# The Thing That Couldn't

Extracted from Harper's magazine, vol 118, 1908-09, pp. 30–43. Accompanying illustrations by W. D. Stevens may be omitted.
The Thing That Couldn't
BY MARGARET CAMERON
TRENT, who was a lawyer, had been detained at his office, and when he finally reached home his wife hurried him up to his room, softly expostulating the while.
"And it never occurred to you, I suppose," she concluded, "that if I had wanted Payton Cotes, I should have asked him myself!"
"Why didn't you, then?"
"Because I didn't—I particularly didn't want him!"
"Well, I'm sorry, dear. But when you phone me in the midst of a busy day to fill a sudden vacancy in a dinner party, if you have any antipathies like this, you'd better mention them, for naturally I'm going to ask the first eligible chap I see. Anyway, what's the matter with Cotes? He's much in demand as a dinner guest."
"Oh, he's well enough as a dinner guest—if that were all! It's as a brother-in-law that I object to him!"
"As a wha-at?" Trent seemed to find the suggestion humorous, but the face she turned toward him was full of tragedy.
"Bob, I've just discovered—just this morning—that he's been making love to Polly!"
"The deuce he has! To little Polly, eh?" Trent was still smiling.
"Of course it's all embryonic, as yet. I don't think Polly herself realizes—though I could see plainly enough from what she told me— And it's got to stop!"
"Why? What's the matter with Cotes?" he again demanded. "He's one of the cleverest—"
"Oh, clever—yes!" She waved an impatient hand. "He's clever! So is the ventriloquist we saw last week, or the funny little clown at the Trocadero—very clever in his way. But you'd hardly care to have either of them in the family, would you? Bob, do hurry and dress!"
"All right." He turned obediently toward his chiffonier. "But you hold your horses! You don't know Cotes yet."
"I know that he never loses an opportunity to make a gentlemanly sort of clown of himself! He's always telling dialect stories, or playing pranks, or getting himself into impossible situations—"
"Funny ones," interpolated her husband, with a chuckle.
"Oh yes, funny ones! But who wants a funny husband! He has no dignity, no sense of responsibility, nothing to justify a brilliant girl like Polly in— What's the matter?" An ejaculation from him checked her rapid, indignant speech. He was staring blankly at a legal envelope he had taken from his coat. "What's that?"
"By George, I forgot to send that acceptance to Pierce! Will you call a messenger and send it over to his house at once, please? And impress it upon the boy that if there should be no one at home, he's to return it to me immediately. I must be perfectly sure that this reaches Earle Pierce to-night. As for Cotes and Polly, don't you fret! All this effervescence of his is on the surface. The men who do business with him know he's all right."
"Maybe," said she, sceptically. "But Mrs. Ames goes abroad next month, for a year, and Polly goes with her. No, Bob, please don't argue! Mrs. Ames was here this afternoon, and it's practically arranged."
"Does Polly know it?"
"Not yet; but she'll be glad enough to go. This sentimental nonsense is still in the bud, and she won't even see it's being nipped."
Trent wagged his head dubiously, and his wife left him, going at once to the library to telephone for a messenger. He finished dressing, and even had time to tell Polly of the latest developments in local politics, in which she was keenly interested, before the first guests arrived.
Lois, who had contemplated sending her sister out to dinner with whatever man her husband should provide in this emergency, occupied these moments in shifting plans and place-cards, and when the party reached the dining-room, Cotes found himself seated as far from Polly Vance as the big circle of the table would permit.
However, there was nothing to prevent his looking at her, and so presently he chanced to see her start and turn sharply toward her sister, opening her lips as if to speak. At the moment Mrs. Trent was talking to the learned Justice in whose honor the dinner was given, and after an uncertain glance at Trent, Polly apparently relinquished her purpose, but she paled perceptibly, and Cotes saw with apprehension the deepening trouble in her eyes. Later, as the women arose to leave the table, she met his glance fully, and in reply to his delicately lifted brow, nodded almost imperceptibly toward the garden. Accordingly, when the men betook themselves and their cigars to a cool side veranda, Cotes quietly strolled on down the steps and disappeared among the shrubbery.
She was there before him, and as he approached, called softly:
"Oh, hurry! How long you were!"
"Was I? I'm sorry. What is it?"
"You know Earle Pierce?"
"Not personally. By reputation, course. Who doesn't?"
