“What do you wager that I find an invitation for dinner from Mrs. Mason when we get back?” Juan said to Michael, as they were getting into their car, after having said adieu to the two inspectors, and to the sergeant who had shown them over part of the big place.
“I wish to lose no money, and therefore I wager nothing,” said Michael. “I know that you ought to hitch your title, and another name to which you have a right, together. Don Juan—”
Don Jaime de Ventura never boyishly scuffled, as Juan Murphey loved to do, but he had his own way of making a reprisal; he suddenly caught the little man beside him in what seemed like a hand of iron and on the small but muscular leg of that gentleman left a respectably sized black and blue spot, due to a vigorous pinch.
“Ouch!” said Michael. “Confound you — where do you get those steel pliers you call your fingers?”
“Well, then — lay off that line of talk.”
Michael was about to make some laughing reply when, to his infinite astonishment, Juan threw him to the floor of the car and at the same instant cast his long body prone on the seat. Not a second too soon, either.
In the moment during which this violent action occurred, there was a tinkle of glass and a bullet plumped itself into the other side of the car. The driver looked around at the sound, and started to pull up.
“No, no, go on!” Juan signaled with his hand, and the reply was a spurt of speed. Their Jehu was taking no chances on lingering. A glance at the face of his fare had been enough.
In fact, Juan was more concerned than he had often been in any of the events of his hazardous career. He had not realized how much little Harvey Lettner — the quaint “Michael Strogoff” of his invention — meant to him until he saw how close he had come to losing him.
“W-w-h-a-t… what… was that?” Michael managed to get out.
Before he replied, Juan told the driver to slow up, and then assisted his friend to the seat. “Somebody shot at us, driver,” he explained to the flustered chauffeur.
The man, half-slewed around in his seat, stared.
“Shot? Was that what broke the glass?”
“Yes. I was afraid to have you stop, at the moment. Some crazy person, perhaps. I will make a report of it to the police when we get back to the hotel. The bullet is right here.”
“Lawd bless us!” the chauffeur ejaculated, forgetting the austere pose which he usually maintained. All the rest of the way he drove as in a daze.
“You see, Michael,” said Juan in the latter’s ear, “just as I glanced out of the window I had a vague impression that some one behind one of the market stalls we were just then passing was aiming a pistol our way. I saw the hand and part of the sleeve.
“It was purely instinct that made me throw you to the floor and myself out of line of fire, and it must have been one split second afterward that the person fired.
“I would have preferred not to have had this happen, and if the bullet had passed out the other window, I would have professed not to know what had broken the glass. As it was, there was nothing to do but act the part of travelers who know of no reason for any one shooting at them.”
Michael did not speak, but he gripped the hand of Juan and wrung it, and the two men, always undemonstrative to each other, but really hearty friends, looked at each other with their affection shining in their eyes.
“No use in trying to thrash this out here,” said Michael finally.
At the hotel Don Jaime, languid and indifferent, stated that some one “probably insane” had taken a shot at his car. He gave the approximate place at which the thing had occurred, shrugged off the congratulations of the manager on his escape, and went to his suite.
“Now then,” he said, as he sank into a chair, “what are we up against? Can it be that I am, known? Some way or other, I do not believe it. Was that an accident? The shot meant for some one else?”
“It seems incredible that you should have seen and acted quickly enough to save my life,” said Michael. “I don’t suppose that you can remember more than just that flashing impression of the pistol and the hand?”
“Indeed, my dear Michael, it was hardly a thing which was actually seen. It was like a flash which you sometimes see in the motion pictures — a thing in the background which is there and gone while you wink. My action was instinctive. It might well have been that what I saw was an illusion if it had not been for the evidence of the shot.”
“I was never on a case with you when there seemed so many complications and when I was so conscious of danger at every step. From where that bullet struck, it looked as if it were intended for me, didn’t it? And yet, it would have been very hard to aim that carefully—”
“We were not moving very fast at that moment; in fact, we were just moving on again after a traffic stall. The person was standing somewhat behind something on the stalls — boxes or crates — I have the vaguest impression.”
There was a knock on the outer door of the suite, and at once Michael became the valet. Correct, subdued, and yet with authority in his manner he went toward the door.
The only incongruous thing about him was that from somewhere up his sleeve — in response to a quick gesture from Juan — he slid a pistol into view and then mysteriously caused it to disappear, as he grinned impishly over his shoulder before opening the door.
A uniformed messenger handed over a letter.
“I told you I’d have the invitation from Mrs. Mason!” exclaimed Juan, as he showed Michael the embossed M on the flap.
Chapter XIV
Mrs. Mason Entertains
Mrs. Mason had a very handsome house, but its real charms were the trees, shrubs, and the big flower garden in the midst of which it was set. The house next door, No. 26, had less grounds, but was very large and imposing.
The exclusiveness of the locality was shown by everything and every one there, the houses, the grounds, the fine motors which glided along, the footmen and butlers, of whom glimpses could be had when doors were opened.
Mrs. Mason’s drawing-room looked out on the south aspect of her garden and toward the Batten house, from which the garden was separated only by a low brick wall, topped with vines and bright-hued flowers.
There was a gate in the wall, and a path of beautifully tinted stones led to it through the Mason garden. This could be seen the moment that one entered the room, for the whole south side of it was mostly long windows, opening onto a small terrace.
There was no one in the room when Don Jaime de Ventura was left in it by the butler, and therefore he had time to make his observations. He saw that the windows of the Batten house were much smaller than those in the Mason house, and guessed that the Batten house was the older one, made in the days when the admittance of light and sun was not considered as important as it is to-day.
There was a big chimney shouldering toward him and several windows at odd angles, which made him conclude that the hall, the hall chimney, and the stairs were on the side facing him.
Then Mrs. Mason came in with her quick, light step, and her frank smile.
It was not for nothing that Juan Murphey had had a Spanish mother whose traditions had been of great estate. She had given her son intensive social training. She had left with him that pride of race which demands of itself that it shall act in a manner worthy of the noble tradition.
Mrs. Mason’s fine eyes smiled on her visitor with genuine appreciation. She guessed that there were riches of his mind which she had not found, and beauties of his nature which no one save those very close to him would ever find, but she had already found him a delightful companion and a man of heart as well as intellect.