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WILLIAM CHARVAT
American Fiction Collection
The Ohio State University Libraries





SHEEP’S CLOTHING


BY LOUIS JOSEPH WANCE
JoAN THURSDAY: A Novel
ROMANCES
SHEEP's CLOTHING
THE LONE WOLF
THE DESTROYING ANGEL
CYNTHIA- OF - THE - MINUTE
No MAN's LAND
THE FORTUNE HUNTER
THE BRONZE BELL
T BLACK BAG
The BRAss Bowl
OF PH
D #AVAGANZ
* #5 sold
THE POOL OF FL
TERENCE O’ROURKE


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SHEEPS CLOTHING
BY
LOUIS JOSEPH WANCE
AUTHOR or “THE LONE wolF,” “THE BANDBox,”
“THE BRAss BowL,” ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1915


Copyright, 1915,
BY LOUIS JoSEPH WANCE.
All rights reserved, including those of translation into
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Published, February, 1915
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDs Co., BosTON, U. S. A.


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“WAIT-TILL I GET MY - BREATH. MAN's
GOT - NO BUSINESS COURTING - WHEN HE
AIN'T IN TRAINING” • e - Frontispiece
“THIS Is A GREAT SECRET, DEAR GIRL. GUARD
IT As YoU WOULD YOUR LIFE” . • . PAGE 90
“THERE! I’vK DONE NOTHING: JUST HAPPENED
ALONG AT THE RIGHT TIME – THANK GOD l’’ * 130
IN ONE QUIVERING HAND HE HELD A PLAYING CARD
—A KNAVE OF DIAMONDS . - • - “ 177
FoR AN INSTANT QUOIN CONTEMPLATED THE
KNAVE OF SPADES, FROWNING THOUGHT-
FULLY . • • -> e • . “ 278





SHEEPS CLOTHING
CHAPTER I
N her maiden season the Alsatia, “largest
steamship in the world of her day and
generation, was advertised to leave Liverpool
for New York via Queenstown, promptly at five
o’clock in the afternoon of every third Satur-
day.
At about one o’clock of a Saturday late in
September one forehanded passenger found
her way by dint of persistence through the pan-
demonium in the pier-shed to the Alsatia’s first
cabin gangway.
This was a young woman not far beyond her
twentieth year, with a tall and slender body, a
face of uncommon distinction, and at the time


4 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
fortable sofa, and two wicker arm-chairs. At
one end narrow doors admitted to a cramped
but adequate lavatory and a roomy clothes-
press. The woodwork was enameled a creamy
white, and the walls boasted panels of golden
brocade, — a color scheme conveying an effect
at once of warmth, airiness, and scrupulous
cleanliness.
With a grave little nod the girl approved.
If expensive, — and it was horribly expensive
for her slender purse, — this stateroom was
well worth all it had cost her. Moreover, she
had been without choice of cheaper accommo-
dations: lacking audacity or the means to en-
gage this cabine de luxe, she would have been
obliged to take passage by another vessel sail-
ing at a later date; for not another first- or
second-cabin berth had been available aboard
the Alsatia.
Miss Carteret, however, accepted these fruits
of extravagance contentedly enough (there
ran in her blood the instinct for luxury at any
cost); though now her purse, upon examina-


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 5
tion, yielded but four golden sovereigns, a half-
sovereign, a half-crown, a shilling, and a few
ponderous copper pennies, barely enough for
the inevitable tips at the end of the voyage.
She would land in New York practically penni-
less. But that would be on a day the seventh
distant: sufficient unto it its potential mis-
chief.
Characteristically Miss Carteret dismissed
whatever misgivings may have preyed upon
her mood. A matter of immediate moment en-
gaged her attention insistently, — she was very
tired: the last few nights had brought her little
sleep, thanks to the excitement engendered by
contemplation of a step whose boldness was
unprecedented in her history.
But now, with that the step successfully
taken, excitement yielded place to fatigue.
Unlocking and in part unpacking both bag and
trunk, she appropriated a fair half of the ward-
robe accommodations, then wrapped herself in
a dressing gown and lay down on one of the
beds. Transient, odd visions painted the ruddy


6 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
gloom within her closed eyelids, – of the life
she had dismissed; of the temerarious adven-
ture that engaged her; of the life to which she
looked forward.


8 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
yond the threshold, — a luggage-laden steward
and a lady of abundant person and post-mature
years, in a gown not three days out the Rue de
la Paix.
“I’m sorry,” the girl apologized, standing
aside. “I was quite sound asleep, and couldn’t
seem to wake up.”
“But it is I who am sorry to have disturbed
you.” With a nod and smile of acknowledg-
ment the speaker sailed grandly into the state-
room; which incontinently, for all its luxury
and magnificence, receded to the relative status
of an inconspicuous background for her some-
what overpowering Presence.
Submitting perforce to the necessity of trav-
eling without privacy, Miss Carteret hadn’t
bargained for the company of a Dowager
Duchess; and this Presence bodied forth every
redoubtable inch of that high estate. Her sixty
years were quick with the spirit of forty. She
wore her nose with the high, patrician bridge.
A makeup of most excellent discretion supple-
mented charms by no means hopelessly passée.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 9
An impeccable taste in dress achieved a sobri-
ety to suit her age, while escaping gloom and
stiffness. There were evidences of a vigorous
temper, dominated by a lively appreciation of
the humorous, an invincible self-confidence, a
seasoned acquaintance with the world, and a
devastating curiosity, — a handsome figure, a
personality to be reckoned with.
By accent and mode of speech a true Amer-
ican, this was no Duchess unless through acci-
dent of matrimony. But indubitably she was a
Dragon.
Miss Carteret was quick to endue the lady
with a mental nickname, “the Dowager Dra-
gon,” a term whose asperity she modified by
the admission that, if dragonish, she was most
probably a dear.
The steward had been gone some moments
before the girl's abstraction lifted sufficiently
to permit appreciation of the fact that she had
been staring steadfastly, and for a time far too
long, at once at and through the subject of her
reverie.


10 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Confused and self-conscious, she colored.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured, averting
her eyes.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said the Dowager
Dragon bruskly. “If you apologize, I’ll have
to, — I’ve been staring every whit as hard as
you, my dear, — and I never apologize.” The
conceit relished; the lady rolled it over her
tongue and paraphrased, “I may be rude, I
may be wrong; but admit it? Never!” Then
she laughed heartily.
Miss Carteret Ventured a smile. “I was
thinking — ” she offered in conclusive amend-
ment.
“Believe me, I saw that,” the other inter-
rupted, “and more: I read your thoughts
quite plainly.”
“Oh, no!” the girl protested in alarm.
“But yes, my dear. You were thinking that
in me you’d caught something of a tartar. Now
weren’t you? But a hand-painted bark doesn’t
necessarily imply a venomous bite. And if my
complexion is candidly artful — must a woman


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 11
look her age or lose caste? I do wear a wig;
but think what a fright I should be without
one! On the other hand, my figure and eyes
and teeth are all my own,” the last were
frankly exhibited in an infectious laugh, “and
so is my heart. In short, at my worst I’m
a perfectly respectable old gossip — But
— gracious, child! — how you do run
On 1 **
With this bewildering reproach, the Dowager
Dragon rose and, producing an impressive
bunch of keys, began to unlock her various
pieces of hand luggage.
“Really,” she pursued, “you don’t give
one a chance to ask a single question. Here
you’ve dragged out of me the most private
bones in my skeleton cupboard without so much
as telling me your name. No matter: you
won’t refuse it when you know mine. It’s
Beggarstaff — Amelia — widow. Now, as
Peter Traft says, what do you know about
that?”
Miss Carteret knew nothing whatever about


12 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
that, and owned her ignorance with a look of
blankness that earned an indulgent chuckle.
“Confess you have never heard of me! But
that’s only because you’re English.”
“Oh, but I’m not!” Miss Carteret insisted
impulsively. “My mother’s parents were
English; but I — ”
Here she checked in undisguised dismay.
But her companion wasn’t looking — didn’t,
indeed, need to look: such is the resource of
one ripe in the knowledge of humanity.
“Go on, my dear. Tell me all — as well now
as later. You will, anyway, in the end — and
if you don’t, I’ll engage to find you out for
myself. By the way, your name would help.”
“Lid— ” Miss Carteret announced inco-
herently, stopping abruptly as though half-
choked by the monosyllable.
“How very odd : * commented Mrs. Beggar-
staff with a straight face. “Miss Lid! Al-
most as bizarre as Beggarstaff. But that’s my
own fault: I married it with my hearing unim-
paired. But Lid! I never — ”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 13
“My name isn’t Lid!” the girl interrupted
indignantly. “I never said so. Something
was tickling my throat. My name is Lucy
Carteret.”
“Sorry I misunderstood — and glad. Lucy
Carteret’s much prettier and – ah — human.
The Maryland Carterets, I hope?”
“Oh, no,” said the girl hastily.
“Too bad: it’s a good family. Let me see
— there are no Carterets worth mentioning in
New York. Virginia branch, perhaps?”
“Oh, no.”
The iterated denial was less bold than its
original; Miss Carteret was beginning to be
sorry she hadn’t waited for a later steamer, as
well as that she had thought it necessary, not
to say romantic, to adopt a pseudonym to fit
the initials on her luggage.
“Then you can’t be anybody!” Mrs. Beg-
garstaff asserted vigorously. “Too bad.
Unless possibly,” she brightened, “you come
of the English family? There are, I believe,
some Carterets in Hertfordshire — ”


14 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“No!” the persecuted young woman said
firmly. “I told you I was an American — and
if the matter is of any importance, I’m per-
fectly willing to admit I’m nobody.”
“Don’t be cross with an inquisitive old
woman, my dear.” The Beggarstaffian smile
was very fetching. Miss Carteret's indigna-
tion melted before it. “I’m only trying to find
out if we haven’t friends in common. Tell me,
is this your first crossing? You’re one of a
party, perhaps? Who are your friends on
board? I know everybody, and —”
“I’m traveling alone,” the girl interposed
meekly, “and to the best of my knowledge I
don’t know a soul on the ship.”
Mrs. Beggarstaff chose shrewdly to disap-
prove. “That’s not right! You’re too young
and good looking to travel without at least a
chaperon. These transatlantic boats are all
alive with adventurers. Luckily, you now have
me — unless, perhaps, you’re too high-spirited
to utilize an old woman’s interest?”
“You’re very kind,” Miss Carteret mur-


16 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
a little time. Then my mother died in New
York; and my father went into business there
and thought me better off where I was, in the
care of friends, than with him.”
“But surely,” this in shocked expostulation,
“he came back to see you!”
“Oh, indeed he did, often; that is, consider-
ing the difficulties, the long voyages, and the
fact that he – isn’t a rich man. But I haven’t
seen him recently — not in several years.”
“And now you’re going to join him?”
“Yes,” Miss Carteret affirmed in a voice
that betrayed more doubt than she suspected.
But before her astute inquisitor could take
advantage of the weakness her tone suggested
there befell an interruption. It was nothing
more extraordinary than a knock on the state-
room door; but it brought Miss Carteret to
her feet with a start, again pale and trembling.
“Oh!” she cried in alarm. “Oh, what is
that?” Involuntarily she stepped back as if
to put as much space as possible between her-
self and the door.


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 17
Mrs. Beggarstaff watched her in open won-
der. “That — ” she repeated.
The girl’s hands faltered at her throat and
bosom. “See!” she begged. “See what it
is – please!”
“It’s only the stewardess. I rang for her
sometime ago.”
“Oh, if that’s all!” Miss Carteret sat
down again. “But can you be sure?” she
demanded, with another startled movement.
“I think so,” returned the elder woman.
After another long and questioning glance she
lifted her voice and called, “Is that you,
Stewardess?”
“Yes, Madam,” a feminine voice responded.
“You rang?”
“One moment.” Mrs. Beggarstaff looked
back at the girl. “You don’t object to my let-
ting her in?”
“Oh, no, no!” Miss Carteret insisted ha-
stily. “Please don’t mind me. I’m very nerv-
ous — haven’t been — well. I was startled —
that is all.”


18 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“So I see,” said Mrs. Beggarstaff with a
quizzical accent. “Come in ”
The door opened, admitting a smiling, apple-
cheeked, middle-aged Englishwoman.
“Shut the door — there! So many people
running up and down. How soon do we start,
Stewardess?”
“In five minutes, Madam – on the hour.”
“Good! Now I want you to book my bath.
Eight o’clock sharp every morning, mind, and
as the water comes out of the ocean. If I catch
you tempering it with hot, not a cent of mine
will you see at the end of the voyage.”
“I sha’n’t forget, Madam.”
“And Miss Carteret, doubtless, wishes to
arrange for her bath too.”
“Yes, I should,” agreed the girl. “Will
you mind if I have mine half an hour
earlier?”
“Mind, child, when it means you’ll clear out
of the room and leave me free to celebrate the
awful mysteries of my Indian summer toilet?
Mind! POh! ”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 19
“Then I’ll make yours 'alf-past seven,
MiSS # **
“Please, Stewardess.”
“Thank you. Will that be all? Thank
you.”
But when they were alone again, much to the
relief of the girl, Mrs. Beggarstaff failed by
any word to refer to her recent betrayal of
alarm, — something hardly to be explained
other than by open confession: which wouldn’t
in the least suit Miss Carteret’s book.
“Now,” said the elder woman placidly, fold-
ing a veil over a most palpable wig, but still
a most becoming one, “now I’ll hurry on deck
and see about our chairs, and then interview
the second steward about seats at table. I
know most of these people, stewards and all,
and generally manage to get just about what I
want,” Mrs. Beggarstaff added with grim
self-conceit. “I presume you’ve no objection
to sitting beside me? Not that you won’t see
all you want of me — and more, probably –
right here.”


20 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Please,” the girl begged, laughing. “I’ll
be delighted with whatever arrangements
you’re kind enough to make.”
“Very good, then. And for dinner, if you
please, put on your prettiest frock. Peter
Traft’s aboard, and he’s a dear — well worth
dressing up for.”
The bang of the door as Mrs. Beggarstaff
went out might have been a signal: immedi-
ately the girl became conscious that the ship
was in motion, — vibrant and sonorous with
the drone of its turbines.
The voyage of the Alsatia was begun, and —
nothing had happened. She had eluded pur-
suit, was free!


CHAPTER III
INNER ran off uneventfully, if enlivened
by the quenchless animation of the Dow-
ager Dragon; who — refusing to be bored,
though she had drawn unluckily in the lottery
of seats and found herself surrounded by
strangers and mediocrities — asserted the
privilege of her years to strike up acquaint-
ances right and left, and spoke her mind with
freedom and complacence.
But Miss Carteret, manifesting little appe-
tite, sat out the meal with downcast eyes, mute
save when courtesy dictated speech.
Later she found herself seated by her Drag-
on’s side on the lee of the promenade deck, in
darkness save for the beams from lighted
ports. For a little the girl relished all this
with gladness – as yet undisturbed by the al-
most imperceptible motion of the gigantic fab-
ric to which her life and fortunes were com-


22 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
mitted. But presently her spirits sagged again
and she grew drowsy, and lingered from her
bed only to please the warm-hearted old woman
who had adopted her pro tempore – “on sus-
picion,” as Mrs. Beggarstaff put it, not with-
out a little harmless malice.
Now and again friends paused to pay their
addresses to the Dowager Dragon, — some-
thing like a dozen with whom she seemed on
easy terms, – amiable, light-hearted people,
personable and attractive; yet of them all the
facile waxen tablets of Miss Carteret’s memory
retained impressions of but three personali-
ties.
One was the famous Peter Traft, claiming
her interest more because of Mrs. Beggar-
staff’s outspoken delight in him than through
any qualities he paraded during the few min-
utes he spent with the two, – a youngish, well
poised body, with a drawl and a sort of insou-
ciant humor that seemed to afford the Dragon
intense diversion. But much of this man’s dis-
course was couched in a modified phase of


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 23
American slang or else harked back to local
American topics; both largely unintelligible to
a sense of humor nourished on strictly British
slang and localisms.
Then there was a Mrs. Merrilees, – accord-
ing to Mrs. Beggarstaff not a year out of
mourning for a worthless husband, — an ador-
ably pretty creature, and so bewitchingly gra-
cious that Miss Carteret, at sight, first caught
her breath with envy, then fell hopelessly in
love with her.
A third she remembered for no reason she
could assign. His name was Quoin, — a tall,
taciturn man with a quiet voice, a semi-ironic
attitude toward the Dowager Dragon’s gush of
spirited inconsequence, and a suggestion of
reserve that might very well have masked
nothing more than complete vacuity, for all the
girl could tell in the few minutes of that first
meeting. But for some reason she remembered
him more definitely even than she remembered
Mrs. Merrilees. Perhaps it was the oddity of
his name, Quoin: surely uncommon enough-


