# No Trumps

Extracted from Cosmopolitan magazine, October 1910, pp. 553-562. Accompanying illustrations James Montgomery Flagg may be omitted. [# Lord de Lys]
   [Illustration: “I AM WILLING TO REPAIR MY MISTAKE,” HE SAID. “I AM WILLING TO PAY.” “PAY!” SHE ECHOED WILDLY, AND WAS SUDDENLY SILENT, LOST IN GRIEF]
No Trumps
LORD DE LYS STUMBLES UPON ANOTHER RANDOM ROMANCE
By H. B. Marriott Watson
Author of “Galloping Dick,” “Captain Fortune,” “Hurricane Island,” etc.
LORD DE LYS laid down the third paper, and meditatively lit a cigarette. He had plunged into the frolic lightly, and now he had come to a point at which he must either go on or turn his back upon a fascinating opening. In the agony column of the first of the newspapers lying on his table was an advertisement, which he had marked in red. It ran thus:
F.C. Most urgently begged to communicate.
Doris.
F. C., he recalled, had arrested his passing eye, as being the initials of his Christian and his family name—Francis Charmian.
That, he supposed, was why he had answered the advertisement. In the agony column of the second paper, published two days later, appeared this:
Doris. Will keep appointment anywhere.
F. C..
That was his, de Lys's, plunge into some affair that obviously did not belong to him. Yet Doris had begged F. C. to communicate, and F. C. had communicated. There was nothing immoral or crooked in this, he reflected. That brought him to advertisement number three, which was as follows:
F. C. Serpentine Bridge, eight thirty to-night.
Doris.
He sat meditating for a few minutes, and then he rose, looked out on the spring sunshine in the square, and dismissed the matter from his mind. After all, it was ten o'clock of an April morning, and time was not made to be wasted. He spent the day agreeably, dined lightly and early at home, and by eight o'clock was in the street in the twilight. He walked all the way through Knightsbridge and by Hyde Park until he came to Queen's Gate. Then he turned off into the park where the road divides it from Kensington Gardens and leads over the Serpentine. It was by this time fairly dark, but the lamps were lit, and he could make out the figure of a man leaning over the bridge as he approached it, though he could determine no more than this. Cabs rattled by; an electric brougham, well lighted, flashed past with a pleasant jingle of bells. He took up his station by one corner of the bridge and waited events with watchful eyes.
Now, under the lamplight, he could make out the man's figure more clearly, leaning, as it was, well over toward the water below. But it was not a man of whom he was in search. His glance passed on and tried to pierce the obscurity of the bridge. He could see one corner of the bridge opposite; but there were two corners beyond; he moved slowly across. No one was visible on the bridge save the bent figure; he moved back to his former position, and taking out a match, struck it and examined his watch. It was twenty-five minutes to nine. Suddenly, with the extinguishing of the match, the flare of which had darkened all about him, a man appeared out of nowhere, and stood by him. It was not the figure on the bridge, which was still crouching there.
“F. C.?” asked the newcomer, in a low voice.
“I don't suppose you're Doris,” said de Lys, examining him as carefully as he might in the darkness.
“No, but I am come from her,” said the stranger quickly. “If you are F. C., will you please come with me.”
“One moment,” said de Lys, as the other was moving off. “What guarantee have I that you come from Doris?”
“For one thing, the fact that I am here,” said the man abruptly. “For another—this.” As he spoke he held out an ungloved hand, on a finger of which was a ring.
De Lys went through the form of bending over as if to inspect it, and was about to express himself as satisfied when a whim entered his head. “Yes, I see,” he said, “but, pardon me, I think I ought to have the charge of that.”
“Why, what—” There seemed a certain anger in the stranger's opening tone, but he paused. “Very well,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “You shall have it, and return it to the proper quarter.”
He drew the ring from his finger, and de Lys slipped it on his own.
“Now, I am ready,” he announced.
They walked in silence to the street, when the stranger hailed a cab. The lights of the street had revealed to de Lys some facts about his conductor. For one thing, he was a man of fifty, spare and gray, and he was obviously a gentleman. In the cab he made out other things, as, for example, that the stranger's lips were narrow, and his eyes hard and curiously lighted; his jaw full and firm for so slight a head. He turned on de Lys as the latter was making these observations.
“You do not ask me any questions,” he said abruptly.
