Caress a panther, and it will not necessarily rend you. The girl had shown her teeth. They were royal. But now from her voice the anger had gone. From her eyes the flash had subsided. Harry noted the change, and construed it properly. Château qui parle et femme qui écoute. From impudent he became resolute.
“Where are you stopping?” he asked.
At the question he stared deep into her eyes. She was fragrant as only a girl can be who has accounts all along the Rue de la Paix, and whose face is a wondering rose. As he stared at her she turned and looked much as the shipwrecked are rumored to do when in search of a sail. But in the seething maelstrom of the avenue, only tearing tilburys, scudding Stanhopes, and fleeting phaetons were discernible. The brougham was nowhere in sight, and helplessly she sighed and smiled.
“Across the way, at the Albe,” she answered at last, the point of her tongue just visible.
“Hurry, then, here’s a chance.” And without further preliminaries, yet with two fingers on her elbow, Harry propelled her through a channel which a sergent-de-ville had conveniently engineered.
“You know,” he added, when ultimately the opposite shore was reached, “that when they run you down here they fine you, too. That is the reason of my solicitude.”
“Then your solicitude may cease. This is my hotel. If you presume to follow me any further, there will be somebody to show you the door.”
“Why, I can see it from here, and a very fine door it is. Would you wish me to examine it more in detail?”
But at this he raised his hat. A cab had rattled up, and a gray-bearded Englishman, who had got from the cab, was addressing the girl.
“You are just in time,” she exclaimed. “Lord Chudleigh, let me introduce a gentleman—whom I do not know.” And, with an expression that succeeded in being both diabolic and demure, she passed into the porte-cochère.
Harry’s eyes accompanied her. Then, with a look of entire sweetness, he turned:
“Yes, there’s the devil of it. I haven’t the honor of knowing her, either. A locomotive was pouncing upon her a moment ago, and I took the liberty of saving her life. My name is Beamish,” he added, modestly.
“Hello! No relation to Josiah T.?”
“Unfortunately, his son.”
“Hello! Why unfortunately?”
“Oh, for a hundred reasons. I’ll skip two or three. He wants me to marry. Wants, did I say? He is holding me up.”
“That’s Josiah T. all over. He wants what he wants more than all others that want it, too. But, never mind. I’ll have a talk with him. One good turn deserves another. Meanwhile, you might come in and give us all the facts in your melancholy case. My daughter must be expecting them. Yes?”
“Why, you are a brick,” Harry exclaimed. “I had an idea, though, that your daughter was an American.”
“Yes? This way.”
Then, presently, Harry found himself au premier, in a canary-colored salon, staring again at the prettiest little girl in the world. She seemed but indifferently surprised to see him and but indifferently interested in the rather delayed introduction which ensued.
“Yes,” added Lord Chudleigh, when that ceremony had been effected. “You might give him some tea. And some tears, too, Maud. Unless he marries somebody or other he will be cut off with a million. Yes. I’ll be back directly.”
“He is a brick,” Harry announced, as the door closed. “I just told him so. Now I may add that you are an angel.”
“And I may remark that you are very presuming.”
The girl was seated in a low chair. Her hat was gone, her gloves, too. She was playing with her fingers, the sunlight shuttling her hair, an image of Caprice retouched by Doucet. “And so you are to be married, are you?”
“I hope I am,” Harry, with sudden rapture, replied. “I would marry tomorrow if you would have me. Marry tomorrow!” he interrupted himself to exclaim: “I would marry right now.”
“Nonsense, you are to do as you are told. Who is the lady?”
“An escaped lunatic.”
The girl nodded, with curious sympathy. “You poor thing,” she murmured. “No wonder I thought you needed protection. And you are such a dear,” she added, absently. “I do think it a shame.”
Harry moved closer. “Am I a dear?” he asked, in a little innocent voice. “Tell me that I am.”
“You are a very enterprising young man, that’s what you are,” she cried, releasing a hand he had caught. “Can’t you behave?”
But already Harry had retreated. From without there had come the sound of familiar voices, punctuated by an equally familiar wail.
“As I am a sinner,” he gasped; “there’s that tomcat!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It is only some relatives of mine. By the way, didn’t I see you this afternoon helping them into a cab?”
Harry, unnerved, unmanned, undone, was too abject for reply. The door had opened, and before him a horrible trio; the duchess, her daughter, and his father, stood.
“Hello!” and through a lateral entrance a bearded face emerged.
“Yes, Chudleigh, it is I,” the duchess announced. “The butler fell dead, and while he was being removed Angelica suggested coming here, and that, I think, showed such a sweet disposition.”
“Seraphic! But where did you pick up Beamish?”
“Oho,” said the fat man, “I stopped in for tea at your sister’s, and when the butler dropped dead, as the duke was at the dentist’s—”
“And if that isn’t Mr. Harry,” the duchess interrupted. “Angelica, did you see Mr. Harry?”
Harry, at the moment, was crossing the room.
“How did you get here?” Mr. Beamish, in a hurried whisper, hoarsely inquired of him, and as hoarsely continued: “Don’t you know that—er—that little fascination of our friend is but a slight nervous affection, which only shows itself when she is excited, and which, anyway, matrimony will cure?”
“When who is excited?” Maud had surged, a hand extended. “Mr. Beamish, since everyone has forgotten to introduce us, I am Miss Morningside.”
“We were talking, Miss Morningside,” the plutocrat