24 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
As for the others, they might as well have
been shadows on a cinematograph screen;
though as subsequent necessity arose she re-
called them readily enough.
By ten o’clock, leaving Mrs. Beggarstaff
firmly fixed in the fourth seat at a card table,
engrossed by her one confessed infatuation,
auction bridge, Miss Carteret was abed and
asleep.
A bed of almost sybaritic luxury it seemed,
as it rocked her gently to forgetfulness; but
a bed of misery when she awoke in the chill of
dawn, with the Alsatia, for all her immense
bulk, dancing drunkenly to the tune piped by
a mad northeaster: none the less, a bed of her
own making, and one upon which she must lie
until nature should adjust itself to such ab-
normal conditions, or until the weather blow
itself breathless and calm.
But with Miss Carteret the phenomenon first
named didn’t anticipate the latter by so
much as an hour; and they were more than
sixty hours that held her the victim of mor-


26 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
pond thirty times not to know when a seasick
woman’s on the mend. Besides, haven’t you
noticed how much steadier the boat has been
this last hour or two?”
‘‘I thought I must be imagining it,” the in-
valid murmured incredulously.
“Nonsense! The barometer’s been rising
since midnight. The wind shifted at dawn,
and now we’ve a clearing sky and a falling
sea. Of course you’re feeling better. You’ll
be on deck before night.” -
“Oh, no.” -
“Poh! Much you know about it! The air’s
too sweet for you to miss. An hour up there
would do you more good — Sure you don’t
feel able now?”
“Oh, please, Mrs. Beggarstaff!”
“Don’t worry: I sha’n’t carry you off by
force. Bless my inadequate income! What’s
this???
The girl turned her head wearily to look.
Mrs. Beggarstaff had been standing beside
the chest of drawers, a hand abstractedly toy-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 27
ing with her protégée's simple jewelry, and
suddenly had singled out a brooch for wonder-
ing interest.
This brooch was a very beautiful thing, an
exquisite cameo in sardonyx framed in an oval
frame of fine diamonds; and Miss Carteret
treasured it above all her possessions.
“Where under the sun, child, did you pick
this up?”
“It was given me on my fifteenth birthday.”
“Five years ago?”
“Just about. Why?”
The Dowager Dragon laughed delightedly.
“My roundabout way of asking your age,
dear.” She turned the brooch over and held
it to the light. “If ever you care to part with
it, don’t forget my passion for antique jew-
elry.”
“Oh, never — I could never part with it!”
“Forgive me. I forgot it was a pres-
ent.”
“But that isn’t all,” the girl explained with
growing animation. “You see, it was a pres-


28 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
ent from my father, and the cameo—it's a
portrait of my father himself!”
“It’s what?” Mrs. Beggarstaff exclaimed
shrilly. “A portrait of your father! Pooh!
Absurd | The thing’s a genuine antiquity —
two thousand years old if a day!”
“I know. I mean, it looks like him. That’s
why he gave it me. He showed it to me once
— the last time we were together in London —
and I saw the resemblance; so he sent it to me
on my next birthday. It really does look won-
derfully like him.”
“Then, my dear, you ought to pride your-
self on having a mighty handsome man for
your father l’’
“I do,” the girl said indistinctly, averting
her head and closing her eyes.
“And able to make such presents! Why,
it must be worth several thousands! An ex-
quisite specimen — perfectly preserved —
flawless — ought by rights to be in the Metro-
politan Museum. I shall envy you it till my
dying day!”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 29
Miss Carteret didn’t answer.
And presently Mrs. Beggarstaff returned the
brooch to the top of the highboy and went her
way, one fine, thoughtful wrinkle marring the
habitual serenity of her forehead.


CHAPTER IV
HE Dowager Dragon’s deck chair stood
in the shelter of a jog near the entrance
to the forward promenade deck companion-
way, — a most advantageous coign for the sin-
cere student of seafaring humanity. Here,
after a hurried dinner, Mrs. Beggarstaff
mounted guard in the blue gloaming, narrowly
reviewing the post-prandial parade with eyes
whose brightness was as yet undimmed by age.
At length she sat up with a quick movement
and called imperatively, “Quoin!”
A man who, walking alone, had been on the
point of passing, halted and peered curiously
in her direction.
At this the Dowager Dragon insisted,
“Come here, Quoin' I want a word with
you.”
“Oh — is it you, Mrs. Beggarstaff?”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 31
With a quiet laugh the man jerked a cigarette.
stub over the rail, and moved to the lady’s
side.
“More than ever myself — Mrs. Beggar-
staff!” retorted that one with tart mimicry.
“Sit down. You heard me say I wanted to
talk to you?”
“I did.” The man obediently deposited a
lanky figure in L. Carteret’s deck chair next
the dragon’s. “And with surprised delight.
One so seldom gets a chance to talk to a sensi-
ble Woman.”
“You’ve been sedulously unconscious of a
heap of opportunities since Saturday night,
then,” Mrs. Beggarstaff retorted with asper-
ity. “One seldom gets a chance to talk to a
sensible man — or never. I’m not so sure
you’re half as sensible as you try to make out,
young man. Three mortal days I’ve been
moping round the saloons with my tongue
hanging out, parched for a bit of scandal—
and you never came near me!”
“But I hate to disappoint: I’d nothing


32 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
on tap high enough for your seasoned pal-
ate.”
“Don’t be impudent, Quoin. What are you
doing on this boat? If you answer ‘Crossing
the Atlantic,” I’ll forget I’m a lady — ”
Quoin chuckled. “I’m combining business
with pleasure, if you must know. Nothing
pleases me more than to be cooped up for a
few days with an unsuspicious subject. In such
circumstances your humble sleuth learns a lot
about human nature.”
“Then you’re sleuthing! I know it! But
On Whose trail?”
“Afraid I dassent tell, Mrs. Beggarstaff.”
‘‘What if I knoW **
“That wouldn’t surprise me: you certainly
do contrive to know a surprising number of
things that don’t concern you.”
“I’m not sure whether that's flattery or
impertinence.”
“The man who could flatter your omnis-
cience, Madam, wouldn’t hesitate to — ah–
tackle the job of teaching a New York


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 33
head-waiter the gentle art of being inso-
lent.’’
Mrs. Beggarstaff laughed aloud. “But sup-
pose I do know what game you’re stalking and
can lend a helping hand?”
“Charmed to humor your whim. Consider
me a docile little supposer. And then?”
The Dowager Dragon glanced fore and aft;
but there were no other passengers within
ear-shot, and the ports behind them, though
alight, were shut and sound-tight. “Betty
Merrilees,” she said. “What causes that
guess?”
Stretching his long limbs luxuriously, Quoin
Knitted thin, flexible fingers and regarded them
studiously if with a faint smile. “I refuse to
commit myself to anything that might tend to
incriminate or degrade.”
“Oh! Then I'm on the right track?”
“You’re warm — as the children say in
hide-and-seek.”
“Aha!” the lady cried in triumph.
“Well, then! Betty doesn’t mean to try to


34 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
beat the customs. She told me so herself. The
row that man Loeb has kicked up about smug-
- gling has scared her so that she’s made up her
mind to declare every blessed trinket. You
know what they did to that poor Mrs. What's-
her-name last spring? Four months’ hard la-
bor, wasn’t it?”
“I believe SO.”
“So you see, Quoin,” the Dowager Dragon
summed up, “you’re simply wasting time
trailing Betty Merrilees.”
Quoin smiled vaguely at his interesting fin-
gertips. “No, I’m not,” he contradicted.
Mrs. Beggarstaff sniffed suspiciously.
** Not What?”
“Not wasting time trailing Betty Merri-
lees.”
“I’ve guessed wrong?”
“For once in a way. The truth is, I don’t
care whether Mrs. Merrilees defrauds the gov-
ernment or not. It’s over a year since I left
the Secret Service. I didn’t like the work, –
too tame, — and having learned all it could


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 35
teach me, I quietly dropped out and returned
to my old field.”
“Private investigation, eh?” -
“There’s some fun in that,” Quoin said with
mild enthusiasm. “Odd jobs — I love 'em.
They’re generally so very odd – unexpected
besides. Now this present case — ”
“Yes?” Mrs. Beggarstaff prompted in the
most casual tone.
“You’d be tremendously interested. Sorry
I can’t tell you.”
“Quoin,” announced the Dowager Dragon
with conviction, “you’re a beast! I’ve a
great mind not to tell you something extraordi-
narily interesting.”
“I’m sorry: it’s my loss.”
“But suppose,” the lady inquired with a
change of tone, ‘‘suppose I were to put you in
the way of retrieving your biggest cropper?”
“Hello! ” said Quoin, sitting up.
“You remember the Joachim Collection?”
“Do I remember it!” Quoin protested with
reproachful sincerity. “I wish I might hope


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 37
“Would you care to see it? Then — look!”
Mrs. Beggarstaff unclosed her left hand. In
its palm lay Miss Carteret’s brooch!
With a wondering exclamation, Quoin bent
forward to examine the cameo, while Mrs.
Beggarstaff regarded with a triumphant smile
his bent head. It was something to have start-
led the greatest living detective, which was
precisely the distinction the keen-witted old
woman accorded this man.
“Take it to the light and have a good look.”
“Thank you,” said Quoin, rising instantly
and moving forward to the lighted companion-
way, where he lingered a long minute, intently
inspecting the brooch with a small magnifying
glass.
“ Unquestionably one of the missing pieces,”
he declared flatly, returning, “and, if I’m not
mistaken, one of the finest in the collection.”
“I thought so.”
“How did you come by it, please?”
“It’s the property of the young person
who shares my cabin; name, Lucy Carteret.


38 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
She’s an American, about twenty, and has lived
abroad all her life. Now she’s going to New
York to join her father, who — she says —
gave her this on her fifteenth birthday.”
“The question is, Who is Carteret père?”
“I’m not psychic,” Mrs. Beggarstaff ob-
jected. “The woods are full of Carterets;
but I know none that this child resembles in
any way. Besides, she has denied every rela-
tionship I’ve suggested thus far.”
“But we mustn't forget that, when found,
this paternal Carteret will probably prove to
be a perfectly honest bourgeois who picked up
the cameo casually in some out-of-the-way
shop, at home or abroad. Possession of one
piece from the Joachim collection is no proof
of criminal knowledge.”
“It’s cousin german to receiving stolen
goods,” the Dowager Dragon argued obsti-
nately. *
“Nonsense! If we’d gone on that theory,
we could have jugged half the antique dealers
from 'Frisco east to Moscow. I happen to


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 39
know that Joachim’s agents picked up pieces
in both places. In fact,” Quoin observed mu-
singly, “I’ve often thought that the wide-
spread distribution of that loot might be taken
as pretty good evidence in support of some-
thing I’ve always contended was a popular
chimera, – the existence of a regular organi-
zation of social freebooters.”
“You don’t believe there is any such
thing?”
“No,” said the detective soberly, “I don’t.
But I’ve learned too much to deny the possi-
bility of anything that looks incredible. I
don’t believe; but I’m open to conviction.
You’re going?” he added as Mrs. Beggarstaff
stirred and sat up, preparatory to rising.
“The present owner of this bauble is asleep
— and I want to replace it before she wakes
up.”
“One minute, if you don’t mind. Perhaps
you can tell me something — ”
“On one condition,” the old lady stipulated
firmly. “You must let me in on the ground


40 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
floor. I’ll not lift my hand to help you in any-
thing that’s a mystery to me.”
“I don’t mind telling you in the least. This
isn’t a case: just simple curiosity on my part.
Did you ever know anybody by the name of
Hicks-Lorrimer — in London?”
“Bless my income!” exclaimed Mrs. Beg-
garstaff indignantly. “No ! Who is he – or
She?”
“I don’t know: that’s why I asked you —
who know everybody. One question more,
What do you know about your friend Mr.
Craven?”
“Tad Craven?” exclaimed the Dowager
Dragon in blank amazement. “What’s he
been doing?”
“Nothing very desperate: only making love
to Mrs. Merrilees. Think she’ll marry him?”
“Couldn’t say. She’s a flighty creature,
and Tad’s tremendously amusing. What con-
cern is it of yours?”
“None whatever. You haven’t told me what
you know about him.”


42 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Quoin,” said the Dowager Dragon sol-
emnly, “I warn you, if you keep me on ten-
terhooks another instant — ”
“Here you are, then,” the detective inter-
posed hastily; “but keep it to yourself. Yes-
terday afternoon, when I was killing time in
the wireless house, a message came in which I
read over the operator’s shoulder as he wrote
it down. It was for Craven, and ran some-
thing like this: ‘Lydia disappeared. What
shall I do? Awaiting advice before notifying
police.” Signed, ‘Hicks-Lorrimer.” And after
a while Craven’s reply was brought in for
transmission, “Keep away from police. If
girl doesn’t return, wire me New York Satur-
day.” Addressed, ‘Hicks-Lorrimer, eleven
King Charles’ Court, London, West.” Now who
is “Lydia to Craven if not wife or daughter,
that wireless messages must advise him of her
disappearance? Not his wife; for he refers
to her in his reply as the “girl.” If his daugh-
ter, he must be a widower.”
“That’s charitable of you. But if his


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 43
daughter, why doesn’t she live with
him?” -
“Conceivably a man of Craven’s tastes and
habits might consider the care of a growing
girl a considerable burden.”
“That’s quite possible. But why should he
never have mentioned her?”
“Conceivably again, an ambitious man with
not much money and the entrée to the best
houses in New York might dream of marriage
with a woman of fortune.”
“And as a widower with a child he wouldn’t
be thought as eligible?”
“Precisely.”
After a thoughtful moment the Dowager
Dragon exclaimed, “Quoin ”
‘‘Madam?”
“This Joachim brooch — has it struck you
that the cameo bears a resemblance to anyone
We know?”
“Craven, of course! Now you mention it,
a distinct resemblance.”
“This Miss Carteret says her father


44 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
gave it to her because of its likeness to
him.”
“What did you say her name was, in full?”
“Lucy Carteret. But when she told me she
tripped and stumbled over something that
sounded suspiciously like ‘Lid.’ “Lid for
Lydia, eh?”
“Lucy Carteret — Lydia Craven,” the de-
tective mused aloud.
“Help me up,” the Dowager Dragon de-
manded excitably. “I’m going downstairs
this minute and have a good look round that
cabin, if the girl isn’t awake. Quoin,” she
added with animation, as the detective gave her
his hand, “if it turns out as we think — ”
“Hope?” he suggested, smiling.
“For my part, hope. If it turns out as we
hope, this voyage is going to be most amusing.
And I was afraid of being bored !”
“Then,” Quoin reminded her, “you ought
to be very grateful to me.”
“I love you for it!” Mrs. Beggarstaff de-
clared ardently.


CHAPTER V
ONG after dark Miss Carteret Wakened.
For some minutes she lay in lazy content,
unstirring, wide eyes dreaming into obscurity.
The stateroom was dusky with shadows; but
deck lights beyond the window ports painted
wan squares upon the white interior woodwork,
vaguely revealing the proportions of the cubi-
cle and its arrangement, together with the fact
that the windows had been opened while the
girl slept, and now stood wide to the winds of
night.
The sweep of clean sea air through the state-
room was as sweet as fresh, cool water to a
parched throat. Feeling stronger and more
herself for each delicious breath, humbly the
girl gave thanks; for it seemed that, with the
passing of the gale, the ghastly incubus of mal-
de-mer had been exorcised.


46 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Presently, conscious of a pang of hunger,
she touched the repeating spring on her brace-
let watch, – an exquisitely small, jeweled ex-
travagance, her father’s gift of the previous
Christmas, – and bent an attentive ear to its
elfin chime.
Eight o’clock. Now everybody else, of
course, including her Dowager Dragon, would
be at dinner; and now one to whom within
twelve hours the very thought of food had been
abhorrent, distilled exasperation from the
knowledge that it was too late to dress and dine
in public |
But as she lay in doubt, trying to decide
whether she was really as hungry as she felt,
or would do better to deny herself food until
breakfast, she heard a sound from the outer
deck so singular that in a twinkling it focused
her drowsy, errant wits.
As nearly as onomatopoeia will render it, the
sound was “Psst-pssst-psssst,” a trisyllabic
hiss of which each part was longer and more
emphatic than its predecessor; not merely a


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 47
hiss, but something more: a signal with an in-
dividuality and a significance both sinister and
urgent. Unmistakably of human origin,
though as odd and alarming as the warning of
a serpent, it brought the girl from her bed to
her feet with a start.
But her movement was a noiseless one, and
conveyed no warning to him who had sounded
that strange call. -
This last she discovered at pause immedi-
ately outside the window; but his back was
to it, so that she could see little more than the
concave line of his dark, lean, shaved cheek,
and the back of a long, narrow head beneath
a steamer cap with vizor well down over his
eyes.
Almost immediately the hiss was answered
by quick, light footsteps, and the voice of one
as yet invisible, a voice of guarded accent but
vibrant with indignation, “What the devil do
you mean by buzzing me like that?”
The girl trembled. Unless her senses were
untrustworthy, she knew that voice better than


48 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
her own. It seemed impossible that she could
be mistaken.
It was again audible, the response of the
man outside the window having escaped her,
“You infatuate ass! Don’t you know better
than to take such chances?”
“Oh, it’s all right. He’s up on the boat
deck, chinnin’ with some skirt. I made sure
of that before I laid for you. Trust me.”
“Trust you to play the fool! Don’t you
know every word you utter can be overheard
in those staterooms?”
Instinctively the girl crouched in the shadow
of her bedstead, in deadly terror lest she be
detected at her involuntary eavesdropping:
so strong upon her sensitive perceptions the
psychological effect of this surreptitious pas-
Sage.
But her fears were quickly dissipated; the
interview terminating as abruptly as it had
begun.
“Good night!” that well remembered voice
continued incisively. “And for the last time


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 49
I warn you: don’t approach me again aboard
this ship! ”
“But — listen,” the other pleaded and
threatened in the one breath. “We got to get
a straight answer out of you — ”
“I’ve given it already — twice. For the
third time — no !” With this the last speaker
strode briskly forward.
Rising as silently as any shadow, Miss Car-
teret again turned her face to the port.
The man who had hissed was still there,
watching the other way.
She fancied something sullen and menacing
in the louring inclination of his head, the stoop
of his narrow shoulders.
Suddenly, with a mumbled word, inarticulate
with anger, he turned and went swiftly aft.