“No; why should I?” said de Lys. “You are taking me to Doris.”
Something like a frown ruffled the other's brow, and after a little he spoke again. “You don't ask me who I am.”
“Perhaps I know—or can guess,” seemed a safe answer, and was the safer for its pendant, “If I am going to Doris nothing matters.”
Again the elderly stranger seemed perturbed. He drummed his fingers on the window for a moment, and then suddenly withdrew his hand, and sat back as if he had come to a conclusion. De Lys watched him out of eyes that seemed to be busy elsewhere, and followed his example of silence. He had a certain misgiving and a much greater wonder. He had not been able to overhear the directions given to the cabman, and he occupied himself with an endeavor to trace the way they were taking. He identified the main streets at first, but lost his bearings presently in a maze of Kensington roads. He only knew vaguely that they must be somewhere in the center of the garden district of Kensington. Then the cab drew up, and his guide got out. De Lys followed, and mounted the steps which led to the door of a considerable house. The door banged loud behind him as the stranger closed it.
“I think,” he said with that firm equableness which he had shown before, “that this will be the best place.”
De Lys followed him through one large room into a smaller one beyond, both of which were softly lighted.
“Sit down, please,” said the stranger. “A little conversation is, I fancy, necessary between us, Mr. Channing.”
“My dear sir,” replied de Lys politely, “I am quite sure that what you fancy you usually obtain. I am quite ready—as a preliminary, of course, to Doris.”
His host, if he may be so called, bent critical brows at this rejoinder. “I am,” he began with a certain pomposity, “John Swainson.”
“Indeed!” murmured de Lys, seeing that the pause emphasized the importance of this announcement.
“I suppose I am plain enough,” said Mr. Swainson sharply. “I am Miss Graham's guardian—or rather I was until, under the conditions of her father's will, she attained the age of twenty-five last December.”
De Lys was understood to murmur that it would be a privilege to be a ward of Mr. Swainson's.
“Come, sir, we are not here to speak flippancies or to beat about the bush,” said Swainson.
“I understood I was here to see Doris,” complained de Lys mildly.
Mr. Swainson examined him under lowered brows, but seemed to find some puzzle. “You are either,” said he austerely, “a remarkably shameless young man or a wonderful fool.”
“It never does,” said de Lys, shaking his head, “to decide too rashly.”
[Illustration: THERE WAS A MOMENTARY SILENCE BETWEEN THEM; THEN THE YOUNG MAN SAID FIERCELY, “YOU'RE A LIAR” ]
“I agree with you,” said Mr. Swainson bluntly, “and I hope to get sufficient evidence for a decision before you and I part. Let me tell you frankly then that you have been brought here under a pretense.”
De Lys slapped his knee vigorously. “Hanged if I didn't suspect it!” he exclaimed cheerfully.
“You have been brought here,” pursued Mr. Swainson, who was obviously embarrassed by this interjection, but who stuck tenaciously to his task, “by a contrivance of mine which I think is fully justified by the circumstances of what I regard as a scandalous case.”
“Oh, come, sir,” protested de Lys, who was anxious to know more of his position.
“I repeat, scandalous, and I might have made the word stronger,” said Mr. Swainson. “Before I broach my object let me put it thus: Last year, about this time, my ward, Miss Graham, makes your acquaintance while on a visit to Edinburgh. She is still my ward at the time, and I make inquiries. I find you to be a member of an apparently respectable firm in the city, and I have nothing to say. Though I have not set eyes on you until this moment, Mr. Channing, I should have had nothing to say at this moment, had it not been for what is well known to both of us.” He came to a pause. De Lys wished with all his heart that he would say what was well known to both of them.
“Miss Graham ceased to be my ward in December,” said Mr. Swainson, resuming. “I feel myself still bound to protect her—even against herself,” he added.
“Come,” thought de Lys, “Doris believes in me; that's a comfort.” Aloud he said: “I quite understand your feelings, my dear sir. If you will allow me to say so, they do you credit. I am sure neither Doris nor myself would willingly give—”
Mr. Swainson thrust him aside with an imperious gesture. “I may say now,” he interrupted with acerbity, “that if I wanted evidence as to what exactly you were I have got it. Anyone who in your position, and with the serious charges hanging over your head, could behave with such flippancy, is capable of anything. Well, I am glad. It makes my task easier, easier of proposal, and easier, I think, of fulfilment. I make you this proposition, Frederick Channing.” He moistened his lips, and set his white fingers together. “At this moment there are in my house officers from Scotland Yard who will act on my signal. I summoned them here by telephone on a subterfuge. Never mind that. If you give me a signed undertaking to break absolutely with Miss Graham and write a letter to my dictation, I will open the doors and let you go. I am not anxious to be catchpoll to the law. But if, on the other hand, you refuse, I will call the officers in and hand you over to the justice you have been evading.”