Earle Pierce was the owner and managing editor of the city's most pernicious newspaper, the Beacon, which, in addition to pandering to morbid and sensational appetites, and intensifying class hatred, after the manner of its kind, was of the recognized organ of the unscrupulous political ring that held the city in an ever-tightening grasp.
"Well, an awful thing has happened! Lois has sent him the wrong envelope!"
"I don't understand."
"Oh, listen! Bob brought home some sort of a paper, in a long legal envelope, that he had forgotten to send to Pierce, and it had to go to him to-night."
Illustration: Mrs. Trent was talking to the learned Justice
"I know about that," he interjected. "We had a meeting of the committee this morning, and decided at the eleventh hour to buy Pierce's property—for the club, you know." She nodded. "The option expires to-night, Trent is secretary, and—there you are!"
"To-morrow wouldn't do?"
He shook his head. "Pierce is a pretty slippery proposition. Might repudiate his option."
"Let him! Do you know about the gas bill?"
"Whose gas bill?"
"No, no, not that kind! Bob brought home to-night a copy of a bill that is to be sprung on the Board of Aldermen to-morrow night," instinctively she lowered her voice and drew nearer to him, "providing for eighty-cent gas. Do you understand?"
"Eighty-cent gas—and this Board!" he scoffed.
"'Sh! Listen! It is known that for reasons of their own every Alderman will be at that meeting to-morrow night." The explanation came in a breathless torrent. "The scheme was to spring this bill on them without warning. It's so near election, and public feeling is so strong, that they wouldn't dare—they simply wouldn't dare to kill it directly! But of course there are a dozen ways of disposing of it indirectly, if they had warning, and that's what's happened! Don't you see? That's what's happened!"
"You don't mean—you don't mean to say that Mrs. Trent has—"
"Yes, I do! Lois sent the copy of that bill to Pierce—to Pierce!—instead of the other paper!"
"How do you know? How could she?"
"She put the envelope Bob had given her on the little stand near the telephone in the library. I saw it lying there addressed to Pierce. Then Bob came in with the copy of the bill, also in a legal envelope—a blank envelope—do you see? He told me about it, and left it on the desk. The messenger came just as dinner was announced. I was sitting by the door, you know, and I heard Lois telling him to bring it back at once if there was no one there to receive it. Then I heard him ask why it wasn't addressed. Lois said she thought it was, and borrowed his pencil. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But it came over me all at once, at dinner, that I had seen the address on Pierce's envelope, and that the blank one contained the bill! And it did! Here's the other one, addressed to Pierce in Bob's writing!"
"Good Lord! And Pierce has the bill!"
"And do you see what it means?" she cried. "Do you see? Bob had nothing to do with the bill, but he had been asked to look it over and see that it was all right, because he is absolutely above suspicion. There are only half a dozen men who know—they've been so careful—it means so much,—and they gave it to Bob be-because they could trust him!" Her voice broke, and she finished in a quavering whisper.
"Give me that envelope!" said Cotes. "I'm going over to Pierce's. There's just a chance that he hasn't seen the thing yet."
"And if he has?"
"If he has—well, if he's had his eye on it, the game's up! Trent doesn't know yet, does he?"
She shook her head. "Nor Lois, either. I didn't know—shall I tell them? There's this dinner—I hate to make a scene—and I don't know what this will do to Bob! You see, it will look—and they trusted him!"
"Don't do that!" he commanded. "You mustn't cry! And you mustn't tell! Trent has to go into court to-morrow on that Biddle case, and needs all his nerve. Go into the house and keep things moving. I'll be back in fifteen minutes—with the bill!"
"But if he's read it?"
"He hasn't! I'm sure of it! And I'll get it, if I have to break in a door or slide down a chimney!"
His confident tone had instant effect, and she laughed a little as she replied:
"If it comes to that, go in through the cellar. Their door from the kitchen to the cellar doesn't lock. Our new cook worked there, and left last month because they wouldn't fix it."
"All right. Anyhow, I'll get it. Don't worry, Polly dear!"
For one brief moment he held her hands; in the next, he was running down the street, and the girl, left standing alone in the moonlight, was whispering to herself: "He said 'Polly dear!' And he looked—" The radiance that never was on sea or land shone around her, and in its glow she turned toward the house, happily confident that in so beautiful a world no evil could befall.
Cotes himself, running steadily toward Pierce's residence, a few blocks away, had no such illusions, and vainly racked his brain for a weapon to use against the man, if, as was probable, the paper had already reached his hands.
His heart-beats, quickened by running, nearly suffocated him when he reached the house and found it dark, save for a light in the hall. He paused in a shadow, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie, not to appear too dishevelled a messenger, readjusted his eye-glasses, and marched up the steps.
