would have set the matter straight, but he could not bear to divulge the secret of those horrible thirty-six hours which he, under the name of his burglarious valet, had spent locked in a cell. Maybe he could show the detective he was mistaken without going into that lamentable history. But of course McAllister proceeded by exactly the wrong method.
"Oh," he laughed nonchalantly, "there it is again! You've got me confused with Fatty Welch. We do look alike, to be sure." He put up his monocle and smiled reassuringly, as if his simple statement would entirely settle the matter.
But Barney only winked sarcastically.
"You show yourself quite familiar with the name of the gentleman I'm lookin' for."
McAllister saw that he had made a mistake.
"No more foolin', now," continued Barney. "Will you come as you are, or with the nippers?"
The clubman bit his lip with annoyance.
"Look here, hang you!" he exclaimed angrily, dropping his valise, "I'm Mr. McAllister of the Colophon Club. I'm on my way to dine with friends in the country. I've got to take this train. Listen! they're shouting 'All aboard' now. I know who you're after. You've got us mixed. Your man's a professional crook. I can prove my identity to you inside of five minutes, only I haven't time here. Just jump on the train with me, and if you're not convinced by the time we reach 125th Street I'll get off and come back with you."
"My, but you're gamer than ever, Fatty," retorted Barney with admiration. Thoughts of picking up hitherto unsuspected clews flitted through his mind. He had his man "pinched," why not play him awhile? It seemed not a half bad idea to the Central Office man.
"Well, I'll humor you this once. Step aboard. No funny business, now. I've got my smoke wagon right here. Remember, you're under arrest."
They swung aboard just as the train started. As McAllister sank into his seat in the parlor car with Barney beside him he recognized Joe Wainwright directly opposite. Here was an easy chance to prove his identity, and he was just about to lean over and pour forth his sorrows to his friend when he realized with fresh humiliation that should he seize this opportunity to explain the present situation, the whole wretched story of his Christmas in the Tombs would probably be divulged. He would be the laughing-stock of the club, and the fellows would never let him hear the last of it. He hesitated, but Wainwright took the initiative.
"How d'y', Chubby?" said he, getting up and coming over. "On your way to Blair's?"
"Yes. Almost missed the confounded train," replied McAllister, struggling for small talk.
"Who's your friend?" continued the irrepressible Wainwright. "Kind o' think I know him. Foreigner, ain't he? Think he was at Newport last summer."
"Er—ye—es. Baron de Ville. Picked him up at the club—friend of Pierrepont's. Takin' him out to Blair's—so hospitable, don'cher know." He stammered horribly, for he found himself sinking deeper and deeper.
"Like to meet him," remarked Wainwright. "Like all these foreign fellers."
McAllister groaned. He certainly was in for it now. The 125th Street idea would have to be abandoned.
"Er—Baron"—he strangled over the name—"Baron, I want to present Mr. Joseph Wainwright. He thinks he's met you in Paris." Our friend accompanied this with a pronounced wink.
"Glad to meet you, Baron," said Wainwright, grasping the detective's hand with effusion. "Newport, I think it was."
The "Baron" bowed. This was a new complication, but it was all in the day's work. Of course, the whole thing was plain enough. Fatty Welch was "working" some swell guys who thought he was a real high-roller. Maybe he was going to pull off some kind of a job that very evening. Perhaps this big chap in the swagger flannels was one of the gang. Barney was thinking hard. Well, he'd take the tip and play the hand out.
"It ees a peutifool efening," said the Baron.
The train plunged into the tunnel.
"Look here," hissed McAllister in Barney's ear. "You've got to stick this thing out, now, or I'll be the butt of the town. Remember, we're going to the Blairs at Scarsdale. You're the particular friend of a man named Pierrepont—fellow with a glass eye who owns a castle somewhere in France. . . . Are you satisfied yet?" he added indignantly.
"I'm satisfied you're Fatty Welch," Barney replied. "I ain't on to your game, I admit. Still, I can do the Baron act awhile if it amuses you any."
The train emerged from the tunnel, and McAllister observed that there were other friends of his on the car, bound evidently for the same destination. Well, anything was better than having that confounded story about the Tombs get around. He had often thought that if it ever did he would go abroad to live. He couldn't stand ridicule. His dignity was his chief asset. Nothing so effectually, as McAllister well knew, conceals the absence of brains. But could he ever in the wide, wide world work off the detective as a baron? Well, if he failed, he could explain the situation on the basis of a practical joke and save his face in that way. Just at present the Baron was getting along famously with Wainwright. McAllister hoped he wouldn't overdo it. One thing, thank Heaven, he remembered—Wainwright had flunked his French disgracefully at college and probably wouldn't dare venture it under the circumstances. There was still a chance that he might convince his captor of his mistake before they reached Scarsdale, and on the strength of this he proposed a cigar. But Wainwright had frozen hard to his Baron and accepted for himself with alacrity, even suggesting a drink on his own account. McAllister's heart failed him as he thought of having to present the detective to Mrs. Blair and her fashionable guests and—by George, the fellow hadn't got a dress-suit! They never could get over that. It was bad enough to lug in a stranger—a "copper"—and palm him off as the distinguished friend of a friend, but a feller without any evening clothes—impossible! McAllister wanted to shoot him. Was ever a chap so tied up? And now if the feller wasn't talking about Paris! Paris! He'd make some awful break, and then— Oh, curse the luck, anyway!
Then it was that McAllister resolved to do something desperate.
II
"I'm perfectly delighted to have the Baron. Why didn't you bring Pierrepont, too? How d'y' do, Baron? Let me present you to my husband. Gordon—Baron de Ville. I'll put you and Mr. McAllister together. We're just a little crowded. You've hardly time to dress—dinner in just nineteen minutes."
"Zank you! It ees so vera hospitable!" said the Baron, bowing low, and twirling his mustache in the most approved fashion.
"Come on, de Ville." McAllister slapped his Old-Man-of-the-Sea upon the back good-naturedly. "You can give Mrs. Blair all the risque Paris gossip at dinner." They followed the second man upstairs. Although an old friend of both Mrs. Blair and her husband, McAllister had never been at the Scarsdale house before. It was new, and massively built. They were debating whether or not to call it Castle Blair. The second man showed them to a room at the extreme end of a wing, and as the servant laid out the clothes McAllister thought the man eyed him rather curiously. Well, confound it, he was getting used to it. Barney lit a cigarette and measured the distance from the window to the ground with a discriminating eye.
"Well," said the clubman, after the second man had finally retired, "are you satisfied? And what the deuce is going to happen now?"
Barney sank into a Morris chair and thrust his feet comfortably on to the fender.
"Fatty,"