It came as a certain surprise to de Lys that he was involved in an affair of some consequence. There were elements of the dramatic in the situation which appealed to him, in sight of which he thrilled. But, as usual with him, he dallied with the predicament.
“Would not that be compounding a felony?” he asked after due consideration.
Mr. Swainson shrugged his shoulders. “I am not much concerned with technical terms if I can save an unfortunate young woman from her folly.”
“And this letter?” inquired de Lys softly.
“Ah!” Mr. Swainson's eyes narrowed on him. “It will be a letter addressed to Miss Graham which I shall post myself to-night.”
“A letter of renunciation?” suggested de Lys.
“More than that,” said the alder man grimly, “of confession.”
“Ah! then Doris believes in me still.” De Lys got that out, and the flash of annoyance in the other's eyes told him he was right. He accepted himself in the position and in the personality of Frederick Channing; he began to be eager for Frederick Channing to be innocent. All his forces were ready to be arrayed against the enemy and on behalf of Doris. If only he knew the details of Frederick Channing's supposed and alleged crime!
“Miss Graham's opinion on matters of business is hardly one on which to pin much faith,” said her ex-guardian coldly.
De Lys mused. There were the elements of a pretty tangle here, and he turned them over. On one thing he was determined—not to give any answer until he had seen Doris. He made this clear forthwith.
“You put me in a difficult position,” he said at last. “My decision affects two lives and for all time. I should like time to consider; and I think you will see that it is only fair that Miss Graham should be considered in this.”
“Good heavens, man, am I not considering her, first and last?” burst out Mr. Swainson, and checked himself. “Very well,” he went on slowly, “I dare say it is better she knew. I will see her and bring her to you.”
“I think it would be better if we consulted alone,” suggested de Lys.
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Swainson shortly, and went out. He was gone ten minutes, during which the prisoner made a cursory tour of his room, examining books and inspecting pictures to acquaint himself, if possible, with the characters and tastes of the inmates. In the center of the room was a card-table with a box of card-packs open. The click of the door arrested him in the midst of this occupation, and Mr. Swainson reentered, holding the door open for a handsome girl in evening dress. She was of average height, rather slight, and quick and dark of eye; and her pallor at this moment was intense. It was evident that Mr. Swainson had been explaining the situation to her. Her bosom was agitated with emotion. But as she swung in behind her guardian she stared, started, and exclaimed,
“This—this isn't Mr. Channing.”
De Lys made no movement, and Mr. Swainson's glance went back from him to her.
“Well,” he said dryly, “he came here as Mr. Channing, and does not seem anxious to disclaim the identity, which in the circumstances is rather remarkable.”
“No, no, Mr. Swainson, I assure you there is a mistake. It is not—not Mr. Channing.” She turned to him emotionally.
It was evident he did not credit her for a moment. He smiled sourly. “What do you say to that, sir?” he asked de Lys.
“I never contradict a lady,” said de Lys. “But perhaps, if you would permit us a private interview, we might advance a stage farther in this interesting drama.”
Mr. Swainson looked from one to the other. It was clear he thought he held the trump cards, and that by leaving them together he hoped the woman would persuade the man to accept safety. At any rate he slid from the room, pausing on the threshold only to call his prisoner's attention to the alternative. It was sufficiently dramatic to satisfy de Lys. Voices arose and issued through the opened door, voices from below—the rumble of male voices.
“You know the choice,” he said. “I think I can give you twenty minutes.”
The door shut him out, and the girl, who had stood staring at de Lys, spoke vehemently as it did. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I should like to know myself who I am, and what I have done,” said he in a friendly way.
“You answered this—this advertisement,” she began again tempestuously.
“Your advertisement,” he interposed.
“No,” she declared fiercely, “not mine, one forged in my name to trick—” She stopped. “Why did you answer this advertisement?” she demanded abruptly.