Somewhere in the back of the house he heard the whir of the bell; then silence. He rang again—and again. The sound of a banjo energetically played came across the lawns from a neighboring domicile. A little chill began to creep over Cotes, and he put his finger on the electric button, and kept it there, alternating long pressures with brisk, impatient tattoos. Then he listened again, tense, alert,—and heard only the steady plunk of the banjo and the beating of his own heart. He told himself that there must be servants about, if he could only rouse them! He found a side door, with no better results, and another at the back, where he varied his ringing with vigorous pounding, but the silence and darkness within the house remained unbroken. He was returning to the front again, when his glance fell on a small cellar window, swinging ajar. Instantly Polly's absurd speech at parting, pure nonsense at the moment, flashed into his mind. The door from the cellar to the kitchen could not be locked! He stopped and looked curiously for a moment at the swinging window, before he wandered around to the front again and sat down on the step to think.
The family had evidently not dined at home, or the servants would still be about. The paper had certainly been received and signed for here, since the boy had not returned it to Trent. Ergo, some one, presumably a servant, had received it about eight o'clock and had since gone out, and the bill, upon the rescue of which so much depended, was in this house and probably unread as yet. But suppose his reasoning had been all wrong? Suppose Pierce had received and read the bill, and was now out among his disreputable associates arranging to frustrate the plan of Trent's friends and to dishonor Trent? Why, then Trent could not know of it too soon! He started up to return to his friend, and instantly checked himself. There was always the possibility that he had been right, and that the paper lay unread in this empty house. If he should desert his post and so place the situation in Pierce's hands—! Then came a vision of that swinging window, and he caught his breath shortly.
"By Jupiter, I'll do it!" he ejaculated. "It involves the least risk of any of 'em!"
The cellar window, which was at the side of the house, was heavily shaded by a wing, and the darkness within was Stygian. However, he dared not strike a match lest its light should attract the attention of some vigilant neighbor, so he sat on a ledge of the little window, legs inside, braced himself for a struggle in maintaining equilibrium, and dropped. He struck, in a sitting posture, on the winter's supply of furnace coal, that day delivered, and slid down the pile, clawing wildly for any kind of support from the empty air. When he reached the bottom he sat perfectly still for a moment, and then quietly remarked to the surrounding darkness:
"The—Gee—Whiz!"
He picked himself up, made sure that his glasses were not broken, and after feeling his way to a spot farther from the window, cautiously struck a match and looked about him. As he had supposed, he was in the division of the cellar containing the furnace and coal bins. He had some difficulty in lighting the next match, for the passage he had now entered was draughty, but eventually he kept one alight long enough to descry a flight of steps a few feet to his right.
"Aha!" said he. "'"We are saved!" the Captain shouted.' Now we'll proceed to stagger up the stair. The rest is plain sailing."
He gayly climbed the steps, humming under his breath the tune the banjo was playing, and fumbled for the door knob. He turned it, pushed gently, pushed harder, rattled the knob, and finally set his shoulder against the door, shoving with all his strength. Then he stood off and glared at it through the darkness. It was locked!
He satisfied himself that there was no way of opening the door short of battering it down, which, under the circumstances, he was not prepared to do, and descended again to the cellar, all his cheerfulness fallen from him.
Illustration: Cautiously struck a Match and looked about him
He used most of his matches in the effort to find a door leading to the outer air. Finally he discovered a lantern, and decided, after some reflection, to light it, feeling that a steady illumination, if observed, would be less likely to excite suspicion than the intermittent flashes of matches. Making the round of the cellar again, he discovered the door he sought. It also was locked. After seeking in every conceivable place for the key, and vainly trying all of his own, he returned to the furnace room, set his lantern on the floor, and regarded the window by which he had entered.
"Well," he said, "here we are! Apparently the only way out of this place is up that coal pile!" He glanced at his immaculate pumps and at his clothes, which were new, and the banjo mocked him from afar. "Yes, and there you are!" he vindictively added.
"'I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain;
And when The Thing that Couldn't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.'
"That's you—and me, too! Only this leg's getting a cramp! How the deuce am I going to get— I wonder—!" He picked up the lantern, screening his eyes from its light with his hand, and peered into the shadows about him. Hanging against the wall, on the other side of the furnace, he espied some garments, which he hastily examined.
