Gaston Brielle, the strawberry blonde French chauffeur who piloted the big, luxurious motor car Jabez Hogg of Omaha had placed at the service of Mrs. Elvira Burton and her two charming young nieces, did not have his mind entirely concentrated upon manipulating the wheel and throttle of the car as he swung around Grant"s Tomb and sped southward down the Drive. While his knowledge of English was confined to a few expletives of a profane nature and the mystic jargon of the garage, he was nevertheless thrilled by the belief that the two mademoiselles behind him were plotting some mysterious enterprise.
From time to time they had unconsciously dropped their voices to the low tones commonly used by conspirators, or at least that was the way Gaston had sensed it. Along the silent roads of Central Park and Riverside Drive, where even the taxis seemed to employ their m.u.f.flers and to resort less frequently to the warning racket of their exhausts, the Frenchman had been straining his ears to listen.
He had heard on two occasions what he divined as a manifest sob, first when the emotional Sadie gave way to tears and again when Helen was aggravated to a petulant outburst of grief.
Later when he heard bright laughter and gay exclamations he could hardly believe his ears. He was profoundly troubled and completely bewildered--a dangerous state of mind for a man who has the power of seventy horses under the pressure of his thumb.
Nor was his mental turmoil in the least alleviated when, having turned south and being on the point of coasting down a precipitous hill he felt a touch on his shoulder and heard the elder of his two pretty pa.s.sengers command him in worse French than his own poor English to go slow when he turned into Fifth avenue again and be prepared to stop.
Gaston knew that this was in direct violation of his orders from Mrs.
Burton, but when he saw a yellow-backed bill flutter down over his shoulder his quick intelligence blazed with understanding. His first groping suspicions had been justified. There was romance in the wind.
Steering easily with one hand, Gaston deftly seized the bill and caused it to vanish somewhere in his great fur coat.
Sadie Burton had been horror-stricken at this bold proffer of a bribe.
Likewise she was alarmed that Helen should put so much trust in Gaston, who seemed to be in mortal terror of her aunt and to quake all through his body when he listened to her commands.
As Helen sank back beside her, after letting fall the bribe, the agitated Sadie whispered tremulously:
"Are you sure you can trust him, Helen? If he should tell Auntie El she would surely make you a prisoner. You will never get a chance to leave her side at the opera to-night."
"Gaston is a Frenchman, my dear," laughed Helen, confidently, "and most Frenchmen--even chauffeurs, I am sure--would cut their hearts out before they would oppose a barrier to the course of true love."
But Helen"s gayety did not communicate itself to Sadie. That shy miss trembled apprehensively as she sought to picture herself in Helen"s place--on the verge of an elopement. Not that such a prospect did not have its alluring thrill even to such a shrinking maiden as the violet-eyed Sadie, but her fear of her aunt seemed to crush and obliterate these t.i.tillating sensations. As the car shot through Seventy-second street and headed for the entrance to the West Drive of Central Park, she ventured another word of caution.
"Wouldn"t it be better to send a messenger to Mr. Gladwin"s house, Helen? Suppose we should run into somebody there who knew auntie?"
"You ridiculously little fraid-cat," Helen caught her up. "Of course there"ll be n.o.body there but Travers, or perhaps his man or some of the other servants. He has good reason for keeping very quiet now and sees absolutely n.o.body, not even--not even--not even his grandmother, if he has one."
"And didn"t he tell you whether or not he had a grandmother, Helen?"
gasped Sadie.
But Helen disdained to reply, her heart suddenly filling with rapture at the prospect of an immediate meeting with her betrothed.
CHAPTER VIII.
TRAVERS GLADWIN GETS A THRILL.
A ring at the door bell should suggest to the ordinary mind that some person or persons clamored for admission, but Whitney Barnes"s announcement seemed to have difficulty in hammering its way into Travers Gladwin"s gray matter and thence downward into the white matter of his brain cells.
"What is some one at the door for?" he asked vacuously.
"To see you, of course," snapped Barnes.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the other with annoyance. "The house has been closed for ages and you are the only one who knows I am home. Why I"----
Bateato skimmed in, grinning like a full moon.
"Well, what is it?" his master asked, shortly,
"Two ladies, sair!"
"Two--that"s good!" chimed in Barnes. "They must have got a wireless that I was here."
"What do they want?" Gladwin addressed Bateato.
"You, sair," replied the j.a.p. "They say you come to door one minute."
"Two ladies to see me? Are you sure?" Travers Gladwin was both bewildered and embarra.s.sed.
"Ees, sair!" Bateato a.s.sured him.
"Did you tell them that I was here?"
"They no ask. They say, "Please, Mr. Gladwin come to door!""
"Well, you tell them Mr. Gladwin is not at home--that I"m out, away--in Egypt."
"Ees, sair," and Bateato was about to skim out into the hallway again when Barnes stopped him.
"Wait a minute, Bateato--what do they look like?"
"Look nice, sair," and Bateato"s moon-like grin returned in full beam.
"You"re sure?" asked Barnes, gravely.
"Oh, fine," uttered the j.a.p, enthusiastically.
"Young?" inquired Barnes.
"Ees, sair--much young--come in autbile. I tell them you no home?"
turning to Gladwin.
"No, wait," responded Gladwin, his curiosity taking fire. "You tell them to come in."
"They say you come door."
"Very well," but Whitney Barnes stopped him.
"Better see them in here, Travers. If they really want to see you they"ll come in. Ask them to come in, Bateato."
The little j.a.p was gone with the speed and noiselessness of a mouse.
"Who in heaven"s name can it be?" whispered Travers Gladwin as Bateato could be heard lisping in the vestibule. Before Whitney Barnes managed to frame a reply a swift, m.u.f.fled step was audible and Helen Burton stood framed in the narrow s.p.a.ce between the portieres. Her timid cousin stopped behind her, staring timidly over her shoulder. She was manifestly surprised and startled as she paused and regarded the two young men.