“Let us sit down, Miss Graham,” said he soothingly, “and I will tell you exactly how I stand, and with what light you can shed we may be able to see our way clearer.”
She sat down reluctantly, keeping her eyes suspiciously on him. He could see she was torn between anger and misery, and his pity went out to her.
“Let me begin by pleading guilty,” he said in his most sympathetic manner. “I have never believed these agony advertisements genuine. I have always thought them faked, practical jokes, the larks of young fools whose idea of wit is a damp squib. That was my jumping-off place. I saw one, and I decided to test it.”
“It is no excuse—it is no reason,” she cried piteously.
“I admit it,” he said gravely. “I am willing to repair my mistake. I have stumbled into something which does exist, which is not altogether a sham. I am willing to pay.”
“Pay!” she echoed wildly, and was suddenly silent, lost in grief.
“I take it,” said de Lys gently, “that Mr. Swainson was responsible for the advertisements. And I take it also that you are aware what he wants.”
“He wants me to—to break with Mr. Channing,” said the girl sadly.
“Will you please tell me about Mr. Channing?” urged de Lys.
“Mr. Channing is a partner, junior partner, in the firm of Grange & Channing, Solicitors,” said the girl in an even, emotionless voice.
“Grange & Channing!” De Lys seemed to recall the name somehow. He remembered suddenly. “I think I understand,” he said softly. “Mr. Grange's death was the occasion of the discovery of large defalcations by the firm.”
“By Mr. Grange,” corrected Miss Graham quickly. “Mr. Channing was ignorant of everything.”
“You know that?” he asked.
“He wrote and told me so,” she said simply.
“O simplex munditiis!” sighed de Lys to himself. 'You have seen him then?”
“No.” She seemed uneasy at that. “He—he—the papers say he has disappeared. But I know he is only doing what is right and necessary.”
This profound faith was worthy of martyrs.
“Then you do not share Mr. Swainson's feelings in this matter?” he asked. “Remember, you have been left with me really that we may arrange to break, and so secure my safety. I can see now Mr. Swainson's motives, and his wisdom. You would do anything to secure the safety of Mr. Channing?”
“Yes,” she said frankly, looking on him without shame. “I know him. I know he would be guilty of nothing base. I would do whatever he might want. I wrote to tell him so. I will go to him, if he will let me. I have told him so.”
“Has he answered?” he asked gently.
“No,” she said with an indrawing of her breath that was like a sob; and then she appeared to recollect. “But you have not said why you are here.”
“I have apologized,” said de Lys, “and I have now to make amends.”
“Oh,” she broke out, as if she heard not, or hearing gave no heed, “that it should seem that I had lured him to his—”
“Pardon me, my dear lady,” protested de Lys. “It is I you would seem to have lured.”
She stared as if uncomprehending. “Oh, yes,” she said at last. “I forgot. Well, it doesn't matter about you; but it does matter that he should think I was trying to lure him.”
“I don't quite see how he is to think that, unless he is a remarkably suspicious young man,” said de Lys, stroking his chin pensively.
She was evidently not considering him very seriously, and he endeavored to direct her attention to the present.
“Well, what are we to say to Mr. Swainson?” he asked almost cheerfully.
“Say!” she stared at him. “It doesn't matter what you say,” she returned contemptuously.
“What I mean is, am I to give you up?” he explained. “Because, frankly, I don't like the idea at all.”
Her eyes dropped for a moment under his gaze.
“I think I'd better refuse,” he said.
“What is the use of playing with the situation?” she demanded scornfully. “Do you think it is a time for silly masquerades, when you are face to face with real life?”
He had admired her fidelity as that of the angels, but he did not know now if her emotionalism was not too strenuous. She seemed resolved on tragedy and the buskin.
“I am not playing masks,” he said mildly. “I am in earnest. If I refuse to give you up I go to prison, and I am right, I think, in supposing that there is a warrant out for Mr. Channing.”
She flushed. “It is a shame! It is persecution!” she exclaimed.
“Well,” he suggested in his even way, “if suspicion is thus diverted, and he wants to escape, he shall have the chance.”
“He does not want to escape,” she protested vehemently. “He is not guilty. He—”
“Would you go oversea with him, thus branded by suspicion—unjust of course?” he asked softly.
