"Welcome, Comrade Parker," said Psmith. "It is too long since we met. Comrade Jarvis I think you know. If I am right, that is to say, in supposing that it was you who approached him at an earlier stage in the proceedings with a view to engaging his sympathetic aid in the great work of putting Comrade Windsor and myself out of business. The gentleman on your left is Comrade Otto."
Mr. Parker was looking at Bat in bewilderment. It was plain that he had not expected to find Psmith entertaining such company.
"Did you come purely for friendly chit-chat, Comrade Parker," inquired Psmith, "or was there, woven into the social motives of your call, a desire to talk business of any kind?"
"My business is private. I didn't expect a crowd."
"Especially of ancient friends such as Comrade Jarvis. Well, well, you are breaking up a most interesting little symposium. Comrade Jarvis, I think I shall be forced to postpone our very entertaining discussion of fits in kittens till a more opportune moment. Meanwhile, as Comrade Parker wishes to talk over some private business--"
Bat Jarvis rose.
"I'll beat it," he said.
"Reluctantly, I hope, Comrade Jarvis. As reluctantly as I hint that I would be alone. If I might drop in some time at your private residence?"
"Sure," said Mr. Jarvis warmly.
"Excellent. Well, for the present, good-bye. And many thanks for your invaluable co-operation."
"Aw chee!" said Mr. Jarvis.
"And now, Comrade Parker," said Psmith, when the door had closed, "let her rip. What can I do for you?"
"You seem to be all to the merry with Bat Jarvis," observed Mr. Parker.
"The phrase exactly expresses it, Comrade Parker. I am as a tortoiseshell kitten to him. But, touching your business?"
Mr. Parker was silent for a moment.
"See here," he said at last, "aren't you going to be good? Say, what's the use of keeping on at this fool game? Why not quit it before you get hurt?"
Psmith smoothed his waistcoat reflectively.
"I may be wrong, Comrade Parker," he said, "but it seems to me that the chances of my getting hurt are not so great as you appear to imagine. The person who is in danger of getting hurt seems to me to be the gentleman whose name is on that paper which is now in my possession."
"Where is it?" demanded Mr. Parker quickly.
Psmith eyed him benevolently.
"If you will pardon the expression, Comrade Parker," he said, "'Aha!' Meaning that I propose to keep that information to myself."
Mr. Parker shrugged his shoulders.
"You know your own business, I guess."
Psmith nodded.
"You are absolutely correct, Comrade Parker. I do. Now that Cosy Moments has our excellent friend Comrade Jarvis on its side, are you not to a certain extent among the Blenheim Oranges? I think so. I think so."
As he spoke there was a rap at the door. A small boy entered. In his hand was a scrap of paper.
"Guy asks me give dis to gazebo named Smiff" he said.
"There are many gazebos of that name, my lad. One of whom I am which, as Artemus Ward was wont to observe. Possibly the missive is for me."
He took the paper. It was dated from an address on the East Side.
"Dear Smith," it ran. "Come here as quick as you can, and bring some money. Explain when I see you."
It was signed "W. W."
So Billy Windsor had fulfilled his promise. He had escaped.
A feeling of regret for the futility of the thing was Psmith's first emotion. Billy could be of no possible help in the campaign at its present point. All the work that remained to be done could easily be carried through without his assistance. And by breaking out from the Island he had committed an offence which was bound to carry with it serious penalties. For the first time since his connection with Cosy Moments began Psmith was really disturbed.
He turned to Mr. Parker.
"Comrade Parker," he said, "I regret to state that this office is now closing for the day. But for this, I should be delighted to sit chatting with you. As it is--"
"Very well," said Mr. Parker. "Then you mean to go on with this business?"
"Though it snows, Comrade Parker."
They went out into the street, Psmith thoughtful and hardly realising the other's presence. By the side of the pavement a few yards down the road a taximeter-cab was standing. Psmith hailed it.
Mr. Parker was still beside him. It occurred to Psmith that it would not do to let him hear the address Billy Windsor had given in his note.
"Turn and go on down the street," he said to the driver.
He had taken his seat and was closing the door, when it was snatched from his grasp and Mr. Parker darted on to the seat opposite. The next moment the cab had started up the street instead of and the hard muzzle of a revolver was pressing against Psmith's waistcoat.
"Now what?" said Mr. Parker smoothly, leaning back with the pistol resting easily on his knee.
CHAPTER XXVI
A FRIEND IN NEED
"The point is well taken," said Psmith thoughtfully.
"You think so?" said Mr. Parker.
"I am convinced of it."
"Good. But don't move. Put that hand back where it was."
"You think of everything, Comrade Parker."
He dropped his hand on to the seat, and remained silent for a few moments. The taxi-cab was buzzing along up Fifth Avenue now. Looking towards the window, Psmith saw that they were nearing the park. The great white mass of the Plaza Hotel showed up on the left.
"Did you ever stop at the Plaza, Comrade Parker?"
"No," said Mr. Parker shortly.
"Don't bite at me, Comrade Parker. Why be brusque on so joyous an occasion? Better men than us have stopped at the Plaza. Ah, the Park! How fresh the leaves, Comrade Parker, how green the herbage! Fling your eye at yonder grassy knoll."
He raised his hand to point. Instantly the revolver was against his waistcoat, making an unwelcome crease in that immaculate garment.
"I told you to keep that hand where it was."
"You did, Comrade Parker, you did. The fault," said Psmith handsomely, "was entirely mine. Carried away by my love of nature, I forgot. It shall not occur again."
"It had better not," said Mr. Parker unpleasantly. "If it does, I'll blow a hole through you."
Psmith raised his eyebrows.
"That, Comrade Parker," he said, "is where you make your error. You would no more shoot me in the heart of the metropolis than, I trust you would wear a made-up tie with evening dress. Your skin, however unhealthy to the eye of the casual observer, is doubtless precious to yourself, and you are not the man I take you for if you would risk it purely for the momentary pleasure of plugging me with a revolver. The cry goes round criminal circles in New York, 'Comrade Parker is not such a fool as he looks.' Think for a moment what would happen. The shot would ring out, and instantly bicycle-policemen would be pursuing this taxi-cab with the purposeful speed of greyhounds trying to win the Waterloo Cup. You would be headed off and stopped. Ha! What is this? Psmith, the People's Pet, weltering in his gore? Death to the assassin! I fear nothing could save you from the fury of the mob, Comrade Parker. I seem to see them meditatively plucking you limb from limb. 'She loves me!' Off comes an arm. 'She loves me not.' A leg joins the little heap of limbs on the ground. That is how it would be. And what would you have left out of it? Merely, as I say, the momentary pleasure of potting me. And it isn't as if such a feat could give you the thrill of successful marksmanship. Anybody could hit a man with a pistol at an inch and a quarter. I fear you have not thought this matter out with sufficient care, Comrade Parker. You said to yourself, 'Happy thought, I will kidnap Psmith! 'and all your friends said, 'Parker is the man with the big brain!' But now, while it is true that I can't get out, you are moaning, 'What on earth shall I do with him, now that I have got him?'"