"Here we are! Regular jeans, by Jove! Trousers and—yes, and blouse. Oh, I don't know! We may get out of this without calling the patrol wagon yet!" He deposited the lantern on the floor and proceeded to don the trousers, pulling them over the tails of his evening coat, which the short blouse would not protect. "I suppose these belong to the man who tends the furnace, eh? Good job for me he isn't a woman! Anyhow, coal won't hurt 'em." He had one arm slipped into a sleeve and was reaching for the other, when he heard a feminine voice cautiously calling:
"Mr. Pierce! Oh, Mr. Pierce!"
"Yes?" was the prompt reply.
"There's a man in your cellar!" Although she lowered her voice, Cotes heard every word distinctly, and a chill wrinkled his flesh.
"No! What makes you think so?"
"I've been watching him scratch matches. He's made a light now. I can see it through the window."
"Really?"
"Truly! I didn't know what to do. I'm all alone in the house, and I couldn't— But I've got a police whistle in my hand. Shall I blow it?"
"No! Certainly not!" exclaimed Pierce. "I'll go in and see about it. It's probably one of the servants. If it is, we don't want to make a row, and if it isn't—I've got a gun."
"Oh, don't!"
"I won't," was the laughing response. "It won't be necessary."
"Anyway, I'll watch here with the police whistle, and if anything happens, I'll blow it!"
"All right." He laughed again. "Only, whatever else you do, keep cool! Nothing's going to happen."
This philosophical conviction Cotes did not fully share. In the next ten seconds he saw an appalling, kinetoscopic panorama of the things that probably would happen, should he be caught in Pierce's cellar. He saw that he must either tell the truth and involve Trent, which would never do, or he must let it be supposed that he had entered the editor's house for reasons of his own, which would be difficult to explain. He was sufficiently well known socially to make this escapade a rich morsel for the sensational Beacon, and he saw his name in its blackest head-lines and pictures of himself taken from every conceivable angle. Then his glance fell on a coal shovel. He looked at the coal, which had apparently been dumped in recently, with the intention of distributing it later among the various empty bins, and then down at his worn overalls,—and his resolution was taken. He jerked on the blouse, whipped off his glasses and thrust them into his pocket, dishevelled his dark hair, knotted his handkerchief around his neck over his collar, rubbed a handful of coal-dust into his face and hands, and fell to shovelling coal into one of the bins, the while he softly carolled an Italian folk-song. Pierce, unable to imagine any possible explanation for such sounds in his cellar at that hour, descended the stairs quietly and stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the apparently unconcerned workman.
"Sul mare lucida il nostro d'argente,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia"
blithely warbled Cotes, watching the editor out of the corner of his eye and wondering how soon the storm would break. He was not long kept in suspense.
"What the devil does this mean?" demanded Pierce, at the same time switching on an electric light that Cotes had failed to see in the semi-darkness. "Who are you?"
The laborer turned serenely, met the householder's eye without flinching, and showed his teeth in a brilliant smile.
"Buona sera, signore," said he, genially.
"Where did you come from? What are you doing here?" The tone was not gentle, and Cotes looked puzzled.
"No spika d' Inglese ver' good," he lamented.
"I say who are you? Where'd you come from? What are you doing in my cellar?"
The workman shook his head regretfully. Then a hopeful gleam crossed his face.
"I shova da coal," he suggested.
"Yes, I see you're shovelling coal, but why? What for?"
"A-ah! Whata for shova da coal? Perche—you no wanta shova da coal?" he asked, anxiously.
"Who sent you here?"
"Senda— A-ah! Il padrone." Cotes's smile indicated that in his opinion they were now getting on famously. "Si, signore, il padrone."
"What padrone?"
"Il padrone delle—delle— Ah, no spika da Inglese!"
"Barrett and Jones?"
Illustration: This Escapade would make a rich Morsel for the sensational "Beacon"
"Si—I don'no'." The masquerader suspected a trap. "Il padrone tella me shova da coal. You no wanta—I go." He put down the shovel as if to depart.
"No, you don't! Not quite so fast! Let's get to the bottom of this. The padrone told you to come and shovel coal—here? At night?"
"At-a night? Ah, no, signore!" Delighted perception now animated his face. "No, signore! He tella me shova da coal domani—how you say?" Cotes had been, watching the editor keenly, and now, convinced that his real identity was absolutely unsuspected, he threw himself with a sort of enjoyment into the part he was playing. "To-mor— How you say?"
"To-morrow?"