CHAPTER VI
WO minutes later the stewardess, hasten-
ing to answer a series of impatient rings
from B75, found that stateroom bright with
light and tenanted by a pale but animated
young woman frantically struggling into a hap-
hazard selection of garments, with the evident
intention of making immediate appearance in
public.
“Winant, if you please, I’d like you to
fasten my dress.”
“Certainly, Miss Carteret,” returned the
stewardess, suppressing all signs of wonder.
“I’m in a great hurry to get on deck. But
– Winant — do you think you could find me
a passenger list?”
“Oh, surely, Miss.”
“I want very much to see one. Please fetch
it at once. The dress can wait.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 51
Gravely Winant shrugged and went her way,
shrewdly guessing close to the cause of the
passenger’s excitement. “Some sweet’art,
likely,” she reflected with the indulgent pity of
a self-supporting married woman not obliged
to live continuously with her husband.
“Found out some’ow 'e's on board, w”ich she
wasn’t expectin’.”
So, instead of summoning the ship’s doctor
to pass upon the advisability of allowing the
convalescent to go on deck, Winant serenely
carried out her instructions, returning to find
Miss Carteret all dressed save for hooks and
shoebuttons.
“You’ve been in since I went to sleep this
afternoon, Winant?” the girl demanded as
Winant entered.
“Yes, Miss, tidyin’ up a bit.”
“You didn’t notice a brooch anywhere — on
top this chest of drawers?”
“A cameo brooch? Yes, Miss, I did, and
left it w’ere I saw it.”
“Really? But it's not there now. What


52 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
can have become of it? Oh, is that the passen-
ger list?”
In her excitement, almost snatching from
Winant’s grasp the printed list of first-cabin
passengers, the girl promptly forgot the miss-
ing brooch.
“You’re sure, Miss,” the stewardess pur-
sued, first examining the chest and then kneel-
ing to paw the carpet beneath it, “you’re sure
you didn’t by any chawnse knock it off while
dressin’?”
“What?” the girl murmured abstractedly,
her gaze racing down the dense columns of
small type.
“The brooch, Miss — ”
“Oh, bother that! It's surely somewhere
about. I’ll find it later. Oh, Winant!” she
broke off with a cry of delight. “It is true!
I knew I couldn’t be mistaken | He is on the
ship!”
Her trembling forefinger indicated midway
down the column headed C the entry, “Craven,
Thaddeus – New York.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 53
“The gentleman as you’re engyged to,
Miss?” Winant hazarded impersonally; and
having noted the name stepped behind the girl
to hook up her frock.
“Engaged to? Oh, no, Winant!” The girl
laughed. “How absurd! Why, he’s my
father | ?”
“Mr. Craven, Miss?”
“To be sure — ”
“Per’aps you mean 'e's your stepfather,
InOW ?”
“Stepfather? No, indeed!”
Winant emitted a noncommittal grunt.
“Why shouldn’t he be my father?” the
girl demanded with a hint of indignation.
“Merely because I didn’t know he was on
board — ”
“But I thought as 'ow your nime was Car-
teret, Miss.”
“Oh!” the girl gasped in transient dismay.
Then she laughed. “To be sure, that is the
name I sailed under. But my real name’s
Lydia Craven — not Lucy Carteret at all. You


54 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
see, I didn’t want — well — somebody in Eng-
land to know I was sailing.”
“Your father, Miss?” Winant hazarded
dispassionately, kneeling again to attend to the
girl’s shoes.
“No; someone else. I—I didn’t know my
father was in England, you see,” Craven’s
daughter faltered in a first faint chill of doubt.
“He — he must have made a hurried trip on
business — he’s a very busy man — and didn’t
have time to notify me. But that,” her spirits
dictated on the rebound, “only makes it more
strange and wonderful — that we should meet
this way! He will be surprised.”
“I warrant!” Winant commented with an
ambiguity lost upon Lydia, who accepted the
response as one of simple concurrence, whereas
the woman at her feet was hiding an ironic
smile.
In point of fact, this Tad Craven of Mrs.
Beggarstaff’s acquaintance was a conspicuous
figure among transatlantic travelers, one who
crossed frequently and, lacking any other title


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 55
to notoriety, would have made himself remem-
bered by his lavish tips. Moreover, Winant
read American as well as English newspapers,
and knew a vast deal more about Craven than
that man would have cared to credit — who,
when all’s said, wasn’t lightly to be termed a
man of retiring disposition. Thus the discov-
ery that he had a daughter (and why not a wife
living, as well?) was one tremendously titilla-
ting; for trade in gossip about notabilities
goes on as briskly between decks on fashion-
able Atlantic steamships as below stairs in
fashionable homes on either side the water.
But Craven’s daughter, forgetful of the serv-
ing woman, sat with eyes serene in a face radi-
ant with the glow of happiness in her heart.
Never a doubt troubled her ardent anticipa-
tions. That ominous note which had been
sounded in the brief conversation outside her
window was now forgotten — at worst could
not have shaken her faith in his loving kind-
ness. That was something always to be
counted upon, something that had never failed


56 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
her. And if his attitude of late might have
seemed inconsistent with truly sympathetic af-
fection, Lydia knew better: her father had not
so much opposed her wishes as he had under-
estimated the sincerity of her mutiny against
the rule of Agnes Hicks-Lorrimer.
How could it be otherwise, with a gap of five
long years in their association, five years of
separation, change, and growth?
This thought aroused appreciation of the
great changes time had wrought: so great that
it wasn’t difficult to fancy Craven failing to
recognize his daughter, whose memory with
him must be that of a hobbledehoy of fifteen,
long legged and awkward, with perpetually
freckled snub nose, mouth too wide, and eyes
too large for her thin face, and her hair in
plaits, – two wrist-thick cables of it falling .
below her waist, carroty red, and bound with
broad butterfly bows of stiff blue ribbon.
Mrs. Hicks-Lorrimer’s idea, that of the but-
terfly bows – the final touch of ignominy!
Lydia dated her hatred of the woman from the


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 57
hour when she had been compelled to submit
to those unspeakable decorations.
But to-day – Lydia smiled tenderly. No;
Craven wouldn’t know his girl, – not until she
told him, — unless, to be sure, she had grown
somewhat to resemble her mother, who had
been a famous beauty, — or so Mrs. Grummle
of the Bloomsbury lodgings had asseverated,
— and so Craven himself, under pressure of
persistent questioning, had once admitted.
Winant, rising from her knees, dispelled
reverie. “Is that all, Miss Craven?”
Lydia smiled brilliantly. “That's right,”
she affirmed with decision. “Let me be Miss
Craven from now on. Do you think you could
find my father for me, Winant?”
“Oh, surely, Miss.” Winant preserved a
straight face. “Would you wish me to send
'im to you 'ere?”
“Oh, no. I merely want to know where to
look for him. But to send him here to find
me — why – don’t you see? — that would spoil
it all! ??


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 59
closed the door and sat down on her bed.
“Nonsense!” she added with unaccountable
irritation, looking the excited young woman up
and down. “My dear, you’re not going to tell
me you’ve found out your father is on board?”
“How in the name of wonder did you
guess?”
“I didn’t guess — I knew,” the Dragon re-
torted, sententious. “I know everything, in-
cluding my own mind: my middle name is
Omniscience. Remember that, next time you
try to keep Amelia Beggarstaff in the dark.
You're Lydia Craven, and your father’s Thad-
deus Craven – Tad Craven to me and — ”
“You know him? You know my father,
Mrs. Beggarstaff? You dear!”
With a grim smile, the Dowager Dragon sub-
mitted to a spontaneous embrace, then gently
fended off the agitated girl. “There!” she
growled with an attempt at acerbity not wholly
successful. “Save your kisses for your dad!
I dare say you’ve played the deuce with my
complexion, and as for my wig,” this while


60 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
readjusting that disarranged adornment, “if
you can’t keep your own hair on for joy, you
might at least be good enough to let mine roost
where it belongs!”
“But — I don’t care!” Lydia retorted with
gay defiance. “You know my father, and I’ve
a perfect right to kiss you for that, if I want
to. Tell me how long you have known him, and
how long you’ve known I was his daughter,
and what made you begin to suspect, and — ”
“In pity’s name!” the Dowager Dragon in-
terrupted, covering her ears. “One question
at a time. Be still, and I’ll tell you.”
But here, to her open relief, the stewardess
knocked and entered, with the effect of render-
ing Lydia oblivious to all else.
“Yes, Winant? You’ve found him?
Where???
“One of the stewards tells me, Miss, 'e’s
just seen Mr. Craven abaft the deck’ouse on the
main deck, astern.”
“Thank you so much, Winant. Goodby,
Mrs. Beggarstaff!”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 61
Snatching up wrap and scarf, Lydia was off
in a breath.
Those she left behind eyed one another
oddly, — the Dowager Dragon with a twinkling
look of inquiry: the stewardess with discreetly
tightened lips and half-lowered lids that, hint-
ing at mysteries unutterable, were a plain
provocation to any competent catechist.
And the face of Mrs. Beggarstaff grew
bright with the light of battle.


CHAPTER VII
YDIA stepped over the high sill of a door-
way to open air upon the main deck abaft
the superstructure, skirted to leeward an
enormous cargo hatch over which a great steel
mast stood guard amid a lesser company of
engines and windlasses, uncouth and shapeless
monsters in the half-light, and gained the
shadow of the deckhouse wherein the rudder
engine clanked and groaned.
When she came to the open space between
the deckhouse and the taffrail the moon slipped
from behind a cloud, drenching the ship with
ghostly radiance, and she stopped short. In
no other public part of the vessel could one —
or two — have found greater privacy.
Two, at least, seemed to have thought of
that. In that fan-shaped space behind the
deckhouse, close by the singing meter of the


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 63
log, Craven stood with Mrs. Merrilees in his
arms. Wholly unaware that they were not
alone, these two clung to each other, lips seal-
ing lips in the ecstasy of a long and passionate
embrace, moveless save as they yielded to the
motion of the ship.
Lydia stood rooted in incredulous embar-
rassment. In that pitiless wash of naked moon-
light she could not fail to recognize the woman.
She was Mrs. Merrilees beyond question,
gowned precisely as she had been that first
night out, forever to be a figure of radiant love-
liness in the galleries of Lydia’s memory.
But that the other, her lover, could be Thad-
deus Craven-impossible! A passing like-
ness to his sturdy but graceful figure — de-
ceiving eyes too eager to recognize a beloved
parent: it could be nothing more than that.
Impossible that he, her father, could be the
lover of a woman but little older than her-
Self!
But before she could recollect her wits and
slip quietly away Craven abruptly lifted his


64 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
head and looked directly at his daughter; and
now she knew him positively. Though his jaw
dropped, his mouth gaped, and his eyes stared
prominently from a countenance that in a
twinkling darkened portentously above the
blank pallor of his shirt bosom, in every linea-
ment he was Thaddeus Craven of the sempi-
ternally youthful face, showed never a line to
declare he wasn’t thirty-one but a round
decade older.
. For a moment whose tension lent it the
length of many, father and daughter remained
transfixed and staring. Then his emotion com-
municated itself to the woman in his arms.
Startled and wondering, she unveiled her eyes,
caught a shadowed glimpse of the third figure,
disengaged, and drew away. And Craven suf-
fered this without a sign to indicate that he
had not forgotten her, maintaining his poise
and stare with a fixity that, penetrating Lyd-
ia’s confusion, stirred her curiosity.
Taking one step toward him, she paused


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 65
again, lifted one hand in a gesture at once
apologetic and appealing, and said falteringly,
“Daddy — ” -
With visible effort Craven pulled himself to-
gether and made an attempt to speak; but
only a husky whisper rattled in his throat.
Then his glance wavered uncertainly to Mrs.
Merrilees.
Abruptly this last, overcoming her astonish-
ment, precipitated the situation. The blush
that had shadowed her exquisite face ebbed
again, leaving it incomparably fair. She threw
back her shoulders and took full advantage of
her inches.
“Really, Miss Carteret — ” she began; and
then her voice of crystal clearness broke in a
cool and tinkling laugh.
“Oh, do forgive me, Mrs. Merrilees! I
never dreamed — I expected to find my father
alone — ”
“Father!” With that iteration of superb
insolence, Mrs. Merrilees became once more


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 67
done me the honor to promise to become my
wife, and — the truth is — ”
“To come out!” Mrs. Merrilees supplied
incisively.
He laughed a little awkwardly. “Exactly!
I mean to say, it was all quite unpremeditated.
It isn’t fifteen minutes since we found we —
ah — loved each other; since when I– have
been rather too preoccupied to advise Mrs.
Merrilees of all my affairs. In another hour,
of course, she would have known. As it is, if
the fact of my prior marriage — ”
“Tad!” Mrs. Merrilees interjected with a
spirit that commanded his deference. “We’re
neither of us fools. Don’t overdo things.
You’re talking stupidly – quite unlike your-
self. I don’t care to hear more until you’ve
found your bearings; and I want time to find
mine, into the bargain. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Nothing more so,” he affirmed cheerfully.
“Then I’ll leave you to your — family re-
union | ?”
Fugitively Craven’s eyes conveyed what was


68 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
at once a demand and an appeal. But before
Lydia could respond Mrs. Merrilees antici-
pated, with a quick movement crossing to drop
her hands lightly upon the girl’s shoul-
ders.
“My dear Miss Craven!” she said with an
odd little catch in her voice. “I’m not sure
yet I ought to call you Lydia; but I’m awfully
fond of your father, and — and if I can get
over what doesn’t seem an unfair suspicion
that he’s kept me too long in the dark about
you, I shall probably marry him.”
“I can’t wish him greater good fortune,”
said Lydia quietly.
“You are a dear! And so beautiful — I’m
jealous. Do you think, Tad, it is wise to have
two blonds in one family? Don’t answer,
please. It’s a riddle I must solve to my own
satisfaction before I listen to you again. But
— I’m serious — think it over.”
With a transient tightening of her grasp on
Lydia’s shoulders, a pressure that conveyed a
hint of friendliness, the woman turned away.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 69
“No!” she insisted when Craven promptly
ranged himself at her side. “Let me go for
tonight, Tad. I’d prefer to be alone to think
things out. Tomorrow, perhaps — ”
Her smile flashed uncertainly toward Lydia
as she disappeared round the shoulder of the
deckhouse.
Craven delayed, however, barely long enough
for a word, “Wait here — I sha’n’t be long.”
Lydia said nothing; but watched him go with
eyes confused with pain, she who found herself
suddenly relegated from the status of a well
beloved child to that of a stumbling block in
the path of her father’s ambition, who could
no longer doubt that he had planned to keep
her existence secret until his marriage to this
Mrs. Merrilees of the fabulous fortune should
be a consummated fact.
She stood desolate amid a debris of illusions,
who had never known a mother and now had
lost a father. Her eyes filled. He hadn’t even
kissed her after five years’ separation! Rest-
ing arms upon the taffrail, she turned a forlorn


70 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
face to the night-clad sea, her mood fraught
with vast disconsolation.
A footfall sounded behind her, and she
wheeled sharply about to join issue with her
father.


