Part 6 (1/2)
The little j.a.p was still posed in an att.i.tude of bewilderment as the two outside doors slammed and Officer 666 went down the front steps to resume the tread of his beat and the breaking of fragile hearts.
When he did emerge from his trance he returned to the task of getting the great room in order with the same snappy energy he had displayed when the uniformed minion of the law broke in upon him. He had removed the covers from the chairs and was dusting off a great carved chest that stood against the wall to the right of the doorway when the door bell rang. Bateato jumped and then waited for a second ring. Stepping warily out into the hallway, he looked to see if it was the grim official in blue and b.u.t.tons.
”Ha!” he exclaimed. ”No more police,” and he shot to the door and opened it for that debonnair young gentleman who was one day to inherit the mustard millions of Old Grim Barnes.
”h.e.l.lo there, Bateato,” Whitney Barnes greeted the little j.a.p cordially. ”Did your master show up yet?”
”He no come,” grinned Bateato, shutting the door and leading the way into the room he had been preparing for his master's arrival. As Whitney Barnes stepped into the room the j.a.p asked:
”'Scuse me, Mr. Barnes--you see Mr. Gladwin?”
”No, nor his double, Thomas Smith of the Ritz; but he asked me to meet him here at 5 o'clock, Bateato.”
”Ees sair!” lisped the j.a.p, with a bob of the head; then dived back to his occupation of making the long deserted room look presentable.
As Bateato followed his master's friend into the room he switched on the full glare of electric lights that depended from the ceiling or blazed through the shades of many lamps. Whitney Barnes blinked for a moment, and then started as his gaze was directed to the walls hung with masterpieces.
The work of Rubens, Rembrandt, Coret, Meissonier, Lely, Cazzin, Vegas, Fragonard, Reynolds and a score others of the world's greatest masters leaped across his vision as he turned from wall to wall, revolving on his heel.
”Whew!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”I didn't know that Travers went in for this sort of thing. He certainly is the secretive little oyster when he wants to be.”
Still studying the portraits and landscapes and allegorical groups, he voiced to Bateato a sudden thought.
”By the way, Bateato, do you know what it was that brought your master back in this strange fas.h.i.+on and the reason for all this secrecy?”
”No, sair,” responded the j.a.p.
”Well, it's d.a.m.ned peculiar!” muttered the young man to himself, and proceeded on a tour about the room to examine more closely its wealth of art treasure. He had been engaged in this way about five minutes when the door bell rang and Bateato cried:
”Here Mr. Gladwin now.”
”How do you know that Bateato?” quizzed the young man absently, his attention being gripped by a stunning aphrodite rising from the sea in a glory of nudity and rainbows.
The j.a.p paused a second on his way to the door, and replied:
”'Cause no one know he home but Mr. Barnes. Thees house close up much long time and Mr. Gladwin make papers say he in Egypt.”
In the same breath in which he maximed this volley of words the little j.a.p projectiled himself from the room.
”His deductions are marvellous,” said Whitney Barnes, solemnly addressing a bronze bust of Philip of Macedon. He turned in time to meet the brisk entrance of Travers Gladwin, alias Thomas Smith of the Ritz.
The two shook hands warmly and looked into each other's faces with quizzical smiles. They were about of an age, both unusually good looking and bearing themselves with that breezy, confident manner that is characteristic of young men who have been coddled in swan's-down all their lives.
”Well, well, well, Travers!”
”h.e.l.lo, Whitney, old boy!”
The greeting sprang from their lips simultaneously, and after he had tossed his hat and cane to his valet Travers Gladwin continued:
”Didn't expect to see me so soon, did you, old scout?”