"Si. Ma to-morra—" He broke into a torrent of Italian, which would have been less convincing had Pierce been able to recognize the words of the song the laborer had been singing earlier, or to perceive that the accompanying gestures, of the most animated, had nothing whatever to do with the text.
"Here, here! Drop that! I don't understand any of your confounded lingo!" Cotes was glad to be assured of this, as his own knowledge of Italian was very limited.
"No? Non comprende? Ah, che peccato! Eec'! Il padrone tella me shova da coal domani—to-mor'—comprende? Ma to-mor'—she fiesta, Ah, signore! Non è possible maka work—maka shova da coal to-mor'!"
"H'm! It's a feast day, and you won't work. Is that it? So you came to-night."
"Si, si, signore!" rapturously. "Comma at-a nighta, perche—ah, no spika d' Inglese!" This was tragedy. "For to—for not maka troub' il illustrissimo signore." The smile and gesture accompanying this masterpiece were the apotheosis of deference.
"I see. Your consideration is touching," said Pierce, dryly. He continued lo watch the supposed Italian closely, and Cotes smiled cheerfully and confidingly back at him. "What's your name?" finally demanded the editor.
"Giuseppe Coppini, signore."
"How did you get in?" As this elicited only a polite and inquiring shrug, he changed the form of his question. "Did vou come in that window?"
"Si, signore." The laborer laughed. "I maka lika dees—e lika dees," he rang a bell and knocked in pantomime, "ma no! Nessuno! Ma il padrone tella me shova da coal. Ecc'!" He paused, ingratiating, smiling, eloquent.
"H'm!—yes," said Pierce. "Well, either you're the most ingenuous and delightful dago that ever passed Ellis Island, or you're the smoothest proposition out of jail,—and I'm hanged if I know which! We'll go up to the telephone and investigate you a little farther. There are a few things about this that I don't understand."
A moment later they were in the large upper hall. At the first glance Cotes saw that a legal envelope, apparently sealed, lay on the table, and he shut his teeth hard. There was still a chance.
The telephone was in a closet, off the hall at the side, directly opposite the table. Pierce proceeded to close all doors leading into adjoining rooms, and motioned Cotes to stand away from the street door, which he chained.
"Now, I'm going to call up the padrone,—and if you try to bolt, I've got a gun. Savvy?" He displayed the butt of a revolver in his side coat-pocket, and nodded grimly, whereat his prisoner murmured an almost tearful "Ah, signore!" followed by another Italian outburst, of which Pierce comprehended nothing except that every tone, inflection, and gesture was eloquent of aggrieved and indignant reproach.
During the recital, however, Cotes succeeded in placing himself between the telephone and the table, hoping thereby to conceal with his body the envelope, which it was quite possible the editor had not yet noticed; and as Pierce, ever watchful, entered the closet and gave a number, the young man, apparently looking about in simple wonder, backed up against the table and rested his hands upon either side.
"Hello, Jones," said Pierce. "Did you contract to deliver my coal in the bins?... In the bins.... Well, I thought not, but I came home a few minutes ago, and found a young dago energetically shovelling coal in my cellar, and he says you sent him.... Well, to be exact, he says the 'padrone' sent him. He doesn't seem to speak much English.... He says— Hello!... Hello!... Central! ... Hello! What did you cut me off for?"
Cotes's breath was coming a little short. He had succeeded in reaching the envelope with his thumbs, and was working it slowly toward him.
"That you, Jones?... They cut us off. He insists that he was told to come to-morrow, but there's something about its being a feast day—I can't understand all his jargon,—and he came to-night instead.... Think so? The circumstances do look that way, but the man doesn't. That's the deuce of it.... What?... What did you say your name was?" Cotes continued to stare at a photograph of the Colisseum, apparently unconscious that the inquiry had been addressed to him. "Hi—you! What's your name?"
"Giuseppe Coppini, signore."
"He says it's Juseppy Coppini. Ever hear of him?... You are sure about that? I'd hate to be done, but I'd hate much worse to make a mistake about a thing like this just now. It's a little too near election—understand? Bad time to antagonize the proletariat.... He's a decent-looking young chap with a mighty steady eye.... Who?... Where?"
Cotes had worked the envelope to the very edge of the table. Now he turned slowly, feigning interest in the decoration of the wall behind him, until his left side was against the table, and then, as quickly as was consistent with caution, pushed the envelope up under his loose blouse. He thought longingly of the hip pocket so near at hand, but dared not bend his elbow to touch it, for fear of arousing Pierce's further suspicions.
"All right. Thanks. I'll do that. Much obliged. Good night," said Pierce, and hung up the receiver.