“Yes.” Her answer was defiant. Such faith removed mountains, and was touching; it certainly excused her tragedy airs.
“Very well,” he said after a pause. “Go down and tell Mr. Swainson that I refuse to give you up, and that you glory in my refusal. That should make him act.”
She hesitated, looking at him with all her heart, so to speak, and then: “You mean this? May God be good to you!” she cried. “Perhaps it will help. Yes, I will accept your sacrifice. You are a good friend.”
She turned as she reached the door and ere she fled noiselessly gave him the fire of her fine dramatic eyes.
“A good girl, a nice girl, and a pretty girl,” reflected de Lys, left alone, “but a too-emotional girl.” He mused: “I should tire of a gusher first of all, I think. They are so wearing on the nerves.”
As he reached this conclusion he was aware of a noise that came from the long windows behind him. It was a scratching, scuffling sound, and it drew him to an examination of the windows. One of them was shuttered for the night, but the other was only partly barred, and pushing aside the curtains he peered out. What it looked out upon he never discovered, for he found himself, to his amazement, gazing into the shadowy and unrecognizable face of a man.
“Good evening!” began de Lys courteously. “What can I do for you?”
The man, who had apparently succeeded in pushing aside the unfastened shutters which should have barred the window, came forward without a word. He gave a quick glance about the room, breathing somewhat heavily, as if from previous physical exertions.
“Where's Miss Graham?” he turned on de Lys to ask abruptly.
De Lys eyed him speculatively. The stranger was young and alert. He could not be a burglar, since he asked for Miss Graham. It occurred to de Lys that he might be one of Mr. Swainson's detectives.
“It's no use,” he said, shaking his head. “The man has got away.”
“Who has got away?” asked the young man.
“The man you want,” replied de Lys, dallying with the situation easily.
“Humph!” The young man stared at him hard. He was rather short, bright eyed, and evidently impetuous. “Who are you?” he inquired. Really de Lys hardly knew how to answer this question. He was reluctant to declare himself in his true person, and this newcomer, although he seemed sure of his right to interrogate, was quite unknown. However, he summarily resolved to carry out the plan on the chance of this being one of Swainson's detectives.
“I am Frederick Channing,” he said quietly.
The young man started, stared, gaped, opened his mouth to speak, and seemed struck impotent by something. “Whom did you say?” he asked.
“Frederick Channing.” De Lys pronounced the names syllable by syllable, as for an interrogating child.
   [Illustration: “I DON'T KNOW WHO THE DEUCE THAT IS,” SAID SWAINSON, “BUT THIS IS YOUR MAN.” HE INDICATED DE LYS, AND THE DETECTIVES MOVED FORWARD]
There was a momentary silence between them, as the young man seemed to be taking this in, and then he said rather fiercely,
“You're a liar.”
De Lys drew himself up. “In that case,” he began with great dignity; but he was not allowed to proceed.
“What's that you've got there? How did you get that? Look here, what do you mean by passing yourself off as—as somebody else?”? The young man was pointing in excitement to the ring on de Lys's finger.
“What—the ring?” said de Lys. “Why, it was a present. What's it to do with you?”
“Look here,” said the stranger, obviously trying to restrain himself. “I should like to understand a little more of this. You say your name is Channing?”
“Frederick Channing,” put in de Lys.
“That makes it worse,” said the young man, goaded to anger. “Why—”
The click of the door arrested both of them in the midst of this altercation, and they turned to see Miss Graham reenter the room.
“Doris!” exclaimed the young man with mingled rapture and pathos.
“Frederick!” called out Miss Graham.
“Well, I'm—bothered!” remarked Lord de Lys.
“Frederick, what are you, doing here? You must go,” panted Miss Graham. “There are detectives in the house, and you are to be arrested. Mr. Swainson—”
“But they don't know I'm here,” protested the real Frederick in surprise. “No one can know, for I followed Mr. Swainson's cab in the dark all the way from the Serpentine.”
“You were the man hanging over the bridge,” said de Lys with a sudden inspiration.
“Why, this must be he—this is he,” cried the young man, turning on him fiercely. “He's the detective.”
He seemed about to lay hands on de Lys, but the girl's voice stopped him.
“No, Frederick. I confess I don't know in the least who he is, but I don't think he's a detective. In fact, he pretended to be you.”
Mr. Channing eyed him suspiciously, and de Lys hastened to say,
“Don't you think we had better postpone recriminations, and face the situation?”
“I'm hanged if I know what the situation is,” said Mr. Channing gloomily.
De Lys reminded him. “There is a warrant out for your arrest.”
“And a detective is coming up almost at once. I told Mr. Swainson,” put in Miss Graham.
“To send a detective to arrest me!” asked Mr. Channing in horror.
“No, no, I can't explain—him,” said Miss Graham with agitation.
“Let me,” said de Lys placidly. “Miss Graham and I thought that by my pretending to be you it would divert attention from you, wherever you might be, and so enable you to escape quietly from the country.”
“But I'm not going to escape,” protested Mr. Channing almost angrily.
“Oh, Frederick!” It was plain that both Miss Graham and de Lys regarded this as a rather rash statement, and the young man displayed indignation.
“I have sufficient evidence to demonstrate my entire innocence of participation in the mad crime of my partner,” he said with lofty hauteur. “I have been collecting proofs. I wrote to you I was innocent,” he added reproachfully. “Why didn't you wait?”
“I believed it—I do believe it,” she cried. “Of course he is innocent,” she said, turning indignantly on de Lys.
“Of course he is,” agreed de Lys.
“You might,” continued Mr. Channing with great pathos, “you might have waited till I was proved guilty before throwing me over, and giving my ring to somebody else.”
“I never—what ring?” demanded Miss Graham excitedly.
He pointed with dignified sorrow to de Lys's hand, which that gentleman endeavored to hide. Miss Graham leaped upon him like a tiger.
“What are you doing with my ring? Where did you get that?” she asked.
“I got it from Mr. Swainson,” said he, surrendering meekly to the onslaught.
Miss Graham had captured it, but it would not come off.
“Oh, it's scandalous!” she panted. “Do help, Frederick!” Frederick helped, and the ring was regained after a rough treatment of the finger.
“It seems to me,” said de Lys, nursing his finger tenderly, “that if Mr. Channing does not want to be arrested he had better go.”
Channing regarded him with increased suspicion, as if he imagined reasons for wanting him out of the way. “I have no reason to fear the police,” he said haughtily.
“I'm sure of that,” de Lys said quickly, “but I thought it would look better to surrender rather than be taken.”
“It is of no consequence to me,” began the young man, but Miss Graham intervened with feminine perception.
“Yes, he is right, Frederick,” she declared. “Run away now and go to the police yourself.”
Mr. Channing's brow lowered as he regarded them both with suspicion. “What I want to know is,” he said firmly, “what exactly this man's doing here and who he is.”
“I don't know, Frederick,” declared Miss Graham truthfully. “He hasn't any right here.”
“Then it's he who ought to go away,” said Mr. Channing.
“Ah, here are the officers,” said de Lys, hearing a sound without the door.
Miss Graham made a step as if to fly to Mr. Channing, but refrained. Two men, obviously detectives, stood in the doorway. It was manifest that they had not expected to find the company that met them.
“Mr. Channing?” the smaller and more authoritative man ventured, looking from one to the other.
No one replied. The officer coughed.
“I was told I should find Frederick Channing here. There is a warrant for his arrest,” he said deprecatingly.
“Well, where is he?” asked de Lys courteously. “So far as I know there are only ourselves here.”
The officer coughed again, and turning to his man whispered a communication, which caused the other to leave the room unaggressively.
“Won't you sit down and wait?” said de Lys invitingly, as he indicated a chair. He himself with a gesture motioned Mr. Channing to a seat at the card-table, which stood open, and he addressed Miss Graham openly.
“We may as well finish the rubber,” he said evenly.
Once more with feminine quickness Miss Graham obeyed, and took her seat facing the detective and opposite the chair into which Mr. Channing had chanced to drop. De Lys took a pack of cards from the box and began to deal.
“If you would discard from strength, my dear Doris,” he said pleasantly, “you would find it on the whole a better plan. I always do.”
At the affectionate address Mr. Channing's face worked and his eyes flashed, but he made no other sign, probably because Miss Graham kicked him under the table.
“No trumps!” announced de Lys, as evenly as if he had been playing in his club. “The advantage of no trumps,” he added, apparently addressing the astonished detective, “is that you score a great deal, if you do score at all, with comparatively poor cards. Do you play bridge?”
