "But now May is over and he hasn't shown any disposition to
run away. I suppose he's really cured." There was a tinge of regret in
her last words.

"Yes," Billy replied carelessly. "He hasn't mentioned his old roving days
lately. I think he's even sensitive about having them referred to."

"But even if he should want to go, mamma wouldn't break her heart about
it. She feels that it's really something fine in him: his love of the
out-of-doors, and adventures, and knowing all sorts and conditions of
men. And he has really helped lots of people, just as he helped you. And
he always had so much fun when we all played gypsy, or he went off alone
and came back with no end of good stories. I'm just a little sorry----"

They paused, clasping hands and looking off at the starry canopy.
Suddenly from the side of the house a man walked slowly, hesitatingly. He
stopped, turned, glanced at the veranda, and then, sniffing the air,
walked rapidly toward the gate, swinging a stick, his face lifted to the
stars.

Bobby's hand clasped Billy's more tightly as they watched in silence.

"It's papa; he's taking to the road again!" she murmured.

"But he'll come back; it won't be for long this time. I haven't the heart
to stop him!"

"No," she said softly, "it would be cruel to do that."

The lamps at the gate shone upon Robert Tyringham as he paused and then,
with a characteristic flourish of his stick, turned westward and strode
away into the night.



***