He explained to Cotes in terse, elemental phrases that his alleged employer had never heard of him, and that the coal merchants had no intention of providing men to do the work he claimed to have been sent to perform. Giuseppe swore, per Baccho and per Dio, that it was all one grand mistake. He was an honest man, he, and the padrone had certainly told him to come on the morrow to the house of the most illustrious signore to "shova da coal."
"Well, I believe you're stringing me," said Pierce, "but I'll give you one more chance." He then explained that at a neighboring police station there was a sergeant who spoke Italian, and that it was his intention to escort Giuseppe thither and leave the matter to the discretion of the officer. Cotes indulged in a few heroics, but finally consented to go, wondering what in the name of Garibaldi he should do when he got there. Holding to his blouse on either side, near the waist-line, pulling it tightly around him, he strutted to the door, the very embodiment of maligned innocence and affronted Latin pride.
Illustration: What are you doing in my Cellar?"
Once in the street, he marched beside the editor in silence, trying to decide on the next move. He knew that his scanty Italian would never stand the test of conversation, even with one who knew the language but imperfectly, and if that fraud was detected, arrest would immediately follow, and in its train discovery not only of his identity but of his possession of two envelopes addressed to Pierce, one of which he now held in its place beneath his blouse only by the pressure of his left arm over it. As Pierce insisted upon walking on that side and a little behind him, he had no opportunity to exchange its location.
Illustration: "She tella you me non bada Man"
Their way to the police station led them within half a block of Trent's house, and as they approached the street in which it was situated, Cotes, himself in the full radiance of the moon, saw something white move in the deep shadow under the trees, and almost before his leaping heart warned him of her possible presence there, Polly's voice cried in alarm:
"Oh, what is it? What has happened?"
Cotes instantly saw the futility of trying to pass off this inopportune recognition as a mistake. In Polly's present mood she would not permit him to leave her without an explanation.
"Ecc'!" he cheerfully exclaimed. "La signorina! Ma che! She non forgetta Giuseppe, eh? Non forgetta!"
His tone was reassuring, but his appearance, grimy and dishevelled, was not. She perceived, however, that there was a part he wished her to play, in which she must not fail, and that the newspaper man was watching them both.
"Where are you going?" she asked, in a voice that still shook.
"Il signore—she maka me—ah, signore!" He turned imploringly to Pierce. "No spika d'Inglese! You spika! La signorina no lika Giuseppe Coppini geta da troub'! She tella you me non steala—non bada man!"
"What is this?" asked Pierce, with a disagreeable inflection. "A trick?"
"A trick?" Polly haughtily repeated. "What do you mean?"
"What do you know about this man?" He watched her keenly, and she returned his gaze with spirit.
"Nothing to his discredit. Do you?"
"Well—perhaps not. Why do you take it for granted that I do?"
"Because he is obviously in trouble," she retorted. "He said I'd tell you he wasn't a bad man."
"So he did!" replied Pierce, with the same unpleasant deliberation. "But he didn't say that until after you had called out to know what was the matter, did he? Now, what I want to know is—what is there about this particular Italian laborer that makes a young woman of your evident social position take such a keen—such a very keen interest in him. It's a little unusual, isn't it?"
"Perhaps it is," she rejoined, hastily, detecting flashes of gathering wrath in Cotes's eyes, "but—Giuseppe is an unusual man."
"Ye-es, I've found him so. So unusual, in fact, that I'm taking him to the police station below here for examination."
"Arrested?" she gasped.
"N-no, not yet. But under suspicion. You see, I found him in my cellar."
"In your cellar!" Her dismay was unquestionably genuine, but only the man who had heard her parting words in Trent's garden could fully interpret it.
"Si," sullenly admitted Giuseppe. "I shova da coal. Il padrone, she tella me shova da coal." Bewildered by this turn of events, she looked to Pierce for an explanation, which he readily supplied.
"He insists that his padrone sent him to distribute my coal into bins, but, unfortunately for him, the padrone—Fred Jones—has just assured me over the phone that he didn't. In fact, he never heard of him."
"But—but—of course, there's a mistake somewhere! Barrett and Jones have so many employees, they can't possibly remember them all by name. This man—Giuseppe—is perfectly honest, but—you see, he speaks very little English. He has misunderstood."
