# The City of Masks/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
MR. TROTTER FALLS INTO A NEW POSITION
THE sagacity of M. Mirabeau went far toward nullifying the hastily laid plans of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. It was he who suggested a prompt effort to recover the two marked bills that Trotter had handed to his landlady earlier in the day.
Prince Waldemar de Bosky, with a brand new twenty-dollar bill in his possession,—(supplied by the excited Frenchman)—boarded a Lexington Avenue car and in due time mounted the steps leading to the front door of the lodging house kept by Mrs. Dulaney. Ostensibly he was in search of a room for a gentleman of refinement and culture; Mrs. Dulaney's house had been recommended to him as first class in every particular. The landlady herself showed him a room, fourth-floor front, just vacated (she said) by a most refined gentleman engaged in the phonograph business. It was her rule to demand references from prospective lodgers, but as she had been in the business a great many years it was now possible for her to distinguish a gentleman the instant she laid eyes on him, so it would only be necessary for the present applicant to pay the first week's rent in advance. He could then move in at once.
With considerable mortification, she declared that she wouldn't insist on the "advance,"—knowing gentlemen as perfectly as she did,—were it not for the fact that ​her rent was due and she was short exactly that amount,—having recently sent more than she could spare to a sick sister in Bridgeport.
De Bosky was very amiable about it,—and very courteous. He said that, so far as he knew, all gentlemen were prepared to pay five dollars in advance when they engaged lodgings by the week, and would she be so good as to take it out of the twenty-dollar bill?
Mrs. Dulaney was slightly chagrined. The sight of a twenty-dollar bill caused her to regret not having asked for two weeks down instead of one.
"If it does not inconvenience you, madam," said de Bosky, "I should like the change in new bills. You have no idea how it offends my artistic sense to—" He shuddered a little. "I make a point of never having filthy, germ-disseminating bank notes on my person."
"And you are quite right," said she feelingly. "I wish to God I could afford to be as particular. If there's anything I hate it's a dirty old bill. Any one could tell that you are a real gentleman, Mr.—Mr.—I didn't get the name, did I?"
"Drexel," he said.
"Excuse me," she said, and moved over a couple of paces in order to place the parlour table between herself and the prospective lodger. Using it as a screen, she fished a thin flat purse from her stocking, and opened it. "I wouldn't do this in the presence of any one but a gentleman," she explained, without embarrassment. As she was twice the size of Prince Waldemar and of a ruggedness that challenged offence, one ​might have been justified in crediting her with egotism instead of modesty.
Selecting the brightest and crispest from the layer of bank notes, she laid them on the table. De Bosky's eyes glistened.
"The city has recently been flooded with counterfeit fives and tens, madam," he said politely. This afforded an excuse for holding the bills to the light for examination.
"Now, don't tell me they're phoney," said Mrs. Dulaney, bristling. "I got 'em this morning from the squarest chap I've ever had in my—"
"I have every reason to believe they are genuine," said he, concealing his exultation behind a patronizing smile. He had discovered the tell-tale marks on both bills. Carefully folding them, he stuck them into his waistcoat pocket. "You may expect me tomorrow, madam,—unless, of course, destiny should shape another end for me in the meantime. One never can tell, you know. I may be dead, or your comfortable house may be burned to the ground. It is—"
"For the Lord's sake, don't make a crack like that," she cried vehemently. "It's bad luck to talk about fire."
"In any event," said he jauntily, "you have my five dollars. Au revoir, madam. Auf wiedersehn!" He buttoned Mr. Bramble's ulster close about his throat and gravely bowed himself out into the falling night.
In the meantime, Mr. Bramble had substituted two unmarked bills for those remaining in the possession of ​Thomas Trotter, and, with the return of Prince Waldemar, triumphant, M. Mirabeau arbitrarily confiscated the entire thirty dollars.
"These bills must be concealed at once," he explained. "Temporarily they are out of circulation. Do not give them another thought, my dear Trotter. And now, Monsieur Bookseller, we are in a proper frame of mind to discuss the beefsteak you have neglected to order."