CHAPTER VIII
TJT it was Peter Traft who, briskly round-
ing the deckhouse, pulled up short at sight
of that tense young person, Lydia, with her
shoulders back, her chin up, and defiance
a-glimmer in her eyes.
“I beg your pardon — ” He peered eagerly
to make certain; for the moon was just then
thinly veiled in cloud. “It’s Miss Carteret,
isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Traft,” said the girl quietly, re-
laxing. “Good evening.” -
He seemed puzzled by her manner, started
to say something, reconsidered sharply, then
ventured with engaging deference, “It’s good
to see you up and about again.”
“It feels pretty good, thank you,” she said,
with a smile that gave him courage.
“Hope I didn’t startle you, galumphing into


72 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
your solitude without warning. Fact is, I was
looking for old Tad Craven. We’re needing
a fourth. I don’t suppose you know Craven,
though?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve known Mr. Craven a long
time.”
“Really? He's a wonder, isn’t he?”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh – the best sort!” Traft asseverated
with enthusiasm. “Everybody’s friend — not
an enemy in the world. I don’t believe there’s
a better liked man in New York — our New
York, that is.”
“Your New York? You see, I’ve always
lived in England, and have lots to learn about
— home.”
“Sheer snobbery on my part,” Peter ad-
mitted cheerfully. “I meant the very small
part of New York that we infest, whom my
friend Mr. Martin likes to call the ‘idle rich.”
If he only knew !”
“But are you?”
‘‘Idle – or rich?’”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 73
“Both – either?”
“I’m afraid I’m idle enough; but as for
riches, I’m poverty’s poor relation.”
“But what do you do?”
“Oh, I play a good hand at bridge, a fair
racket at tennis, and am always on hand to fill
in when somebody doesn’t show up for din-
ner.” The least trace of bitterness flavored
this gratuitous account of himself, and the
peroration was accompanied by an uneasy
laugh. “In short, I’m what your English
friends call a waster. But please don’t think
that I’m bidding for serious considera-
tion.”
“I understand,” the girl said quietly.
“I didn’t mean to bore you, either.”
“You didn’t; but you made me think—
and wonder.”
“Why I’m content to be — so useless?”
She nodded, with her shadowy smile.
A wry grin answered that. “You certainly
take the curse off of it,” Traft averred.
“Candor like yours is good for the egotism.


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 75
you have surprised me. I don’t suppose a soul
who knows him would believe Tad Craven any-
thing but a convinced bachelor!”
So — it was true – Craven had never men-
tioned his daughter to his friends! Staring
seaward, Lydia worked her hands together
gently; and, watching her closely, the man
saw her face fugitively convulsed. And wisely
he held silence.
“Mrs. Beggarstaff knows,” the girl said
presently, “and Mrs. Merrilees, and I dare
say by tomorrow all his acquaintances on the
ship will know. So, you see, I’m not violating
his confidence. Only you spoke of him so
warmly that you made me want you to under-
stand.” A quaver touched her tone; but she
persisted. “I’m afraid I’ve made a great mis-
take — embarrassed him horribly, turning up
this way. But I didn’t know he was a passen-
ger. I supposed, of course, he was at home —
in New York — ”
Much of Peter’s charm lay in his instinc-
tive recognition of those times when it is wis-


76 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
est to say nothing. Nobody could leave every-
thing unsaid in a way more eloquent of sympa-
thetic comprehension. So he stood very still,
covertly watching her face and wondering.
“I couldn’t help it — They forced me to
it — the people I lived with in London. I knew
it wasn’t right, because I didn’t love him. How
can one marry a person one doesn’t love? But
when I wrote to Daddy he wouldn’t even an-
swer, and I couldn’t help it — I had to run
away! And now, of course, he’s furious with
me — turning up here like the bad penny — ”
“Why should he resent that? I don’t see
why he couldn’t have told us he had a daughter
— especially one like you! It seems to me, the
innocent bystander, that Tad hadn’t any right
to pose — ”
“Don’t! We mustn't misjudge him. You’re
his friend: surely you ought to make allow-
ances for him, if I can. I’m sure he must have
had his reasons—good enough reasons, if we
only knew. Why must he take the world into
his confidence?”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 77
Dumbfounded, Peter stared; then reminded
himself that woman nature was a singular
thing, its mental processes defying mascu-
line analysis. “You’re right,” he asserted
meekly, after a pause. “Of course you’re
right! I’ve known Tad Craven a long time
and pretty well, if he is a bit older, and I
know he wouldn’t do anything dishonorable
or calculated to hurt anybody. He’s not that
kind.”
Impulsively Lydia’s hand went out to
Peter's; but in the long instant that they sat
hand in hand and eye to eye, each smiling a
trace consciously, signals of distress showed in
her wavering glance, and within his grasp the
pressure of her firm young fingers lessened
until reluctantly he released them.
“What is it?” Peter asked gently.
“Only my presumptuousness — inflicting
you with my troubles, demanding your sympa-
thy, as if I’d any right whatever — ”
“I'm your father's friend, at least, Miss
Craven, and – such as I am – if you care to


78 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
think of me as your friend too, I’ll be very
glad — not to say vainglorious.”
She wouldn’t have been a human girl had she
lacked coquetry. A suspicion of mischief
lightened the smile with which she regarded
him, head judgmatically inclined a bit to one
side. “Mrs. Beggarstaff seems to think well
of you — ”
“She’s kind-hearted — and easily amused.”
“How you do continually cry yourself
down | What is one to think?”
“When a man has the grace to speak humbly
of himself, Miss Craven, listen with gratitude
and amazement: truth is rare music in this
World!”
“Yet you urge your friendship upon me.”
“It is all I have to offer,” he dropped for
a moment his bantering tone: “poor currency,
perhaps, but not counterfeit; light-weight, but
without alloy.”
Then suddenly she was grave again. “You
are kind,” she averred wistfully, “and — I
need friends.”


CHAPTER Ix
N humor as radiant as that of a child pre-
sented with a long-coveted plaything,
Craven returned to find his daughter as he had
left her, alone. “Lydia! My dear, dear
girl!”
She yielded without struggle to his embrace,
instantly supple to the spell of that blind and
unquestioning devotion which never before that
night had wavered from his image. In those
arms the old enchantment regained full power,
doubts and misgivings were all forgotten.
Craven became to her once more the most
splendid of men, and the handsomest, dearest
of fathers.
And then he was holding her by the shoul-
ders at arm’s length looking her fondly up and
down, wagging an indulgent head. “The
saints preserve us! But you’ve blossomed out


80 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
into a woman, Liddy my dear, to turn the heads
of half the world! As tall as your old Dad,
as sweet as cherry blossoms, as lovely as the
break of a day in June! It's like seeing your
mother again, the way she was the day we were
married – though she was only eighteen then,
and now you’re more than twenty! God for-
give 'em, but the years have magicked me into
an old man before my time! The father of a
woman like yourself – I can’t believe it!”
“You haven’t aged a day, Daddy dear.”
Craven would have none of that. “It’s of
grandchildren I must be thinking now. Don’t
hang your pretty head: let me look my fill of
my girl! But you might be so good as to tell
me how it comes you’re here. If you dropped
from the skies — ”
“Surely you know, Daddy,” the girl pro-
tested. “I ran away — I had to. You know
why.”
“Devil fly away with me if I do!”
“But I wrote you about it, everything, from
the very beginning; and when you didn’t an-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 81
swer I thought there was nothing left for me
but to run away.”
“I tell you, Liddy, I’ve not heard a word
from you for months!”
His manner carried conviction — credulous
thrall that she was to the magic of that dear,
carneying tongue! “You didn’t get my let-
ters???
“Never One. If I hadn’t been the busiest
man alive these last three months, I’d have
written to ask what was the matter. Not that
I worried — Mrs. Hicks-Lorrimer’s letters
were regular and reassuring.”
An ominous gleam informed the eyes of the
girl. “Then she stole them!”
‘‘Who Stole What?”
“My letters to you — Mrs. Hicks-Lorrimer
must have stolen them !”
“My dear girl, be fair to her!”
“If my letters didn’t reach you, someone
must have intercepted them. One might have
gone astray by itself, yes; but it isn’t likely
five would.”


82 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Lydia, I don’t get this at all.”
“You knew that woman wanted me to marry
a man I didn’t love?”
“She wrote me you were about to become
engaged to young —what's-his-name — Keyes;
gave a good account of him. I wrote to you at
the time.”
“That was three months ago. I haven’t
heard from you since. Her later letters must
have told you I had refused him.”
“They didn’t. She said the thing was hang-
ing fire – young Keyes a bit backward about
coming forward. He must have been blind!
You don’t mean to tell me that it’s fallen
through?”
“I mean to tell you,” the girl cried, passion-
ately, “I didn’t like him! One of Mrs. Hicks-
Lorrimer’s tame cats! He may have money
and family, as she claimed, — I don’t know, –
but he’s abominable, and I loathe him And
she wouldn’t let me alone. I stood her inces-
sant nagging till I thought I’d go mad. Worst
of all, my letters to you got no answers, save


84 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
time trick of quieting her with a show of right-
eous indignation. “You’ve no right to talk
like that to your old Daddy!”
“What am I to think? I surprise you ma-
king love—you are angry with me — ”
“Not angry, Deary, but so surprised I was
hardly myself. Do be quiet now for a time,
and let me do the talking. Listen, and learn
never to judge a man hastily. Has it never
struck you how little you really know about
our family history?”
“How often have I asked you — ”
“Ah, but that was long ago, when you were
—ah — too young to understand. I never
meant to keep you permanently in the dark.
In the first place, you’ve always believed your-
self the child of American parents.”
“But surely — ” the girl expostulated.
“Mrs. Grummle told me — ”
“What she believed too, no doubt. The
truth is, your mother was an American; but
I’m British to the marrow of me. Craven’s
a good English name, as you know. Not that


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 85
it matters. I cut away from my people forever
when they tried to prevent my marrying the
woman I loved, an American girl who’d taken
to the stage and somehow drifted to London.
Well, we defied the family, and it disowned
me, and I went on the stage with my wife.
When you were born – yes, in Mrs. Grum-
mle’s, Bloomsbury — our combined pay didn’t
run to anything much. Most of the time one
of us was out of a job. Still, we were happy
enough till we went to America.”
He was silent for several minutes, appar-
ently lost in memories.
Lydia, fearing to interrupt, waited in mute
fascination. Something of this history she had
guessed; much she might have guessed from
words, hints, clues, carelessly sown in the past;
but little or nothing had she ever known defi-
nitely.
“You weren’t a strong child, and we feared
the effect on you of the Atlantic voyage. Be-
sides, our engagement was to last eight weeks
only. So we left you in Mrs. Grummle's care.


86 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Five weeks after we reached New York your
mother came down with typhoid. A month
later she died; and when I had paid funeral
expenses I was penniless in a strange land, our
company had gone back home, and my chance
of ever seeing England again was to earn
enough money for my return passage. I wrote
Mrs. Grummle to look out for you, and – But
this isn’t a hard-luck story. Ultimately I left
the stage for employment more attractive and
better paid; but it meant permanent residence
in America. However, nothing called me back
to England, since you were in good hands. I
think we may say that for Mrs. Grummle.”
“She was always kind,” Lydia affirmed
gently.
“When I could afford a trip back to Eng-
land I found you in the best of condition, and
it seemed hardly right to uproot and trans-
plant you to a bachelor establishment in a
strange country. Moreover, my new work, you
see, had divorced me wholly from my stage
associations, and none of my new friends knew


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 87
anything about me before I came to them,
properly introduced, and I was careful not to
excite their curiosity for reasons that will ap-
pear. So I never mentioned your existence.
This reticence grew into a habit as years went
on. And when Mrs. Grummle died I had come
to think it best for you to attain womanhood
in England, and if possible marry some decent
Englishman. -
“Well — a substitute had to be found for
Mrs. Grummle. Mrs. Hicks-Lorrimer pre-
sented the strongest credentials. I can only
say I’m sorry she turned out badly — and sur-
prised. That, however, is well over and done
with. Henceforward you live with me.”
“Oh, Daddy, Daddy dear! You mean it?
I’m not in the way?”
“It would have been better if this could
have been postponed a few weeks,” Craven
returned without enthusiasm. “But there is
no helping what mischief has been done — ”
“But surely, Daddy, you can explain to
her — ” Lydia faltered.


88 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
He silenced her with a gesture effective if
a shade theatric, and walked with her to a
closed hatch, where they seated themselves.
& 4 But I— 5 *
“Hear me first, if you please, Lydia. Al-
though your father, I’m by no means an old
man. And – love is paramount! When you
come to me and say “I love this man,’ whoso-
ever he may be, I sha’n’t interfere — even as
now, when you say ‘I can’t love this man, I
refrain from insisting. Mrs. Merrilees and I
love each other. She pays me a great compli-
ment; for I’m fifteen years her senior. I can’t
permit my daughter — ”
“But if you will only listen to me!”
“Well?” Craven demanded severely.
“I haven’t the least desire to come between
you and Mrs. Merrilees. I think she’s very
lovely, and I wish you both every happiness.”
“That is my own dear girl!” Clipping her
face between his palms, he lifted it to receive
his kiss.
“I only meant,” the girl resumed, “I hoped


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 89
you could make her understand, as you have
me, by explaining — ”
“Make your mind easy. There’s been no
real harm done. I’ve already received her
assurance that our relations will continue as
before. She understands — if not as fully as
you do now. If I told her all that I've just
told you, she might ask questions I couldn’t
answer; not, at least, until she was my wife,
perhaps not then. Surely you must realize
that your faith has taken a great deal on trust.
You have refrained from putting a question
that, with Mrs. Merrilees, would take the form
of a demand, – What is the nature of this
business of mine to which I have referred but
never named?”
“You will tell me when you think I should
know, Daddy.”
“I’m quite sure you oughtn’t to know,” he
said gravely; “but I’m quite sure you’ve got
to, if our relations are to continue in love and
trust. Moreover, I know I can trust you, and,
were I to keep you in ignorance, much might


90 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
happen that you wouldn’t understand, that
might make you doubt, misjudge, mistrust me.
You may on occasion see me in conference with
strange men, of a class I’d normally have noth-
ing in common with. You’ll have to become
accustomed to my keeping strange hours —
and help me keep them secret. You may even
hear odd whispers about me — rumors that
I’m not altogether what I seem. Well, they’ll
be justified; for I’m not. New York knows
me as a feather-brained fashionable, with a
decent income from the real estate business I
maintain as a blind. I’m assumed to have no
object in existence other than amiable idling.
Whereas, in reality — ”
Though their solitude was absolute, Craven
came closer to his daughter and lowered his
voice:
“This is a great secret, dear girl. Guard
it as you would your life. I’m in charge of
the secret diplomatic service representing
Downing Street in the United States!”


GG
T.A.
eay
arc.ca
---
All's
Page 90.
Guard it as you would your life.”
secret, dear girl.
“This is a great





CHAPTER X
& 4 HERE, Peter,” announced Mrs. Beg.
garstaff, “there goes a very happy
girl! ” Her amazing complacency would have
suited a fairy godmother gloating over some
signal beneficence. -
Past the deck chair in which she was recli-
ning, with Peter Traft at her side, arm in arm,
Lydia Craven and Mrs. Merrilees were striding
briskly aft. Rare color warmed the face of
Craven’s daughter, mirth danced in her eyes,
a smile edged the pretty lips from which the
breeze caught a snatch of laughter as musical
as singing glass, and bore it to the ears of her
two devoted admirers.
“Um-hm,” Peter assented indistinctly be-
tween teeth gripping the mouthpiece of his
pipe. Basking in the warmth of a late Sep-
tember sun, as lazily content as any cat, Peter


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 93
“Yours, of course!”
“There!” groaned Peter. “I might've
known better than to bet against intuition.”
“Why plain intuition, Peter? The phrase is
rightfully ‘feminine intuition.’”
“PLEONASM: the weed intuition flourishes
only in the well known sex. Man, possessed of
brain, reasons to a logical conclusion; woman
—hm! — shuts her lovely eyes, sticks a pin
through the card, and if the perforated horse
wins, claims her choice was dictated by a mys-
terious faculty denied to man. INTUITION: ap-
parently a cross between clairvoyance and
plain cussedness: the word itself is a sort of
abracadabra, at mere mention of which fools
faint and wise men climb trees.”
Secretly charmed, Mrs. Beggarstaff wrinkled
her nose unbecomingly. “For once,” she
commented sourly, “there’s nearly as much
truth as loquacity in you. For once you admit
man is deficient. What’s the matter?”
“Pardon | * Peter murmured civilly in the
act of rising.


94 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“I will not pardon you, impudent cub I
haven’t finished. Can’t you forget that smo-
king room ten minutes at a stretch? You drink
too much, anyway.”
“How did you know I was going to get a
drink?” -
& 4 Intu- 5 *
“There!” Peter interrupted rudely. “Just
like a woman! A man would have known be-
cause it’s six bells and the sun’s over the yard-
arm. Good morning!”
“Just like a man!” the Dowager Dragon
returned the taunt. “Worsted in argument
by woman, he takes to drink!”
Grinning, Peter made a quaint obeisance,
and strolled aft, leaving Mrs. Beggarstaff to
gnaw her nether lip over the discovery, too
tardily made to be turned to his discomfiture,
that it wasn’t a craving for strong drink that
took him from her so much as his utter inabil-
ity to rest in ignorance of Lydia Craven’s
whereabouts. For the two young women had
failed to round out their circuit of the deck.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 95
Turning past the veranda café, at the after
extreme of the promenade deck, Peter came
upon Mrs. Merrilees, seated at an adjacent
table in company with Craven.
A second glance showed him Lydia in the
angle of the starboard rail, Quoin at her
side.
In response to a hail from Craven, he turned
sulkily to that quarter, where, at least, a cheer-
ful disposition wouldn’t go unappreciated. In-
deed, he was welcome. Having privately dis-
seminated news of their engagement, Craven
and Mrs. Merrilees were industriously conduct-
ing themselves in as smartly an unloverlike
manner as possible. A tentative third was al-
ways encouraged in their company.
“Sit down there,” Craven insisted. “The
steward’ll be back in a minute. I want to talk
to you about this wretched concert to-night.
They’ve asked me to be master of ceremonies
— awful bore!”
With a fixed, agreeable smile, Peter sat,
drank whatever the steward brought him, au-


96 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
tomatically consumed Craven’s cigarettes, and
listened without the least interest to the other’s
plans. How could he be interested, with that
fellow Quoin monopolizing Lydia? Not that
he didn’t like Quoin. In fact, Peter admired
that man tremendously: so much the more
reason to fear his influence!
And Lydia, leaning on the rail, a vision more
radiant even than the day, was looking up into
Quoin’s dark face and laughing.
“Well?” Craven demanded with pardon-
able impatience.
Peter started and batted his eyes. “Eh!”
he inquired stupidly.
“What do you think?”
“Ah – about what?”
“Good Lord!” Craven exploded a full deep
note of exasperation. “Here I sit yammer-
ing at you — ”
“Sorry,” said Peter. “Fact is — I know
Mrs. Merrilees won’t mind being let into my
confidence on the ground floor — fact is, I’m in
love with your daughter, Tad. And Quoin’s


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 97
talking to her. So, naturally, I’m sick with
jealousy.”
“It’s like your cheek,” observed Craven.
“Have you mentioned the matter to Lydia?”
“Certainly not! She’s having too good a
time. Women won’t listen to a gratuitous
lover unless bored or actively unhappy.”
“Then why bother me with your lovesick
vapors?”
“Well, I wanted to see how rusty you’d cut
up. Besides, Mrs. Beggarstaff has discovered
my hideous secret, and is now busy — or about
to be — distributing handbills.”
“Can’t you shut her up?”
“The law forbids cruel and inhuman pun-
ishments. Besides, I’m not sure I want her
hushed. I’m not ashamed of the fact, and if
I let the Beggarstaff alone, sooner or later she
or someone will mention the matter to Lydia,
and then — well, rouse a woman’s curiosity,
and half your battle’s won.”
Craven turned to inspect the pair at the rail.
“She might do worse,” he observed.


98 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
‘‘Thanks **
“Than Quoin, I mean.”
“Curse it!” said Peter, flushing. “I’m in
earnest, Tad.”
“I believe you are,” Mrs. Merrilees inter-
jected with dispassionate scientific interest.
“I really believe you are, Peter. Certainly
you were never so intolerably stupid when in
love with me.”
Peter, by this time recovered, fixed her with
a reproving glance. “ Uttered in the presence
of a third party,” he said severely, “slander
is actionable. Merely because I didn’t like to
show my distaste for your infatuated ad-
vances, you take up with an emergency ration
like Tad here, and then get sore because I don’t
forbid the banns — peevish child !”
“Just for that,” said the woman, “just for
that, Peter, I’m going to heap coals of fire upon
your ungrateful head — and Heaven knows I
hope they’ll scorch and blister — ”
“Marble?” Craven suggested with open in-
credulity.


100 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“It seems so funny – you!” Laughing
quietly, the woman looked up to review Lydia
with a long glance. “She’s a dear girl,” she
observed.
“She’s the only one living!” -
“Really, Peter?” *
“Hope to die!”
“You’ll make a funny son-in-law.”
“I’d give a good deal to be sure of that.”
“Promise never to call me “Mama,’ and I’ll
do my best for you.”
“It’s a promise. But what can you do?”
“Leave that to me.”
“What chance have I got, with Quoin ma-
king the pace? He's a regular fellow: I'm only .
a drawing room entertainer.”
“He’s a strange man,” Mrs. Merrilees
mused. “If he hadn’t taken up such an im-
possible profession — ” -
“You’d have played for him yourself?”
“Perhaps,” said the woman peaceably.
“Do you suppose he has a case in hand now;
aboard this vessel, I mean?”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 101
“Call him, and I’ll ask.”
Peter complied with the best grace imagin-
able. “Quoin ' I say, Addison, come over here
a minute. A beautiful lady wants to ask you
something.” In a lower tone he added,
“You’re the best little diplomat ever. I’ll be
grateful as long as I live.” And rising with
the sunniest of smiles, he drew up chairs for
Lydia and Quoin.
“Yes, Mrs. Merrilees?” the detective in-
quired, taking the place at her side.
“Peter and I have been bickering about
you,” the lady fibbed brazenly. “Are you, or
are you not, wasting your brilliant talents on
my devoted trail?”
Quoin looked puzzled. “Something on your
conscience?” he advanced tentatively. “You
don’t mean to try any smuggling this trip, I
hope.”
“I can’t make up my mind. I’d love to.
Are you interested?”
“Only in your interests. Be advised—
dOn’t | **


102 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Why?” Mrs. Merrilees pouted. “Why
not, if, as Peter would say, I can get away with
it?”
“If for no more moral reason,” said the de-
tective seriously, “because it can’t be done.
The customs people are laying for you.”
“They'll be disappointed.”
“Don’t deceive yourself. Every man on the
force knows it was your agent who secretly
purchased that three-hundred-thousand-franc
pearl-and-diamond collar at Cottier’s in
Paris.”
“But I’ve quite made up my mind never
again to stoop to anything so truly low as
smuggling.”
Over this virtuous protestation Mrs. Merri-
lees pursed prim lips belied by dancing eyes;
then broke down and joined in a general laugh
as Craven reappeared with a small despatch
box of black metal.
“Mayn’t I giggle too?” he inquired plain-
tively, looking from face to face as he delivered
the box to its owner.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 103
“Not worth repeating,” his fiancée re-
ported, fitting a key into the lock. “I was
merely swearing I meant to be good—when
every blessed drop of blood in me cries out
against the sinful extravagance of paying duty
on — this!”
Opening the despatch box, she removed a
handsome jewelcase of grained morocco, un-
locked this in turn, and disclosed that same
necklace which Quoin had just named, watch-
ing with a smile of gratified vanity the effect
on her four friends; an effect the same in no
two instances.
Quoin eyed the necklace intently, smiling at
, some secret thought his quiet, studious, inscru-
table smile.
Peter discovered no excitement whatever;
seemed bored, if anything.
Craven sat back after one brief look, features
immobile but for eyes that shot quick, flicker-
ing, distrustful glances right and left. To his
patent relief none of the adjoining tables was
occupied.


104 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
And Lydia was thinking she had never seen
anything quite so beautiful that wasn’t alive.
This may have been because pearls had never
found place among her father’s presents, –
though she had always desired them with a
great longing, — to whom jewels had distinct
individualities, a meaning and a fascination in-
comprehensible to the general run of people.
It was part of Lydia’s inheritance to love and
to long to possess all manner of beautiful
things.
At length, “Sixty thousand dollars?” Quoin
inquired listlessly.
“My dear man, I do believe you’ve seen the
bill!”
Smiling, the detective shook his head.
“Worth half as much again,” Mrs. Merri-
lees affirmed. “Cottier wanted ninety.”
“They seem perfectly matched,” Quoin pur-
sued, knitting his brows; “but I’d like to look
at them in a stronger light.”
“Take them out into the sun, if you
like.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 105
Craven sat forward in nervous impatience.
“Do be reasonable!” he expostulated. “It’s
sheer idiocy to have that thing up here at all,
with God knows who spying ! And there are
some queer fish abroad — eh, Quoin?”
“Rather!” the detective agreed dryly.
“Please be advised !” Craven urged.
“Lock that thing up again and let me take it
back to the purser.”
“Tad, you’re tiresome!” Mrs. Merrilees
began.
But Quoin interrupted. “Craven is right.”
“Oh, well! If you will spoil everything,
take all the fun out of my surprise.”
“Surprise?” Peter echoed.
Mrs. Merrilees nodded emphatically.
“Look well at them, my friends; for the
minute I get them through the customs, to safe
deposit they go and there remain.” She
paused deliberately, with a challenging smile.
“Why?” Peter demanded blankly. “Don’t
you ever mean to wear 'em, Betty?”
She shook her head. “They’re not for me,


106 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Peter. If I dared smuggle, I should wear
them, just to be sassy about it. But since I
don’t dare, I mean to keep them for a wedding
present to my stepdaughter — if I ever have
one.” She closed the case with a snap.
Lydia sat back with a little gasp, her eyes
blank with confusion. Quoin laughed an odd,
brief laugh, and glanced askance at Craven.
This last turned to his betrothed with a start-
led gesture and lips that gaped. Peter Traft
alone betrayed no abnormal emotion. Grin-
ning cheerfully, he watched the two women,
absorbed in each other: Lydia finding breath
enough for the protest, “But, Mrs. Merrilees,
you mustn't!” the other confirming her inten-
tion with an emphatic nod and the statement,
“But I’ve made up my mind, dear; so you.
may as well give me my head. Besides, you
promised always to call me Betty.”
Locking the metal box, she rose. “Come,
Tad. I owe my appetite five more laps round
the deck before luncheon. Peter, please take
this back to the purser and get his receipt. If


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 107
you're afraid, Lydia'll go along to protect
you.”
“What becomes of me?” Quoin demanded
with mock truculence.
“You’re to walk the other side of me,” the
lady ordered imperiously, “and help me make
Tad behave.”
Craven breathed heavily. “Whether I like
it or not — ” With a last reluctant glance at
the treasure box, he rose and somewhat sulkily
prepared to obey orders.


CHAPTER XI
RS BEGGARSTAFF was right, who
herself admitted that she was always
right: Lydia was a very happy girl. She had,
indeed, never been so happy since those mem-
orable days when Craven’s rare, capricious,
and always unexpected appearances in Eng-
land had invariably signalized his amazing
sprees of paternal indulgence, — frolics from
which, as from the nirvana of fairy tales, one
emerged in childish demoralization to renew
acquaintance with the hard and grimy facts of
life as lived in Mrs. Grummle’s Bloomsbury
lodging house, or with the chilly routine of the
Misses Stint’s Select Academy for Daughters
of Gentlemen.
She lived those days in delicious excitement.
She would be a strange girl of twenty had her


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 109
imagination not quickened to the romance in-
herent in the words secret agent. To think her-
self the object of stealthy surveillance, as
daughter and confidant of a past master of de-
vious diplomacy; to think she must ever keep
her courage bright in the shadow of nameless
dangers, be forever jealous of the great secret,
comport herself always warily in the shifting
labyrinths of that invisible web which occult
intelligences were tirelessly spinning round her
and her father, — in these persuasions resided
delight as deep and abiding as that of a girl
playing the mischief at her first bal masque.
Not infrequently she would catch Craven re-
garding her with his dark and quizzical smile;
and then she would flush and smile spiritedly
in return, thrilled to think he read her thoughts
and understood.
One circumstance alone flawed the perfect
jewel of her happiness, – the second and final
disappearance of her sardonyx cameo.
The first time Lydia missed it, it had turned
up safe and sound before bedtime in its place


110 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
on top of the chest of drawers. . But the next
day it vanished again and finally. And though
for a time her hope ran high that the finder
would return the trinket in view of the rather
heavy reward posted by Craven, when nothing
of the sort happened she felt forced to accept
the hypothesis that the clasp had worked loose
when she had been lounging beside the rail,
delivering the brooch to the sea.
In her new relationship with her father
Lydia found several friendships that, however
young, promised permanence.
For one, Mrs. Beggarstaff had unquestion-
ably taken a fancy to Lydia, which the girl was
quick to divine and reciprocate with a frank
and — if undemonstrative — real affection.
And the Dowager Dragon was daily wasting
much time in amiable bickering with Craven
about his daughter’s future, openly discounte-
nancing his intention to make Lydia part of his
ménage; at least until there should be a second
Mrs. Craven to keep his house in order — and
its master, into the bargain,


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 111
“Though,” she once amended acridly in the
presence of Mrs. Merrilees, “as for that, to
my taste, Betty’s altogether too frivolous to
make a proper duenna. Mark my words, Tad,
just as soon as that pretty featherweight head
finds out life with you is not one round of
pleasure, that you’ve got the devil’s own tem-
per, and snore, and look like a last year’s
bird’s nest before your morning bromo seltzer,
— when she finds all that out, she’s going to
cut loose and lead you a dance that won’t leave
a breath in your fat little body. And then what
will become of the child?”
“Oh, blow your meddling!” Craven re-
torted with entire good humor. “You forget
the ‘child’ is of age — or will be in another
six months. She can take care of herself. If
it turns out she can’t, I give you permission to
use your well known arts of moral suasion and
nag her until she’s mad enough to hitch up as
companion to a saw-toothed destroyer of repu-
tations like yourself.”
“She could do far worse,” the Dowager


112 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Dragon sniffed; “and will — if I let you have
your way.”
“Which is just what is going to happen.
Lydia and I understand each other, my home’s
the place for her, and there she goes, straight
from the steamer. There!” Here he rose.
“Thank God that’s settled !”
When he had detached his fiancée and de-
parted, the Dowager Dragon took up the thread
of her discourse with Lydia.
“It’s up to you, my dear,” she announced.
“I mean to say, it’s for you to decide. I warn
you, you’ll never be happy. Tad’s not old
enough to be a father. For that matter, he’s
not old enough to be a husband. He’s heedless,
irresponsible, as flighty as Betty Merrilees.
He never has grown up, and he never will.
He’s Peter Pan, with all the innocence expur-
gated.”
Here the Dowager Dragon paused and, re-
ceiving no response, regarded with suspicion
the object of her solicitude. “What are you
smiling at, pray?” she demanded in dudgeon.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 113
“Do you think I’m merely blustering for your
amusement?” -
“I beg your pardon,” Lydia said meekly,
hastening to erase a smile; the idea of the
chief agent of Downing Street in America be-
ing heedless, irresponsible, and flighty having
proved too much for her sense of the ridicu-
lous. “You made me think of something
funny. But please, Mrs. Beggarstaff, don’t say
any more. The thing is quite settled; and you
don’t know how stubborn he is — and I’m his
daughter!” -
The frown of the Dowager Dragon relaxed,
and a crusty smile succeeded. “So be it! I
sha’n’t contend with you or Tad another min-
ute. But when you see your mistake, remem-
ber, my home is always open to you. You’re
a cheerful snippet, and not a bit hard to look
at, and I believe I could grow quite fond of
you. Now promise you’ll come, if ever you’re
in trouble. You owe me that consolation at
least — if only for being graceful in de-
feat.”


114 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Lydia promising lightly, a placated Dowager
Dragon consented to let the subject drop.
Then there was Mrs. Merrilees, who bade
fair to prove the sister more than the step-
mother, the girl friend more than either, who,
once Craven had wheedled her out of her re-
sentment of his putatively negative and inno-
cent deception, seemed to find in Lydia just one
more reason for being fond of Craven and
viewing with confidence their life after mar-
riage. Though vain and avid of admiration,
she seemed incapable of any sort of mean emo-
tion, and was as generous as the good sunlight.
An adorable creature
Peter Traft, the third of three new-found
friends, was a riddle Lydia couldn’t read, but
found endless diverting. Publicly sentimental
about Lydia, brazenly seeking every opportu-
nity to seclude her with himself, once this was
accomplished he flouted sentiment, ridiculed
the world (including himself), and kept her in
a state of amusement that precluded discour-
agement of his eccentric wooing.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 115
“I want you to know me as I really am,” he
informed her on one occasion. “If I should
seem as sober-sided and solemn as your next
adorer, you’d marry me in ignorance of my
true character.’’
“But I haven’t the slightest intention of
marrying you, Mr. Traft.”
“That’s a fine line,” he commented admir-
ingly, “and I don’t believe I have ever heard
it delivered with more convincing sincerity —
from the heart out, so ! What you heroines of
modern fiction would do without it Heaven
only knows! It’s certain our novelists don’t,
or they’d invent something less stereotyped.
But you mustn't forget it really means nothing
in the first chapters: merely conversation to
fill in until the author finds out which chap is
to land you. But along about page 321 it’s a
signal either for the clench or for the bouncer.”
“I do wish you’d talk sensibly, in language
I can understand.”
“As for the language, if it cramps your
style, Miss Craven, believe me, I’ll slip the


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 117
“Wrong again: I was never more hopeful.
First thing you know you’ll be lying awake
nights wondering if I can possibly be as silly
as I sound, and thinking what a pity ’tis if true;
and when you come to that stage, it’ll be all
over but the rice and old shoes and Niagara
Falls | **
“Certainly you must be an incurable op-
timist! ”
“You think so? I say, that’s an awfully
good sign You’re thinking about me al-
ready!”
But of the four it was Quoin who most im-
pressed Lydia’s impressionable imagination.
His seemed an individuality rarely simple and
straightforward, to which latency and indirec-
tion must be altogether foreign. He was,
Lydia understood, a criminal investigator of
unusual attainments; yet he utterly lacked
every idiosyncrasy of the “great” detective
of fiction. He was a long, lank man, with a
thin face of strong features. His wide, thin
lips drooped quizzically at their corners. And


118 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
his eyes were dark and, normally, deep with
humorous expression. To Lydia’s notion he
was the Yankee type incarnate, but without
that uncouthness she had been bred to expect.