"So I thought—until we met you. You must admit yourself that you complicate the situation. There's nothing in the spectacle of two men walking quietly along the street—one of them evidently a day laborer—there's absolutely nothing in that to excite the alarm of a girl of your sort and make her demand an explanation, unless—" he paused a moment, looked fixedly at her, and concluded, "unless she expected to see that man come alone." Polly lifted a quick hand of warning, whether for him or for his companion Pierce could not decide, and when she spoke her manner was haughty, but her voice shook—possibly from anger, possibly from fear.
"I am Miss Vance," she stated. "Mr. Trent—Mr. Robert Trent—is my brother-in-law." Pierce looked a little startled and took off his hat. "I frequently come down to this corner at night to mail letters. This man is well known to all of us, and it was easy for any one who knew him to see that he was in trouble. Now I insist that you return with me to my brother-in-law's house and prove the truth of this."
"No, no, no!" objected Cotes. "Non maka da troub' per il signor Trenta! I go—I go poleesaman; ma non maka da troub'—"
"Be still, Giuseppe," said the girl, without removing her stern young gaze from Pierce's puzzled face. "I insist."
"It's quite unnecessary, Miss Vance," he courteously protested. "Of course I accept your statement, and I apologize. I beg your pardon. But it doesn't explain this fellow's presence in my cellar, does it?"
"I insist."
"Oh, very well! But this isn't real, you know." The editor laughed shortly. "It's comic opera."
Obedient to a glance from Cotes as they turned, Polly slipped to his left side. Pierce fell into place at his right, and they set off in silence for Trent's house. They had almost reached the gate, when something was heard to drop on the sidewalk. Giuseppe stooped quickly and picked up a legal envelope, which he handed to the girl.
"What's that?" demanded Pierce.
"That," replied Miss Vance, a curious lilt in her voice, "is a letter I had not mailed when you came along."
"There's some damned trick here!" exclaimed the newspaper man. "You had no letter in your hand!"
"Mr. Pierce!" very coldly.
"Ha! You know me, too! You knew that this man—"
"Most people in this city know you—by sight," she interrupted, in a tone that somehow made Pierce wince. Then she tucked the envelope under her arm, where the folds of the lace scarf she wore concealed it, and led the way with dignity to the house.
It had been her intention to take her companions into the library and send a servant for Trent, but it chanced that the company, about to disperse, had drifted into the big reception-hall, and she had no choice but to face them. She rapidly estimated the danger, and remembered that only one of the guests—a man who could be trusted to hold his tongue—knew Cotes at all well.
When Cotes's absence had been noticed, which was not until the men had made their tardy reappearance in the drawing-room, Polly had lightly explained it by saying that he had gone to do something for her, and would presently return—a statement which did not add to her sister's peace of mind. Mrs. Trent was further disquieted when Polly herself vanished; and when she saw the girl enter with the two men, her indignation against Cotes knew no bounds; for she alone, of all the party, recognized him at once, and she saw in the masquerade only an ill-timed attempt to be "funny." She was making her way toward them, wrath in her eye, when Polly spoke, in a clear, ringing voice that commanded instant attention from everybody.
"Lois! Bob!" she cried. "Here's Giuseppe Coppini being dragged off to jail under the most dreadful misapprehension! Do set it right for the poor fellow!"
Trent, who had his back toward her, turned sharply at the words.
"Here's who?" he asked.
"Ah, Signor Trenta!" poignantly exclaimed a voice he could not mistake. "You no forgetta Giuseppe!"
"The deuce!" ejaculated Trent, staring. "What's the matter?"
"You tella il signore me non bada man!" he was implored. "Me non steala! Il padrone, she tella me shova da—"
"That will do!" curtly interrupted the lawyer, whose eyes were ablaze. He, also, failed to perceive humor in the situation. He turned toward Pierce, who immediately demanded:
"Ho you know this man?"
"Yes,—I know him."
"Know him well?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"He is—what you see,—and some other things. Why?"
"How long have you known him?"
"Several years."
"Is he honest?"
"Absolutely."
"You are sure of that?"
"Perfectly."
"Ever seen him tested?"
"More than once."
No man ever doubted Robert Trent's word, and the tone of the editor's rapid questions was softening.
"You've never had any occasion to suspect him?"
"His honesty—never. His judgment seems to be—questionable, sometimes. Now, Mr. Pierce, may I interrupt your catechism long enough to learn what all this is about? I confess I am completely at a loss to understand it."
"I'm really very sorry to disturb you in the matter, Mr. Trent, especially at this hour and under these circumstances, but the young lady—Miss Vance—insisted, and—I had no idea you had guests." By this time Pierce's manner was apologetic. Trent nodded to him to continue.