"God bless my soul," cried Mr. Bramble in great dismay. His unceremonious departure an instant later was due to panic. Mrs. O'Leary had to be stopped before the tripe and tunny fish had gone too far. Moreover, he had forgotten to tell her that there would be two extra for dinner,—besides the extra sirloin.
On the following Monday, Thomas Trotter entered the service of Mrs. Millidew, and on the same day Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis returned to New York after a hasty and more or less unpremeditated visit to Atlantic City, where he experienced a trying half hour with the unreasonable Mr. Carpenter, who spoke feelingly of a personal loss and most unfeelingly of the British Foreign Office. Every nation in the world, he raged, has a foreign office; foreign offices are as plentiful as birds'-nests. But Tom Trotters were as scarce as hen's-teeth. He would never find another like him.
"And what's more," he interrupted himself to say, glowering at the shocked young man, "he's a gentleman, and that's something you ain't,—not in a million years."
"Ass!" said Mr. Smith-Parvis, under his breath.
​"What's that?" roared the aggrieved one.
"Don't shout like that! People are beginning to stare at—"
"Thank the Lord I had sense enough to engage a private detective and not to call in the police, as you suggested. That would have been the limit. I've a notion to hunt that boy up and tell him the whole rotten story."
"Go ahead and do it," invited Stuyvie, his eyes narrowing, "and I will do a little telling myself. There is one thing in particular your wife would give her ears to hear about you. It will simplify matters tremendously. Go ahead and tell him."
Mr. Carpenter appeared to be reflecting. His inflamed sullen eyes assumed a misty, faraway expression.
"For two cents I'd tell you to go to hell," he said, after a long silence.
"Boy!" called Mr. Smith-Parvis loftily, signalling a passing bell-hop. "Go and get me some small change for this nickel."
Mr. Carpenter's face relaxed into a sickly grin. "Can't you take a joke?" he inquired peevishly.
"Never mind," said Stuyvie to the bell-boy. "I sha'n't need it after all."
"What I'd like to know," mused Mr. Carpenter, later on, "is how in thunder the New York police department got wind of all this."
Mr. Smith-Parvis, Junior, wiped a fine moisture from his brow, and said: "I forgot to mention that I had to give that plain-clothes man fifty dollars to keep him from going to old man Cricklewick with the whole ​blooming story. It seems that he got it from your bally private detective."
"Good!" said the other brightly. "You got off cheap," he added quickly, catching the look in Stuyvie's eye.
"I did it to spare Cricklewick a whole lot of embarrassment," said the younger man stiffly.
"I don't get you."
"He never could look me in the face again if he found out I was the man he was panning so unmercifully the other night at our own dinner table." He wiped his brow again. "'Gad, he'd never forgive himself."
Which goes to prove that Stuyvie was more considerate of the feelings of others than one might have credited him with being.
Mrs. Millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,—an idiosyncrasy, it may be said, that brought her into contact with a great many of them in the course of a twelvemonth. The last one to leave her without giving the customary week's notice had remained in her employ longer than any of his predecessors. A most astonishing discrepancy appeared in their statements as to the exact length of time he was in her service. Mrs. Millidew maintained that he was with her for exactly three weeks; the chauffeur swore to high heaven that it was three centuries.
She had Thomas Trotter up before her.
"You have been recommended to me by Mr. Cricklewick," she said, regarding him with a critical eye. "No other reference is necessary, so don't go fumbling ​in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What is your name?"
She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows.
"Thomas Trotter, madam."
"How tall are you?"
"Six feet."
"I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him.
Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam."
"You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you."
"Are you speaking of livery, madam?"
"I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't be buying new uniforms every two weeks. I don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. Mr. Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter of fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin. You couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man. I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English chauffeur, and—you are English, aren't you?"
"Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for you. I never, under any circumstances, wear livery,—I beg your pardon, I should say a uniform."
"You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking.
"Wear livery," said he, succinctly.
"That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you worked for me. Now, see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon—"
"I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted po​litely, favouring her with his never-failing smile. Her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is as far as I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know."
"I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are quite a good-looking fellow. The last man I had looked like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white pants. I— Don't you think you could be persuaded to put it on if I,—well, if I added five dollars a week to your wages? I like your looks. You look as if you might have been a soldier."
Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew. That's quite different, you see."
"Suppose I take you on trial for a couple of weeks," she ventured, surrendering to his smile and the light in his unservile eyes. Considering the matter settled, she went on brusquely: "How old are you. Trotter?"
"Thirty."
"Are you married? I never employ married men. Their wives are always having babies or operations or something disagreeable and unnecessary."
"I am not married, Mrs. Millidew."
"Who was your last employer in England?"
"His Majesty King George the Fifth," said Trotter calmly.
Her eyes bulged. "What?" she cried. Then her eyes narrowed. "And do you mean to tell me you didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?"
"I wore a uniform, madam."
"Umph! America has spoiled you, I see. That's always the way. Independence is a curse. Have you ​ever been arrested? Wait! Don't answer. I withdraw the question. You would only lie, and that is a bad way to begin."
"I lie only when it is absolutely necessary, Mrs. Millidew. In police courts, for example."
"Good! Now, you are young, good looking and likely to be spoiled. It must be understood in the beginning, Trotter, that there is to be no foolishness with women." She regarded him severely.
"No foolishness whatsoever," said he humbly, raising his eyes to heaven.
"How long were you employed in your last job—ah, situation?"
"Not quite a twelve-month, madam."
"And now," she said, with a graciousness that surprised her, "perhaps you would like to put a few questions to me. The cooks always do."
He smiled more engagingly than ever. "As they say in the advertisements of lost jewellery, madam,—'no questions asked,'" he said.
"Eh? Oh, I see. Rather good. I hope you know your place, though," she added, narrowly. "I don't approve of freshness."
"No more do I," said he, agreeably.
"I suppose you are accustomed to driving in—er—in good society. Trotter. You know what I mean."
"Perfectly. I have driven in the very best, madam, if I do say it as shouldn't. Beg pardon, I daresay you mean smart society?" He appeared to be very much concerned, even going so far as to send an appraising eye around the room,—doubtless for the purpose of satisfying himself that she was quite up to the standard.
​"Of course," she said hastily. Something told her that if she didn't nab him on the spot he would get away from her. "Can you start in at once, Trotter?"
"We have not agreed upon the wages, madam."
"I have never paid less than forty a week," she said stiffly. "Even for bad ones," she added.
He smiled, but said nothing, apparently waiting for her to proceed.
"Would fifty a week suit you?" she asked, after a long pause. She was a little helpless.
"Quite," said he.
"It's a lot of money," she murmured. "But I like the way you speak English. By the way, let me hear you say: 'It is half after four, madam. Are you going on to Mrs. Brown's.'"
Trotter laid himself out. He said "hawf-paast," and "fou-ah," and "Meddem," and "gehing," in a way that delighted her.
"I shall be going out at three o'clock. Trotter. Be on time. I insist on punctuality."
"Very good, madam," he said, and retreated in good order. She halted him at the door.
"Above all things you mustn't let any of these silly women make a fool of you, Trotter," she said, a troubled gleam in her eyes.
"I will do my best, madam," he assured her.
And that very afternoon she appeared in triumph at the home of her daughter-in-law (the young Mrs. Millidew) and invited that widowed siren to go out for a spin with her "behind the stunningest creature you ever laid your eyes on."
"Where did you get him?" inquired the beautiful ​daughter-in-law, later on, in a voice perfectly audible to the man at the wheel. "He's the best looking thing in town. Don't be surprised if I steal him inside of a week." She might as well have been at the zoo, discussing impervious captives.
"Now, don't try anything like that," cried Mrs. Millidew the elder, glaring fiercely.
"I like the way his hair kinks in the back,—and just above his ears," said the other. "And his skin is as smooth and as clear—"
"Is there any drive in particular you would like to take, madam?" broke in Trotter, turning in the seat.
"Up—up and down Fifth Avenue," said Mrs. Millidew promptly.
"Did you ever see such teeth?" cried Mrs. Millidew, the younger, delightedly.
Trotter's ears were noticeable on account of their colour.