“No, sir,” said the detective.
“Ah—a pity. It is a wonderful game, and—”
At this juncture the second detective returned in the company of Mr. Swainson, who gaped upon the party at the table.
“What the—” he paused. “I don't know who the deuce that is—perhaps Miss Graham will explain later—but this is your man.”
He indicated de Lys, and the detectives moved forward.
“Pardon me,” said de Lys, swinging round in his chair, cards in hand. “Who is it you are looking for?”
“For you, Frederick Channing,” said Mr. Swainson sharply.
“My dear good sir, I am not Frederick Channing, as you very well know.”
“Not Frederick Channing?” roared Mr. Swainson. “Then who the deuce are you?”
“We need not go into that at present,” said de Lys equably. “Let it suffice that I came here at your invitation. Your play, Doris!”
Mr. Swainson's acid but gentlemanly face was suffused. “This is mere bluff,” he said to the officer. “He is Channing right enough.”
“Do you identify him as Frederick Channing?” inquired the detective doubtfully.
“Well, no, I have not seen him before, but there is really no doubt.” Mr. Swainson was clearly put out.
“I told you he wasn't Mr. Channing,” remarked Miss Graham triumphantly.
The detective looked still more doubtful. Mr. Swainson gave way to his annoyance.
“Who may you be?” he asked angrily of Mr. Channing.
“Oh, he's a friend of mine,” said de Lys cheerfully. “I hope you don't mind the liberty I've taken.”
The detective touched Mr. Swainson on the arm and drew him aside ere he could burst forth at this. They conferred together sotto voce, and apparently came to some determination.
“One of you,” said Mr. Swainson with carefully achieved calmness as he advanced once more, “is Frederick Channing, for whom the police have a warrant.”
   [Illustration: “I AM SORRY I'M NOT THE REAL FREDERICK CHANNING, AND I HOPE I DIDN'T PINCH TOO HARD,” HE SAID SOFTLY]
“If that is the case will the police please take him away,” said de Lys, throwing down his cards. He regarded the angry man and the puzzled man with a smile.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Swainson, and made a gesture to the officer, who approached de Lys forthwith and with deliberation.
Now de Lys was seated within touch of Doris on his right, and he chanced to observe that Mr. Swainson was not looking at him, as would have been expected, but toward Doris with intentness. Instantly he made a guess at the trick which his ingenuity approved. It was to be the judgment of Solomon over again. He put out his hand furtively under the table and held it poised during the moments of the detective's approach. As the officer's hand fell on his shoulder he pinched hard, and Miss Graham uttered a cry.
It was a cry of pain, but it served for a cry of distress.
“Ah!” said Mr. Swainson in a satisfied way. “I told you so.”
“Frederick Channing, I arrest you—”
De Lys got to his feet indifferently. “Good-by, old chap,” he nodded to Channing. “Sorry it ends like this. Go and inform—well, you know whom.”
As the young man passed him, something bewildered, he whispered,
“Give yourself up when you will—and stand the racket.”
There was no anxiety to detain Mr. Channing, nor did Miss Graham accompany him. She “played the game” wonderfully, showing such distress as reduced Mr. Swainson to silence and misgivings, now that he had his way. De Lys made a feint of cheering her up, and when he was taken to the door in the company of the officers she followed him.
“Thank you, oh, thank you,” she whispered in his ear in the dimness of the hall.
“My dear lady, it is nothing. It has only been an entertainment for me, and I hope will be little more than that to you now.”
In deference to their supposed relations the officers had indulged them with privacy.
“Do you think—”
“He is innocent? Yes, he could not be anything else.” Which was indeed the conclusion to which de Lys had come after a study of the naive young man.
“But you?” she faltered.
“I shall get a free drive to my own neighborhood,” he said lightly, “and then convince these obstinate fellows that I am not the person I have protested I was not. I dare say they will look foolish.”
“But Frederick—Mr. Channing?”
“Will have the credit of surrendering of his own accord,” he said gravely. He moved away, and then paused. “I am sorry I'm not the real Frederick Channing. I hope I didn't pinch too hard,” he said softly. “Where did I—”
“Oh, it was nothing—nowhere,” she said in confusion.
“I think I was right in going no trumps,” he reflected as he went off with his captors. “If I had tried hearts I—Don't you think we might take a taxicab?” he broke off to ask the officers.
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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