120 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Craven’s voice, and – since she had left him
only a few minutes before the center of an
animated group in the music room – with par-
donable surprise she discovered the man com-
ing swiftly toward her from the after part of
the ship.
“Just to say good night!” he explained
hastily, folding his daughter in the tenderest
of embraces; and then in a rapid whisper,
“Meet me on deck — this deck — to port —
fifth stanchion aft from the door — in an hour.
If anyone seems to be watching you, go back! ”
And again aloud, “Good night, dear child,
good night!” he murmured fondly, releasing
her, and hurried forward.
Almost without her knowledge the knob
turned in Lydia’s grasp; and when she found
herself alone in that dark stateroom her hands
trembled so with excitement that for a moment
she fumbled in vain for the switch.
She had begged to be permitted to help him,
and Craven promised to command her services,
if ever need should arise; but his tone in prom-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 121
ising had been mellow with an indulgence dep-
recating the implication that Downing Street’s
secret ambassador could ever need the aid of
woman’s hands and wits in his occult and mo-
mentous affairs.
Yet already that time had come! She was
half wild with delight.
After some minutes the quiet of the ship was
made musical with the mellow and deliberate
sounding of eight bells, midnight. She had
still half an hour to wait, — an almost insuf-
ferably protracted vigil to her who sat with
every faculty tense in apprehension of the pre-
mature return of her Dowager Dragon.
But tonight nothing happened to change this
custom; and the stroke of one bell of the mid-
night watch found Lydia, unhindered, leaving
her door, a long cloak effectually disguising her
light dinner gown.
Cautiously, with swift glances making sure
that the alleyway was empty all down its dark-
ened length, she stole forward, slipped quickly
through the port doorway into the welcome


122 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
blankness which closed round her like a magic
garment of invisibility. From the rail, where
she turned to look back, the companionway
door had no longer any definite form, showing
through the mists only as a shapeless blur of
light on frosted glass.
With a sigh of gratitude, sure she hadn’t
been seen, Lydia moved slowly aft, the more
slowly since going was treacherous, the deck
greasy with moisture, a hand to guide her slip-
ping from stanchion to stanchion along the rail
as she made her way farther and deeper into
the gloom.
At intervals electric bulbs incased in hemi-
spheres of clouded glass blotted the obscurity
overhead, but lent little aid to the girl’s strain-
ing vision. And, now that most of the passen-
gers were abed, every port she passed was
dark.
At the fifth stanchion, midway between two
of the overhead lights, she found no one wait-
ing; and, since she had encountered no one on
the way, she groped on to the sixth, found it


124 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
tone. “Hope I haven’t kept you wait-
ing.”
“Only a moment.”
He shook his head wearily. “I was de-
tained.” For several seconds he seemed deep
in thought. Then his words came swiftly,
“I’m suspected — watched! Did anyone see
you?”
She thrilled deliciously. “I think not.
I’ve been here sometime, quite undisturbed.”
“Good. But they nearly got me!”
& 4 Who? 3 *
He smiled faintly. “The other side.”
Lydia’s grasp tightened on his plump fin-
gers. “You — you’re not in danger?”
“Don’t be alarmed. They’d never dare at-
tempt anything aboard this vessel. But I’ve
stolen a march on them — and something else,
something more valuable.” Straining a dra-
matic pause to the snapping point, he eased it
with a word, “Evidence!”
At this the foghorn whooped like a demon
of derision. Until it was quiet again Craven


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 125
stood moveless, chin on bosom, eyes blank with
abstraction.
“Yes,” he affirmed, “dev’lish good evi-
dence! Look here, I’ll have to tell you some-
thing. We’ve been sold out — I mean there’s
a traitor in our corps.”
“But can’t you do something?”
“Rather!” Craven laughed shortly. “In
fact, I have done something already. He won’t
go far; for his word — a squealer’s word –
won’t have much weight with the other side,
lacking proofs, and I’ve got the evidence to
discredit him,” he paused again, touched his
breast lightly but effectively, “here!”
Again interrupted by the foghorn, he started
and frowned irritably, seeming to detect
something sardonic in its accent.
“Well — that’s all. You understand now.
The point is, I’m known to have – ah – stolen
this evidence. But don’t worry. This is
where you come in.” From his coat pocket
Craven produced a small, oblong box of inlaid
wood, highly polished. “I’ve managed to


126 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
pack the evidence in this, one of those Chinese
puzzle boxes. If you don’t know the combina-
tion, it needs an ax to open it. Put it away
somewhere, — your trunk till we land, – but
take it ashore in your handbag. A tip from
the other side, you know, and the customs in-
spectors’ll turn my luggage inside out; but
you’re perfectly safe, you see, coming in as
an alien. They’ll pass you on your declara-
tion.”
The girl slipped the box—it was about
large enough to hold a deck of cards — into
the lining pocket of her cloak. “I’ll keep it
safe,” she said quietly.
“Dear child! It’s so good to have you to
count on!” Craven patted her cheek affec-
tionately. “Nothing like one’s own flesh and
blood! I thought I could trust that man: he
was my only aide this trip.” He sighed pro-
foundly, and shook a doleful head. “Well—
good night again. I’ll go aft again; you for-
ward. We mustn't be seen confabulating out
here at this hour.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 127
He stepped back two paces, and vanished
like a shape of dream.
For a moment or two the girl lingered, lis-
tening keenly; but, hearing nothing, not even
Craven’s retreating footsteps, she finally took
heart and moved quietly forward beside the
rail. - * .
But she had put barely eight paces behind
her when she checked smartly, with an inar-
ticulate gasp, just short of one whose burly
figure, motionless, barred her path. And then,
as she stepped back and turned in toward the
superstructure, thinking in her panic to escape
by a sudden dash for the companionway, some
whim of chance caused the tenant of the near-
est stateroom to turn on the lights, and two
square windows leaped refulgent out of the
gloom, the nearer silhouetting the head and
shoulders of another man into whose embrace,
as well, she had been on the point of throwing
herself.
Simultaneously strong hands fell upon her
shoulders from behind, she was whirled


128 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
about into the hollow of a powerful arm,
and an incipient scream was smothered
on her lips by the impact of a heavy
palm.


CHAPTER XIII
ATER she recalled that one of the fog-
horn’s agonized squalls had seemed like
a signal for the attack. It was reverberating
in her ears, like the shriek of a damned soul,
all the while she was struggling in that brutal
embrace. It was still yammering even when
she was released.
Throughout her consciousness was faith-
fully registering nightmare impressions, –
of the second man closing in to aid her first
assailant; of a savage tearing at her cloak;
of cynical accents breathed hatefully in her
ear, “Easy now! Take it easy, little one, if
you don’t want to get hurt/ Steady — so! ”
of someone swearing fretfully; of a third voice
rapping out an oath of rage; of sounds like
the crack of a pistolshot, the thud of a heavy


130 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
fall, a grunt of pain, a vile expression from
him who held her —
And then she was free — and the foghorn
still screeching!
She staggered back to the rail, her brain
reeling, no true coherence in her conscious-
ness: only the struggle between instinctive
desire to scream and the knowledge that for
some reason she mustn't.
Then a friendly voice saluted faculties just
beginning to comprehend that chance had sent
a rescue. “You, Miss Craven? You?”
Quoin was bending solicitously over her as she
clung trembling to the rail.
Words come with difficulty from a throat
parched with fright. “Oh!” she cried, one
hand to her bosom. “Mr. Quoin l’’
“You’re quite safe now. But are you hurt,
Miss Craven?”
“I’m all right, I think. Oh, thank you,
Mr. Quoin' ''
“There! I’ve done nothing: just hap-
pened along at the right time — thank God!


-
-
--- -
". 2. Żë %
” There! I've done nothing: just happened along at the right time -
thank God!” Page 130.
**





132 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
want me to lodge a complaint with the offi-
CerS2 ”
“Yes, yes!” She nodded. “Yes, that’s it
— don’t tell anybody. Promise me that—
please promise!”
“If that’s your wish,” he said coolly, “I’ve
no right to oppose it.”
“I’m sorry,” she faltered; “but it’s some-
thing I can’t explain. If I’d only myself to
think of — ” She checked in consternation at
that slip.
“I see,” Quoin said gently. “It’s an-
other’s secret — not all your own?”
She was silent.
“But,” he persisted, “you’ve been robbed
of something valuable — whether yours or
another’s. Do you mean to let it go without
effort to regain it?”
“Oh, no – something must be done!” She
worked her hands together in helpless torment.
“Then you don’t mean to let the matter
drop? But can you accomplish anything un-
aided? I don’t want to seem intrusive, but I’m


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 133
really a bit experienced in such matters, you
know. And of the many who have trusted me,
none has ever regretted it.”
“Oh, I know, I know, Mr. Quoin! But what
can I tell you? That I don’t know what it is
I’ve lost?”
His brows lifted at this. “Is that possible,
Miss Craven?”
“It’s the truth,” she protested. “It —
something was given to me to take care of,
something — I don’t know what—in a little
wooden Chinese puzzle box, and that has been
stolen from me.”
Quoin nodded. “These men who attacked
you — do you know them?”
“I haven’t the slightest suspicion who they
Were.”
There was honesty in her accents: Quoin
believed her. “I think—possibly—I can
find them for you, with your permission.”
“You SaW them?”
** NO. But among our fellow passengers are
two card sharps, one of whom at least is quite


134 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
capable of more felonious work. I know both,”
he smiled gravely, “in a business way.”
“But surely you couldn’t have recognized
either — ”
“No. The fog was too thick. But I marked
one of the brutes for future identification.”
** Marked???
“The sign of my fist on his face, — a heavy
blow, so heavy it bruised my own knuckles.
Give me permission to do what I can, and I’ll
look up the quarters of my acquaintances, the
card sharps, make them let me in, — I know
a way to coerce ’em, – and see if either wears
my brand. If so, you’ll have the puzzle box
back within fifteen minutes — and no ques-
tions asked!”
“You are very kind,” the girl murmured in
confusion.
“Then let me see you back to your state-
room, and I’ll — ”
“No, I — I’d rather wait here. I must
know tonight — I can’t sleep without know-
ing — ”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 135
Admiration kindled in Quoin’s regard. He
liked that spirit. She had been quick to re-
cover, quicker than the average woman would
have been. “Very well,” he assented.
They moved forward. Opposite the compan-
ionway Lydia paused.
“Will you be long?”
“Not ten minutes.” Quoin promised.
His figure momentarily eclipsed the blur of
light that stood for the doorway.
Indeed it was hardly more than ten minutes
when the doorway was again darkened, and
Quoin came to Lydia’s side.
“Was I long? I'm sorry. I had to be
rather severe before they gave in — and up.”
“You Succeeded!”
“Are you surprised?” He laughed quietly.
‘‘Here it is.”
Mute in astonishment, speechless with grati-
tude, she took the puzzle box from his extended
hand.
“A crook known as Southpaw Smith — he
deals left-handed — had it, together with the


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 137
brilliantly lighted companionway was bewil-
dering. Instinctively Quoin and Lydia paused.
The girl smiled wistfully as she offered her
hand.
“Good night — and thank you with all my
heart, Mr. Quoin!”
“Miss Craven,” he retained her hand for a
moment, “will you tell me one thing?”
“If I may — anything — ”
His eyes searched hers jealously. “Do you
know what’s in that box?”
“No, Mr. Quoin! Upon my word of honor,
no.”
Her eyes were limpid pools of ingenuous
candor. Quoin could no longer doubt. He
nodded, releasing her hand.
“Thank you.”
“But,” she lingered, “do you?”
“I do,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not
through any wish of mine. But Southpaw had
only succeeded in puzzling the combination out
when I interrupted. I made him put back —
what he’d taken from the box. Don’t worry.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 139
sleepy, anyway. It’s wonderful out there, so
still and dark and uncanny. You'd think al-
most anything could happen, and no one be
the wiser.”


140
CHAPTER XIV
& © OOD old town ” said Peter Traft. Re-
moving his hat, he saluted Town with
grave and affectionate respect. “Graft and
all, it’s one human young city !”
Intuition enabled Lydia to interpret this ut-
terance as the invocation to the litany of your
tried but true Manhattanite.
The Alsatia was trudging sedately up the
bay from the Narrows, Quarantine ten minutes
astern, New York looming over the port bow
through a tenderly irisated haze in whose illu-
sion its quaint, outrageous dignity of curtains,
scarps, and counter-scarps, turrets, towers, and
crenelated parapets, lost all semblance of sta-
bility and became as but a fairy pageant of .
nacreous cliffs ashimmer in the slanting sun-
light, blue gullies spacing them, – a city of
mother-of-pearl suspended between the blue of


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 143
had befallen her. And her father was all she
had
When they were free to stream down the
gangway to the pier Craven, consigning Lydia
to the care of Peter Traft, rushed off to com-
mandeer the first available customs inspectors
for himself and Mrs. Merrilees. So that it was
Peter who piloted Lydia to C Section, hunted
up her trunk, and took her place in the rank
at the chief inspector’s desk; with the result
that the luggage of “L. Carteret, Spinster,”
was quickly passed, and, Peter reluctantly leav-
ing her to pass his own impedimenta, she was
at liberty to garner what diversion she might
from the trials of others.
In that section her father was dutifully but
perspiringly displaying in detail the contents
of a steamer trunk, a wardrobe trunk, a kit
bag, two gladstone bags, a hat box, a shoe
trunk, a caddy bag, and a hold-all, in optimistic
endeavor to persuade his particular inspector
that he hadn’t perjured himself in his sworn
declaration.


144 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
Noticing Lydia's indignant interest, Craven
paused only long enough to lift a furtive eye-
brow and draw down the corners of his mouth;
thus signifying a conviction that his troubles
were wholly due to the pernicious interference
of his political antagonists, even as predicted.
She returned the least of nods, indicating
that the puzzle box was safe — as it was, in her
suède handbag which, dangling from her wrist
by its leather strap, had quite escaped the at-
tention of the inspector.
Then, remembering Craven’s hint that it
would be well not to attract too much attention
to their relationship until clear of the customs,
the girl turned away to kill time until her
father should be free. |
Over the way, in Section B, Lydia found
Mrs. Beggarstaff, surrounded by an array of
luggage to do credit to an army corps, light
of battle in her eyes, words of bitter wit upon
her ready lips, in pitched combat with a grace-
less skeptic of an inspector.
Nearby three dock porters, two ship news-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 145
men, half a dozen assorted citizens, and a brace
of customs appraisers whose duties were im-
mediate and elsewhere, hung in breathless in-
terest upon the issue of the fray, one and all
grinning broadly.
Lydia gathered an impression that the Dow-
ager Dragon had found a foeman worthy of her
steel; then hurried on to Section M and Betty
Merrilees. *
Greeting Lydia serenely, this last resumed
her conversation with her assigned inspector.
“You’ll find everything dutiable in the hat
trunk and that big dresser trunk over there —
the two upper trays — the receipted bills in the
first tray — all except – necklace. I have that
here,” she indicated the metal box in her
hands, “and the bill as well.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Merrilees.” The inspector
looked up from her declaration in futile at-
tempt to maintain his official imperturbability;
then his eyes twinkled in a network of wrin-
kles. His lips twitched, and he grinned out-
right.


146 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“That's all very well,” said the lady impu-
dently. “Laugh if you like! But please do
your worst as quickly as possible.”
“Very well, Ma'am. I’ll hurry you through
as fast as I can.”
It became immediately apparent that the
man wasn’t disposed to doubt the sincerity of
her conversation. The luggage she had indi-
cated as innocent of dutiable goods he passed
with the most perfunctory examination, while
the millinery and other declared purchases de-
tained him only briefly.
“Everything quite O. K., thanks to you,
Ma'am. And now if you will let me have a
look at that necklace. I’ve sent for the ap-
praiser. He’ll be along in a minute.”
The box was already unlocked. Mrs. Merri-
lees promptly removed the leather-bound jewel
case and handed it to the inspector.
Touching the spring, he let the lid fly up,
exposing the pearl collar. As if dazzled, he
blinked furiously. “She’s a daisy ” he an-
nounced with unction. “Finest piece of the
-


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 147
sort that’s come through this year, or I’m no
judge.”
Momentarily his interest shifted to the bill
of the Parisian jeweler.
“Three hundred thousand francs — sixty
thousand dollars,” he mused aloud. “You
got it cheap, Ma'am, if I’m any judge.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Merrilees retorted in-
dignantly. “As if an American ever got any-
thing cheap in Paris — and from Cottier’s, of
all places! By every right you ought to assess
the duty on not more than forty thousand
dollars.”
“Well,” the inspector suggested indul-
gently, “we’ll just see what the appraiser
says. There he is now. Hey, Charlie, step
over here a minute, will you?”
In response to this hail, a slender, bespec-
tacled young man in O Section nodded assent,
picked his way through the barrier of trunks,
and, recognizing Mrs. Merrilees, touched the
vizor of a cap bearing the word Appraiser.
“Mrs. Merrilees has declared her necklace,
*


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 149
thousand, but just three hundred dollars; duty
a hundred and eighty (sixty per cent. ad val.),
and if you like I’ll get someone else to size it
up and see if maybe we can’t shade that a bit.”
“Wha-at!” Mrs. Merrilees almost shrieked.
“If it was real stuff, I’d be sure, Ma'am,”
the appraiser apologized; “but you can’t al-
ways tell about these imitations like you can
regular stones.”


CHAPTER XV
FIE silence was short-lived; but while it
lasted a power of scorn played like light-
ning round the devoted head of the appraiser.
As for Lydia and Peter (who had just
joined the group), they gaped in open amaze-
ment; while the inspector looked sorry for
Charlie.
After lightning, thunder, remote, maestoso,
“Are — you — mad?”
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Merrilees?”
“I say are you mad?”
“Me? No, Ma'am, not a bit. It’s nothing
to me, you know.”
“Don’t quibble, if you please. I want to
know whether or not you’re daft. You know
perfectly well that necklace is worth ninety —
sixty thousand dollars. Look at the bill. In-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 151
spector, be good enough to show this person
Cottier’s bill.’’
The appraiser examined the receipt with os-
tensible astonishment. “I don’t understand
this, Ma'am,” he faltered.
“Nor II ?”
“Cottier’s don’t deal in imitations, I know,”
he pursued with greater confidence. “All the
same, I’ll stake my job that those are fish-skin
pearls, paste brilliants, and — well, the set-
tings, I admit, are genuine.”
“Then your job is as good as lost. I shall
file a complaint and have you discharged for
incompetence.”
“If you’ll pardon me, I don’t believe you
will, Mrs. Merrilees.”
“Easy, Betty!” Peter Traft interposed.
“Perhaps he’s right, after all.” -
“Be quiet, Peter. When I want your advice
I’ll let you know. Certainly I ought to know
when I paid for that collar — ”
“Then you have been shamefully cheated,
Mrs. Merrilees,” the inspector put in.


152 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
“Quite impossible. I know real gems from
articles de Paris, and I examined this necklace
with the greatest care before I purchased it.
Since then it has never left this box, which
hasn’t been out of my care an instant except
when in the purser’s safe.”
“I’m sorry, but I know what I know. If
you’re the judge you think yourself, Ma'am, I
can only suggest that you take this to the light
and — here, I’ll lend you my magnifying
glass.”
“Thank you, I sha’n’t require it.”
With a gesture of rage Mrs. Merrilees
snatched the case from the appraiser’s hands
and moved toward the patch of sunlight. Be-
fore she had reached it, studying the collar
attentively on the way, Lydia saw her slacken
pace and falter.
One short minute in that strong glare suf-
ficed. As pale in mystification as she had pre-
viously been with wrath, Mrs. Merrilees re-
turned.
“I owe you an apology,” she informed the


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 153
appraiser in a shaking voice. “It’s a palpable
imitation.”
The box slipped from her grasp and went to
the floor with a bump, spilling its trashy con-
tents, and Mrs. Merrilees flopped incontinently
to a convenient trunk–Lydia’s ready arm
round her shoulders.
“But, my dear!” Betty wailed. “It’s per-
fectly preposterous!”
The appraiser looked at once bored and du-
bious. Peter Traft batted bewildered eyes,
then with a helpful air picked up the box and
replaced its contents. The inspector swung
sharply round and made off, with every evi-
dence of inspired haste, toward a distant quar-
ter of the pier.
“Let me think!” Mrs. Merrilees said in a
stifled voice. Indenting her lower lip with a
knuckle, she fastened an abstracted stare on
the polished tips of her shoes.
Lydia, at a loss, found nothing to say. She
couldn’t decently express too great concern
over the disappearance of something that had


154 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
been dedicated to her on her wedding day —
however remote that event. Yet she was
gravely if unintelligibly distressed. Beneath
her ready sympathy stirred a qualm of peculiar
uneasiness.
Distracted by the rumble of men’s voices, she
looked up, to find that Quoin had added him-
self to the group and was studiously attending
to Peter’s account of the counterfeit collar.
Their eyes met presently, and Lydia was sur-
prised by the look he bent upon her, a regard
somehow faintly reminiscent of their parting
subsequent to her adventure of the night be-
fore last.
She favored him with her shadowy, enig-
matic smile, now vaguely tinted with solicitude.
Nodding briefly, with a thoughtful air, Quoin
returned his consideration to Peter and the
article de Paris.
“I simply cannot understand it!” Betty
declared, abandoning the puzzle as hopeless.
Then, catching sight of the detective, she hailed
him. “Quoin, do come here at once!” and


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 155
immediately, heedless of bystanders, began to
detail her perplexity in a high, querulous voice.
After a moment or two Lydia rose and joined
Peter Traft. “Poor dear!” she said gently,
with a slight nod to correct any possible mis-
conception as to the object of her sympathy.
“I’m so sorry for her!”
“Well,” said Peter, impressively judgmat-
ical, “of course Betty can afford to lose these
trinkets by the gross; but, granted she isn’t
faking, it’s a pretty puzzle, isn’t it?”
“Faking!” Lydia echoed resentfully.
“Now don’t get huffy – please! Betty’s a
darling, and everything like that; but she’s
got no conscientious scruples about smuggling,
—none that you’d notice, — and I don’t mind
telling you she isn’t above turning a trick like
this — acting up to it too. She’s one wonder-
ful young comedienne, if you don’t know it.”
“‘Turn a trick like this !” What does that
mean?” Lydia demanded stiffly.
“Have her dog collar duplicated in paste
and fish scales, substitute it for the original


156 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
article, and pretend she’s been jockied like one
o’clock. Mind you, I don’t say she has done
that; but the little devil’s got it in her.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“There!” Peter complained. ‘‘ NOW
you’re sore. Didn’t I tell you the other day
the foolishest thing a chap could do was to take
things seriously, especially out loud?”
“You’re — horrid!”
The adjective was childish; but Lydia
wasn’t in a mood to search for one more dig-
nified. She turned a frosty shoulder to the
young man; but the seed of suspicion had
been planted in the mind of one who couldn’t
forget how lightly Betty had confessed to prior
exploits in the gentlewomanly art of smug-
gling, and her laughing confession that nothing
but sheer fright would prevent her attempting
again to outwit the custom house.
And even while this memory was troubling
her the affair took a turn to fix doubt of Betty
firmly in Lydia’s mind.
It began with the return of the inspector,


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 157
accompanied by the custom house official in
charge of the pier, — a middle-aged man, this
one, with a rather consequential manner, gold-
rimmed eyeglasses, and a not unkindly expres-
sion. -
“Mrs. Merrilees, I believe?” he asked with
much urbanity.
Mrs. Merrilees interrupted herself abruptly
to turn and examine the deputy with the eye
of disfavor. “Yes?” she asked bruskly.
The deputy introduced himself. “The in-
spector has just informed me of this — er-
unfortunate matter,” he pursued. “And I
thought I might possibly be able to help
straighten it out.”
“Kind of you, I’m sure.” But the tone of
Mrs. Merrilees completely belied this state-
ment. “Have you anything to propose?”
“If I might have the privilege of a word in
private — ” the deputy suggested blandly.
Quoin made as if to withdraw.
“Wait, please. This is Mr. Quoin. You
may have heard of him.”


158 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Who hasn’t?” the deputy returned pleas-
antly. “Proud to meet you, sir.”
“Mr. Quoin has kindly volunteered to help
me in this — outrage. Anything you wish to
say he may hear.”
“As you please, Madam, but — ” The
glance of the deputy veered significantly to
Peter and Lydia.
“No!” Mrs. Merrilees insisted warmly.
“You can have nothing to say that any of my
friends may not hear.”
“Then, Madam — permit me to advise you,
in all deference — ”
“Well?”
“It will save you a great deal of trouble to
produce the original collar, pay the duty on it,
and — ”
“Quoin ’’Betty exclaimed in a tone of irri-
tated perplexity. “What can this person
mean?”
Quoin was silent.
“I don’t mean,” the deputy pursued, una-
bashed, “to be offensive; but – the inference


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 159
is unavoidable. You are known to have pur-
chased a valuable pearl collar in Paris — ”
“I believe I declared it!”
“But upon examination you produce only a
comparatively worthless imitation, and assert
that you have been robbed of the original.”
“I assert! I have asserted nothing.”
“Imply — ”
“One moment.” Those lightnings which
had failed to wither the appraiser now threat-
ened to annihilate his superior. “Do I under-
stand you to suggest that I deliberately sub-
stituted a counterfeit and hid the original in
an attempt to defraud the customs?”
“I’m sorry,” affirmed the deputy with bare-
faced insincerity.
Mrs. Merrilees drew a long breath, closed
her teeth with a vindictive snap, and reopened
them to observe with withering distinctness,
“Go away! You are insolent! You presume
— oh, you annoy me! Do go — before I for-
get myself!”
“We can’t assess an imitation at the value


160 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
of the real necklace, of course, and yet we
know that the original is coming into this coun-
try by this boat.”
“Then permit me to recommend the other
passengers to your attention.”
“We’ll do our best to overhaul them all, I
promise you. But if the goods don’t turn up,
we’ll feel reluctantly compelled to make a
thorough search, not only of your luggage but
of yourself as well, Mrs. Merrilees.”
“Quoin ” Mrs. Merrilees appealed.
The investigator shook his head. “It’s too
bad; but I really don’t see what’s to be done
about it. These people have the power to make
things mighty unpleasant for you unless — ”
“What, you too?” she hissed, with vast
dramatic expression.
“No, no!” Quoin protested hastily.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m only afraid
that, unless the necklace shows up, you’ll have
to Submit.”
“Very well!” With a shrug of defiance,
Mrs. Merrilees showed Quoin an ungracious


162 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
thunderbolt, and Lydia held back in a phase of
doubt rendered all the more unhappy by dis-
sembled consciousness of the strangely ques-
tioning gaze that Quoin was centering upon
herself.
And this was the phase of the affair disclosed
to Craven when he bustled up, aglow with sat-
isfaction.
“Hello, people! I’m all clear. Had the
deuce of a time — the silly ass wanted to rook
me for duds I brought in as long ago as 1908;
but – What’s the row?”
This last was in a tone radically changed,
and at the same instant his fiancée decided to
acknowledge him on probation, however rigidly
she might elect to deny the rest of humanity.
So she unbent enough to beckon him with a
nod; and Craven hurried on to get his answer
from the one most concerned.
After a brief conference he turned back to
Lydia and Peter. “A bad business!” he
doubted in an undertone, wagging his head.
“Betty’s played the game straight as a die


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 163
this trip; but nothing on earth will make these
people believe that, after the way she’s carried
on in the past. Looks like an all-day session
— no good your sticking round: nothing either
of you can do. Quoin and I will stand by
Betty; but you’d better cut along. You won’t
mind dropping Lydia at the Great Eastern
Hotel, Peter?”
“No – I won’t precisely what you might
call mind,” Peter declared, brightening.
“I engaged rooms by wireless yesterday.
It’ll take a day or two, you know, to readjust
my diggings to receive a daughter. Get any-
thing you want at the hotel, Liddy, and have
it charged, if I don’t show up before luncheon.
No telling how long we’ll be detained; but I’ll
ring you up if there’s any great delay. Now
clear out — like good children!”
Lydia bade hurried farewells. Giving Quoin
her hand, she hoped he wouldn’t forget to call,
as he’d promised. Quoin was persuaded that
such oversight would be symptomatic of insan-
ity. His tone was light; but his direct and


164 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
penetrating gaze embarrassed the girl, and she
was fluttered by consciousness that her cheeks
were unaccountably aglow, her fingers tremu-
lous in his firm grasp.
Betty Merrilees offered a cool cheek to Lyd-
ia’s lips. “Don’t worry about me!” she pro-
tested pettishly. “Besides, in your heart of
hearts you believe I’m guilty — you know you
do I ?”
“I don’t!” Lydia insisted, and in the next
breath, “You didn’t — honestly?”
Betty’s mood melted transiently. “Honest
Injun!” she declared with mirth in her voice,
but downright candor in the eyes that held
Lydia’s. “And I don’t blame anyone for
climbing up on the fence, either,” she added
in cryptic phrase, “all except these despicable
customs men!”
Craven bestowed a perfunctory kiss on Lyd-
ia’s forehead, and sped their going cheerfully.
Peter’s town car was waiting at the pier en-
trance, and when he had helped her into it and,
on the point of following, lingered to bestow


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 165
one of his extravagant tips upon the porter
who had borne the grievous burden of their
two Oxford bags, Lydia, looking out through
the limousine door, viewed a section of the
throng of passengers waiting for taxicabs, in
the forefront of which stood two men.
One faced her and first attracted attention
by his singularly persistent stare, — a stoutish
body, by no means tall, Snug in a braided morn-
ing coat, — the London mode, glossy topper,
white spats and all, down to the silver-mounted
stick of malacca, – wearing a humorous eye in
his square-jawed, scarlet face, — one who
would readily pass current as an elderly and
retired gentleman of means, with a penchant
for good cooking and outdoor life.
His companion, some inches taller and built
upon more rakish lines, stood half turned aside
so that she could see little more than the sa-
lient line of a dark, lean cheek, and a long and
narrow back-head. But that was quite enough
to make her sit up with a start, remembering
that she had seen him once before in precisely


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 169
face, even as it impregnated her dream, with
the hue of blood. Twilight, succeeding, caught
together the gaping arras of the sky. Minutes
wove a web of hours —
Abruptly Lydia found herself on her feet, a
low cry shuddering in her throat, aware that
the room was ablaze with light, that she was
no longer alone. Then, calming, she realized
nothing more terrible than Craven’s return.
He stood near the center of the room, star-
ing, evidently at a loss to account for her agi-
tation, his face slightly flushed yet lowering.
“Well?” he demanded sharply. “What
the deuce is the matter with you?”
“You — you startled me,” she faltered with
a tremulous smile. “I must have fallen asleep,
waiting for you — and then I had a horrible
dream — ”
Craven’s look swept her from head to foot,
captious and ugly. “You haven’t dressed,”
he said — meaning that she hadn’t changed for
dinner. “Been asleep long?”
“Why — some hours, I presume. What


170 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
time is it? It was just sunset, the last I
knew.”
“After nine o’clock now. Then you’ve had
no dinner?”
Lydia shook her head. “I was waiting for
you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he grumbled.
“Thought I told you not to count on me. I’ve
been busy of course, flying round all afternoon,
getting Betty settled. Otherwise should have
been home long ago.”
“I have been worried about Betty — Mrs.
Merrilees — ”
“Oh, that business!” He smiled grimly.
“It was over sooner than I expected. Un-
pleasant for her — to submit to being searched
by a female inspector. But of course they
found nothing, and had to let her go. And
now she’s threatening all manner of trouble.”
“Then the necklace was really stolen? I’m
so sorry!”
“Yes.” Craven eyed her curiously for an
instant. “Yes, it was stolen, right enough,


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 171
and a clean-out job, if you ask me. The thief
must have been laying for somebody to buy the
thing. He had the counterfeit all ready, of
course.” -
“But that’s what I don’t understand.”
“Simplest thing in the world. Chances he
found the copy ready made to his hand. Nine
out of ten of these smart Frenchwomen, like
the original owner of the collar, have their best
pieces duplicated in paste for public wear.
Somehow or other he must have got hold of
that. The only question is, When did he make
the substitution? Betty swears it was the gen-
uine article she received, and it hasn’t been out
of her possession since, except while in the
purser’s safe, and when I brought it to her, up
there in the veranda café, day before yesterday.
Looks as if it was up to the purser — unless
you care to point the well known finger of sus-
picion at me — or Peter!”
** HOW absurd | **
“Think so? Well, I’m glad you do, my
dear.” His humor had softened. Drawing


