"Steve's mad!"
"Is he? Steve's the best pal I've got. For two years I've been aching
to get at this boy, and Steve has had the sense to show me the way."
He went on as if talking to himself.
"Steve's a man. I'm just a fool who hangs round without the nerve to
act. If I had had the pluck of a rabbit I'd have done this myself six
months ago. But I've hung round doing nothing while that damned Porter
woman played the fool with the boy. I'll be lucky now if he remembers
who I am."
He turned abruptly to Mamie.
"Mamie, you can tell them whatever you please when you get home. They
can't blame you. It's not your fault. Tell them that Steve was acting
for me with my complete approval. Tell them that the kid's going to be
brought up right from now on. I've got him, and I'm going to keep him."
Mamie had risen and was facing him, a very determined midget, pink and
resolute.
"I'm not going home, Mr. Winfield."
"What?"
"If you are going to Bill, I am coming with you."
"Nonsense."
"That's my place, with him."
"But you can't. It's impossible."
"Not more impossible than what has happened already."
"I won't take you."
"Then I'll go by train. I know where your house is. Steve told me."
"It's out of the question."
Mamie's Irish temper got the better of her professional desire to
maintain the discreetly respectful attitude of employee toward
employer.
"Is it then? We'll see. Do you think I'm going to leave you and Steve
to look after my Bill? What do men know about taking care of children?
You would choke the poor mite or let him kill himself a hundred ways."
She glared at him defiantly. He glared back at her. Then his sense of
humour came to his rescue. She looked so absurdly small standing there
with her chin up and her fists clenched. He laughed delightedly. He
went up to her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders, looking down
at her. He felt that he loved her for her championship of Bill.
"You're a brick, Mamie. Of course you shall come. We'll call at the house
and you can pack your grip. But, by George, if you put that infernal
thermometer in I'll run the automobile up against a telegraph-pole, and
then Bill will lose us both."
"Finished?" said a voice. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Sorry."
Mr. Penway was gazing at them with affectionate interest from the
doorway. Kirk released Mamie and stepped back.
"I only looked in," explained Mr. Penway. "Didn't mean to intrude.
Thought you might have finished your chat, and it was a trifle lonely
communing with nature."
"Bob," said Kirk, "you'll have to get on without me for a day or two.
Make yourself at home. You know where everything is."
"I can satisfy my simple needs. Thinking of going away?"
"I've got to go up to Connecticut. I don't know how long I shall be
away."
"Take your time," said Mr. Penway affably. "Going in the auto?"
"Yes."
"The weather is very pleasant for automobiling just now," remarked Mr.
Penway.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, having thrown a few things together into a bag, Kirk
took his place at the wheel. Mamie sat beside him. The bag had the rear
seat to itself.
"There seems to be plenty of room still," said Mr. Penway. "I have half
a mind to come with you."
He looked at Mamie.
"But on reflection I fancy you can get along without me."
He stood at the door, gazing after the motor as it moved down the
street. When it had turned the corner he went back into the studio and
mixed himself a high-ball.
"Kirk does manage to find them," he said enviously.
Chapter XI Mr. Penway on the Grill
Fate moves in a mysterious way. Luck comes hand in hand with
misfortune. What we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts.
If Keggs had not seen twenty-five of his hard-earned dollars pass at
one swoop into the clutches of the croupier at the apparently
untenanted house on Forty-First Street, and become disgusted with the
pleasing game of roulette, he might have delayed his return to the
house on Fifth Avenue till a later hour; in which case he would have
missed the remarkable and stimulating spectacle of Kirk driving to the
door in an automobile with Mamie at his side; of Mamie, jumping out and
entering the house; of Mamie leaving the house with a suit-case; of
Kirk helping her into the automobile, and of the automobile
disappearing with its interesting occupants up the avenue at a high
rate of speed.
Having lost his money, as stated, and having returned home, he was
enabled to be a witness, the only witness, of these notable events, and
his breast was filled with a calm joy in consequence. This was
something special. This was exclusive, a scoop. He looked forward to
the return of Mrs. Porter with an eagerness which, earlier in the day,
he would have considered impossible. Somehow Ruth did not figure in his
picture of the delivery of the sensational news that Mr. Winfield had
eloped with the young person engaged to look after her son. Mrs.
Porter's was one of those characters which monopolize any stage on
which they appear. Besides, Keggs disliked Mrs. Porter, and the
pleasure of the prospect of giving her a shock left no room for other
thoughts.
It was nearly seven o'clock when Mrs. Porter reached the house. She was
a little tired from the journey, but in high good humour. She had had a
thoroughly satisfactory interview with her publishers, satisfactory,
that is to say, to herself; the publishers had other views.
"Is Mrs. Winfield in?" she asked Keggs as he admitted her.
Ruth was always sympathetic about her guerrilla warfare with the
publishers. She looked forward to a cosy chat, in the course of which
she would trace, step by step, the progress of the late campaign which
had begun overnight and had culminated that morning in a sort of
Gettysburg, from which she had emerged with her arms full of captured
flags and all the other trophies of conquest.
"No, madam," said Keggs. "Mrs. Winfield has not yet returned."
Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away his
climax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience would
permit.
"Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party is
next week, I understand."
"Yes, madam."
"Where has she gone?"
"To Tuxedo, madam."
"Tuxedo?"
"Mrs. Winfield has just rung us up from there upon the telephone to
request that necessaries for an indefinite stay be despatched to her.
She is visiting Mrs. Bailey Bannister."
If Mrs. Porter had been Steve, she would probably have said "For the
love of Mike!" at this point. Being herself, she merely repeated the
butler's last words.
"If I may be allowed to say so, madam, I think that there must have
been trouble at Mrs. Bannister's. A telephone-call came from her very
early this morning for Mrs. Winfield which caused Mrs. Winfield to rise
and leave in a taximeter-cab in an extreme hurry. If I might be allowed
to suggest it, it is probably a case of serious illness. Mrs. Winfield
was looking very disturbed."
"H'm!" said Mrs. Porter. The exclamation was one of disappointment
rather than of apprehension. Sudden illnesses at the Bailey home did
not stir her, but she was annoyed that her recital of the squelching of
the publishers would have to wait.
She went upstairs. Her intention was to look in at the nursery and