While the editor briefly outlined the situation, Cotes glanced around the circle. In Mrs. Trent's cold face he read implacable anger, and the man who knew him winked at him in furtive enjoyment. The others, apparently, were giving absorbed attention to the merits of the case, with no suspicion that he was not what he seemed. He drew a long breath and resumed his anxious watching of Trent and Pierce. Trent's face was very stern.
"When we reached the corner below here," Pierce was saying, "Miss Vance came running toward us, asking what was the matter. In some curious way she had perceived that the Italian was in difficulty." Trent turned his troubled gaze to his sister-in-law and back to Pierce again. "I was naturally somewhat surprised by her sudden advent on the scene, but she explained that she chanced to be there mailing a letter." Was there a hint of mockery in the smooth, courteous tone? Again the lawyer looked at Polly.
Illustration: WE ARE UNDER—SOME OBLIGATION—TO GIUSEPPE. HE ONCE DID ME—A SERVICE
Illustration: "Go and wash your Face. There's Coal-dust on it!"
"There is the letter," said she, handing him the envelope she held crushed in her hand.
Trent instantly saw two things, both of which he concealed from the editor; the envelope had no stamp, and it was addressed to Pierce in Lois's writing. He puzzled over it for a moment, then looked at Polly in startled inquiry, and she nodded slightly. Trent turned very pale.
"Yes? And then?" He seemed to speak with difficulty and crumpled the envelope in his grasp.
"Then she said that you all knew the man and could vouch for him, and insisted upon my bringing him over here."
"She did quite right. We are under—some obligation to Giuseppe. He once did me—a service—a great service. I assure you, Mr. Pierce, that the man is entirely trustworthy. The fact that you found him noisily at work and singing, making no effort to conceal his presence in your house, should go far, it seems to me, in establishing the innocence of his intent. How about that, Judge?"
"Quite right, Mr. Trent, quite right," assured the Justice. "In my opinion the man simply misunderstood his instructions, and—er—displayed a rather unusual excess of zeal in carrying them out."
"I trust you are satisfied, Mr. Pierce? If you miss anything as a result of this fellow's visit"—he laid a hand on Cotes's shoulder,—"I'll be personally responsible."
"Me, too," volunteered the man who had winked. "I've known him for years. Blacked my boots many a time, haven't you, Beppe?"
"A-ah! Il signor Ca-larka!" Giuseppe smiled, but his eyes conveyed a threat that might not be spoken, and Clark retired, choking with suppressed laughter.
"That being the case," said Pierce, "of course there's nothing more to say. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
While he and Trent were exchanging parting civilities at the door, Polly hurried Giuseppe toward a back hall, he volubly calling upon the whole calendar of saints to bless the house, the company, and all their families and connections. As he passed Mrs. Trent, he paused to offer her especially florid tribute, and she bent upon him a gaze that left little doubt as to her unflattering opinion of him.
Once in the seclusion of the back hall, he took Polly in his arms and kissed her.
"We did it, little one," he murmured.
"Oh—oh—don't! Not yet! I mustn't cry—yet! Go up-stairs! Hurry! Fresh towels in the bath-room—Bob's chiffonier for anything else you need! Hurry!"
He took the back stairs three at a leap; and having paused for a moment's readjustment after that first kiss, Miss Vance returned to the hall, where the guests were excitedly discussing the dramatic little scene and asking questions about the handsome young Italian. Mrs. Trent looked at her sister once and bore down upon her without loss of time.
"Polly!" she exclaimed, in an indescribable tone. "Go and wash your face! There's coal-dust on it!"
Consequently, when Cotes presently appeared in his own person, wearing a collar and tie of Trent's, a humorous gleam behind his eye-glasses, his hostess refused to see him, nor could she understand why her husband went in silence and wrung his hand. When, finally, the other guests had finished telling him what he had missed and had gone, she said, "Come, Polly," cast one pregnant glance at her husband, and would have left the room, had not Trent put his arm around her, detaining her.
"I don't think you quite understand, dear," said he. And then, very gently, they told her.
Much later, as Cotes was saying good night, Lois volunteered:
"By the way, Polly and I are going to Lenox when the leaves turn. Can't you arrange to come, too?"
"I thought you had other plans for Polly," suggested her husband, mischievously.
"I've changed them," she retorted.
But Cotes did not know until long after what was yielded to him in that moment, and went away to push a legal envelope under Pierce's door and to toss a roll of garments through the cellar window, which was still open.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse