[Illustration: Scenes From the Photo-Drama.]
“Please, am I mixed up with Mr. Krantz?” inquired Hermione, smiling, for it was a bizarre experience to find herself interested in all sorts and conditions of people whom she had never heard of.
“Mr. Krantz is the reception clerk at the Central Hotel,” was the answer, which conveyed fuller information to other ears than the girl’s. Then Steingall glanced at his watch.
“I think some of you people must be tired after a strenuous day,” he said. “I expect to be called away soon, and it is possible that I may want to disturb you, Mr. Curtis, before you retire for the night. Do you intend to remain here?”
“Yes.”
For an instant, an appreciable constraint manifested its presence, and Uncle Horace did not display his wonted tact when he accentuated it by a dry chuckle, à propos of nothing in particular. Curtis relieved the situation after a slight hesitation.
“Lady Hermione, I take it, will now go to bed,” he said coolly, “and, if she is wise, will refuse to unlock her door again till her maid comes in the morning. I purpose changing my clothes, in case I may have to accompany you on some midnight expedition. My uncle and aunt will tell us where they are staying, and arrange to meet us here at lunch to-morrow. You, Devar, being an approved night hawk, will join me in a cigar. How is that for a reasonable disposal of the company, Mr. Steingall?”
As though in reply, the telephone rang again, and the detective lifted the receiver from its hook.
“Hello! That you, Clancy?” he said. “Right. I’ll come along by the subway from 59th Street—that will be quicker than a taxi … yes … yes.”
He turned, and the five people in the room saw that his face was glowing with the fire of action.
“You can defer that change of suits, Mr. Curtis. We must be off at once.… Mr. Devar, have you an automobile? Can you get hold of it now? Well, ’phone your chauffeur to be at Centre-street headquarters in as much under half-an-hour as he can manage. Taxi-drivers gossip among themselves, so a private car is better.… Excuse the rush, Lady Hermione, and you, too, Mrs. Curtis. I haven’t another minute to spare.”
Luckily, Curtis found his overcoat awaiting him in the cloak room, or he might have been in a difficulty, for New York in November is not a city which encourages midnight journeys in evening dress.
Uncle Horace and Aunt Louisa were hurried into a taxi, and as they were being whisked off to the quiet hotel to which their baggage had been consigned, the stout man began polishing his domed forehead once more.
“Lou,” he said, “I can’t make head nor tail of this business. Can you?”
“Not yet, Horace,” was the hopeful response.
“But—what sort of marriage is this, anyway?”
“Oh, that’s all right. Those two haven’t begun courting yet. But it won’t be long before they start. Did you notice——”
And details observed by Aunt Louisa endured till the taxi stopped.