172 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
near, he pinched her cheek affectionately.
“Not that there’s any reason for you to worry.
Only, if Betty still wants to play Lady Boun-
tiful at your wedding, she’ll have to disburse
the price of another necklace.”
“Daddy! As if I thought of that!”
“Probably you don’t, being yourself. Still
— you’ll marry some day, and pearl collars
don’t grow on every bough of orange blos-
soms.”
“I’m not thinking of being married,” Lydia
murmured, looking away.
“Oh, I presume not — no more than the
next girl of your age | Nothing doing with
Peter Traft, eh?”
“Oh, Daddy! Don’t be silly!”
Lydia met his gaze fairly and honestly,
laughter in her eyes, and Craven accepted her
disclaimer without question.
“Well, I’m sorry for Peter. He’s a good
boy – well off too. And he’s mighty strong
for you. Mustn't let yourself be misled by
Peter’s reputation. Just because he’s got the


174 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
found her a drag, she must cease to be such
at once — instantly — tonight. Until she could
find some way to become self-supporting the
hospitable doors of Mrs. Beggarstaff’s home
offered a haven where Lydia felt sure of find-
ing a welcome, sympathy, affection.
With a brisk tread and a cheerful counte-
nance Craven returned to the sitting room.
“Hello! What's troubling my girl? Some-
thing on your mind, eh?”
She eyed him gravely. “Do you really
want me to marry Peter Traft?” she de-
manded.
“Why consult my desires? You’ll do as
you please anyway—just as I did at your age.
It’s a good match, and if you find you care
enough for the youngster,” he raised his hands
in mock benediction, “bless you, my children :
But — upon my word! —never can tell about
you women. Only two minutes ago — ”
“That was when I still believed you wanted
me with you, when I thought I might be a help
to you, not an obstacle in the path of your


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 175
happiness. Better to marry at once — the first
bidder – and repent too late, if that must be
— than to know I’m in your way.”
“Liddy, my dear little girl!” The tone
was fond, the smile indulgent; but with sharp-
ened vision she saw through the pretense.
“No!” she cried passionately. “No!
Don’t — don’t waste time trying to deceive
me, Daddy!” •
“But you are quite mistaken, quite. Come
—listen to me! Let me send for a waiter and
order you a bit of dinner. After that you’ll
feel differently, and we can talk — ”
“I want no dinner. Please, please let me
be!” Turning she stumbled blindly into her
bedroom, shut the door, and threw herself
across the bed, sobbing.
After sometime the door latch clicked.
“Liddy! ”
The girl made no answer. She couldn’t: she
was struggling to hush her sobs.
“Liddy!” Craven came to her side, and
seated himself on the bed. “Little girl,” he


176 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
said, with melancholy, “you’ve hurt me ter-
ribly, misjudged me so cruelly. But no matter.
I realize that you didn’t understand.”
He touched her hair caressingly. She suf-
fered this without response. Tonight her wits
were keyed to a pitch of divination. Beneath
the cloying tenderness in his accents she read
the truth too clearly.
“I’ve just telephoned for dinner. It’ll be
up presently, and I want you to try to eat some-
thing. Get up, please, and dry your eyes, com-
pose yourself, and be fair to me.”
“Very well,” Lydia said stiffly, without
stirring.
With a final approving pat Craven rose.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said gently. He
sighed, moved toward the door, but there
paused. “By the way,” he observed care-
lessly, “that thing I gave you the other night
— the puzzle box—it is safe, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Lydia, sitting up. “Do you
Want it?”
“If Convenient.”


|
5





180 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
collar stolen from Mrs. Merrilees — or the imi-
tation?
But immediately the mystery and the won-
der of this was lost in her solicitude, and, an-
other glance discovering a small leather-bound
flask, she seized it and ran back to the other
I'OOn1.
Craven’s eyes were open and, she fancied,
informed with a look of almost frightened in-
quiry as she unstoppered the flask, dashed a
generous amount of brandy into a glass, and
turned toward a silver water pitcher. But his
husky whisper stayed her hand.
“No — straight — ”
She put the glass to his lips, inverting it
slowly while he gulped and spluttered.
“More!” he demanded with his first free
breath. “A little water — ”
After this second draft, which he drank un-
aided, he seemed more himself. For the first
time he ceased to clutch his side; a little color
crept back into his face. He remained silent,
however, his gaze bent upon the Knave of


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 181
Diamonds at his feet, his countenance darkly
perplexed.
At length Lydia ventured anew, “What is
it, Daddy? Can’t you tell me?”
“Heart,” he muttered, “an old affection.
Nothing to worry about; but that card keeled
me over — rather !” -
“But what — what does it mean?”
“You wouldn’t understand. It’s something
Secret, a code signal to me to — I wasn’t ex-
pecting it in the box — ”
That thought he left unfinished, mumbling
something indistinguishable. But his eyes
flashed toward his daughter’s face, then were
quickly averted.
“In the box with the necklace, you mean?”
Lydia prompted evenly.
He wouldn’t reply directly. “Gave me the
devil of a shock!” After a moment of silence
he cried out in accents of exasperation, “But
how in the name of God did it ever get there?”
A knock checked Lydia’s reply. With a start
Craven pulled himself together and rose.


182 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Mustn't let the waiter see me like this.
You let him in — will you?”
He managed a slow but unwavering return
to his room. When he was out of sight Lydia
turned to the door, admitting the waiter with
his heavy tray, signed for the meal, and tipped
and dismissed the man.


184 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Then I think I must insist on your expla-
nation. You forget how you’ve treated me, —
how you’ve deceived me, made me an accessory
to a mean crime, how you’ve hurt me, shamed
me — ”
Checking her with a gesture and a word elo-
quent of deep pain, “Please!” he sighed deso-
lately, dropped into a chair, and drew a hand
wearily across his face. “Perhaps you’re
right; and I feel I owe you an apology even
more than an explanation. Well, the fact is,
I couldn’t resist Betty. She was determined
to smuggle, and she won me over; and, sure
they’d catch her if anything was attempted in
the usual way, I hit on the scheme of using you
without your knowledge. Being an alien, you
were too facile a convenience to be resisted.
God forgive me — I lied to my girl!”
“But why need you have kept it up? Only
a little while ago you were telling me how eas-
ily a thief might have secured the counter-
feit – ’’
“That wasn’t altogether fancy, you know,”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 185
he insisted — as if a substratum of truth could
mend the breach between them! “Betty her-
self used the counterfeit to fool the inspect-
Ors.”
He bent forward and picked up the Knave of
Diamonds, frowning thoughtfully.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” the
girl persisted.
“What more can I say?” he expostulated,
aggrieved. “I’m sorry. I deeply regret hav-
ing deceived you. I apologizel What more do
you want?”
Lydia gave a gesture of despair. “Nothing,
I suppose – unless you will answer me one
question honestly. Are you or are you not in
the English secret service?”
Craven’s face darkened. “My dear girl,”
he said slowly, “are you sure you’ve any right
to talk to me in this tone? Admitting my
actions may seem unusual in your eyes, I’m
your father, and not answerable to you.’
Neither do I concede your right to — ah. —
tear a passion to tatters — ”


186 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
But he made the mistake of meeting Lydia’s
gaze squarely, and what he read therein
abashed him. Stammering, he turned away
with a shrug and a long-suffering air, fumbled
in a pocket, found a cigar, and, savagely wor-
rying off the end of it, struck a match and
began to smoke.
Too deeply moved for speech or tears, Lydia
watched him with eyes of profound despond-
ency.
“Well, what about this card? I’ve satisfied
you, haven't I? How much longer do you
mean to keep me waiting?” And now he must
lash himself into an insensate rage!
“No longer,” Lydia told him quietly. “I’m
quite ready to tell you what little I know. And
then perhaps you’ll tell me whether Downing
Street employs Mr. Southpaw Smith, card
sharper, and why — ”
“Good God!” The exclamation was one of
uncontrollable dismay. Unconsciously, per-
haps, he clutched the edge of the table for sup-
port, and again his left hand stole toward his


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 187
heart. “What’s that you say? Smith!
What do you know about him? What has he
to do with this?’”
“If you’ll listen to me — ”
Subsiding into a chair, Craven listened apa-
thetically and without interruption to his
daughter’s succinct story of the attack and
robbery, Quoin’s intervention and recovery of
the puzzle box.
She watched him as closely. Was he merely
acting again? What was really working in the
mind behind those inscrutable eyes?
“That’s all I know,” she concluded.
“How the card got into the box I can’t say —
unless this man Smith put it there when he
replaced the necklace at Mr. Quoin’s direction.
I presume a card sharper would have sleight
of hand enough to do that undetected.”
“It couldn’t be worse,” said Craven huskily,
fingering the Knave of Diamonds.
He rose, moved unsteadily to the center
table, and helped himself to the remainder of
the brandy.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 189
“What have such men to do with the secret
service?” Lydia demanded abruptly.
“With the – ah — secret service?” He
looked up blankly. “Why — nothing what-
ever! What makes you ask?”
“Then what were they after when they at-
tacked me? Not the “evidence you talked
about?”
“My dear child! What do you suppose?
What but the loot — that necklace? They’ve
been hot on Betty’s trail from the moment it
became known she had bought the thing from
Cottier’s.”
“You confuse me so!” Lydia protested in
bewilderment. “If they weren’t connected
with the secret service, if —if you had nothing
whatever to do with them, why are you so
afraid of them?” -
“I? But — my dear child,” Craven said
indulgently, “you’re quite mistaken. I’m no
more afraid of them than of — well — say Mr.
Collector Loeb.”
** But the Card | **


190 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Eh? Oh, this card? To be sure!” And
now Craven was able to laugh tolerantly in
the face of the Knave of Diamonds. “Well,
I confess it did give me a turn. But I see I’ll
have to tell you: In the service code a Knave
of Diamonds is a warning of gravest danger;
but to mean that it must of course come from
one of our corps. But this, coming from a
common gambler, is merely impudent, means
nothing more than — well — as much as to
say, ‘You think you’re smart, eh? Well, look
out, or I'll get you yet!”” And Craven sat
back with a look of triumph that sat oddly on
his stubborn pallor.
Seated across the table from him, resting her
elbows upon it, Lydia regarded her father with
an expression in which were blended amaze-
ment, stupefaction, misery, and uncertainty.
If Craven read her look, he refused to ac-
knowledge it. With an air of thorough satis-
faction he rose and, taking up the puzzle
box, shut it with a snap, its treasure undis-,
turbed.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 191
“So that’s all settled,” he asserted com-
placently. “And after this, if there is any-
thing troubling you, please apply at once to
your old Dad. Stop this business of being
secretive and going about thinking. One thing
more: If ever you fall in love on your own
account, you'll judge more leniently people
who do questionable things to please those
whom they love. And now your dinner's
getting cold!”
“I’ve no appetite, thank you,” said the girl
drearily.
Her eyes followed the puzzle box, which Cra-
ven was slipping into the side pocket of his
coat, with an expression he was quick to in-
terpret.
“This goes to Betty Merrilees as fast as a
taxicab can take it,” he announced promptly.
“In fact, I stopped in only to get it on my way
uptown.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Lydia, listlessly
tracing an empty pattern on the table.
“If I’m late, don’t fret about me, please.


192 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
I’m quite all right now. Chances are I sha’n’t
have another turn like tonight’s in several — ”
A knock sounded on the door. He broke off
with a start, and for half a minute stood move-
less and silent, his mouth ajar, his eyes trans-
fixed; then, recollecting himself, he said al-
most nonchalantly:
“Mind answering that? If it’s anybody for
me, say I’m out.”
As Lydia rose he swung sharply back into
his bed chamber. When she turned back from
the door she saw him poised alertly just within
the threshold, his right hand buried in his coat
pocket.
“A note for you — wants an answer. The
bellboy's waiting.”
With a nervous gesture Craven advanced
and took the envelope, his breath quickening
and brows clouding as he conned the super-
scription, — his name in ink and the room
number in blue pencil. But for several seconds
he seemed to hesitate. Then abruptly he
ripped it open.


CHAPTER XVIII
RAWING a deep breath, which might
have been a sigh of relief, Craven delib-
erately tossed the card face upward on the
table. “You’ll notice a pin puncture in the
stem of the club, beneath the small J,” he ob-
served coolly. “That means one of my agents,
on urgent business.”
“I’ll stay in my room with the door shut,”
Lydia volunteered.
“No — wasn’t thinking of that: merely
wondering if you could. You see, I’m likely to
be detained by this chap — can’t tell how
long.” He consulted his watch, frowning.
“After ten now; I can’t well call on Betty
much later. How would you like to take a taxi
to the Margrave, and give her this confounded
COllar?”
He could have made no suggestion more


196 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
ope blank save for the figures in ink, ‘‘98.”
“I’m suppressing the address,” he said, Smi-
ling mysteriously, “because this is official busi-
ness. That, however, is the number of the
house; the street you’ll have to carry in your
memory, East 76th, also the name, Mrs. Ells-
worthy, one of our most valued agents. Hand
this to her personally, and ask for an answer.
I'll join you at Betty’s about eleven-thirty;
earlier if possible. Now the Margrave — but
every chauffeur in the town knows where that
is.”
“Anyway,” Lydia returned, “I’ve the ad-
dress in my pocketbook. Mrs. Beggarstaff is
stopping there too, you know, and I’m to lunch
with her Monday!”
“To be sure!” Craven opened his arms
and stepped toward her. “My dear, dear
girl, you don’t know what a help you are to
Ime !”
Lydia didn’t move or speak; but her direct
and searching gaze proved disconcerting.
With arms almost about her, Craven hesitated,


198 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
ing for the answer to the Knave of Clubs. To
him Craven presented a piece of silver.
“See my daughter down to the ladies’ en-
trance,” he said, “the 46th Street elevator,
you understand — and after that send up the
gentleman who brought that note, by the
Broadway elevator.”
“Yes, sir,” the youth mumbled adoringly
to his tip.
Craven stood watching the figures of Lydia
and the bellboy diminish down the perspective
of the long corridor, until they turned a corner
almost a block distant, into the wing of the
building; then, stepping inside, he shut the
door, and with an adroit movement produced
an automatic pistol, a weapon of such small
caliber that its bulk made no noticeable bulge
in his coat pocket, yet one of murderous effi-
ciency at close quarters.


CHAPTER, XIX
P through that wonderful pearl-bordered
vista that stretches northward to appar-
ent infinity, speeding with never a jar and
barely a sound other than the low, contented
drone of its motor, the taxicab chose the north-
west corner of 56th Street as the most incon-
venient spot attainable to blow out a rear shoe
with a report infinitely more alarming than a
pistol shot; then skidded toward the sidewalk
like a thing possessed by suicidal mania, de-
signing to leap the curb and dash out its brains
against an inoffensive residence.
But Lydia had drawn luckily in New York’s
gigantic lottery of chauffeurs. This man knew
his business. Before the girl had recovered
from the shock of the tire explosion and the
subsequent shaking up he had brought his
machine to a standstill, jumped down, and was


202 SHEEP's CLOTHING
which had ordered this accident in just this
spot. The Margrave!
Silencing his motor, the man led the way
northward through the drizzle. Before splen-
didly shining portals that contributed their full
measure to the flood of light in the well of
the plaza he drew up, with a nod indicating
a stone sentry box at one side of the en-
trance.
“You’ll find the starter in there,” he an-
nounced. “He’ll get you another taxi. Good
night.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Lydia marched resolutely into the hotel.
She would be delayed not five minutes longer
than if she was to engage another cab immedi-
ately. Let Craven object if he cared to, when
informed ! She had every reasonable excuse
for desiring to rid herself of her responsibility
as quickly as possible and wash her hands of
the whole matter: she never wanted to see the
collar again.
It was evidently defective hearing alone that


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 203
caused the desk clerk to require a repetition of
the name.
“Mrs. Merrilees.”
The clerk retired to consult the room rack,
and presently returned with the official smile,
impersonally apologetic. “I thought pos-
sibly Mrs. Merrilees had arrived during the
day — ”
“Yes,” Lydia affirmed, “she did — this af-
ternoon, I believe.”
The Smile became even more remotely re-
gretful. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Merrilees is not
among our guests.”
Some instants later Lydia became conscious
that she was staring, to the pained embarrass-
ment of the young man. Hastily averting her
gaze, she remarked the clock, and mechanically
noted the hour: it was a quarter to eleven.
“Are you sure?” she faltered.
“Oh, quite.”
But Craven had promised to meet her there,
had given her the necklace to deliver to Betty
at the Margrave. Impossible that he could be


204 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
mistaken as to his fiancée's hotel, he who had
been flying round all afternoon, “getting
Betty settled ”— his very words!
Insensibly Lydia’s eyes darkened and be-
came informed with an expression that had
suited better the eyes of one by right of years
more inured to mental anguish. Could it be
possible that this was but another of his fab-
rications? Had he commissioned her with a
fool’s errand, simply to get rid of her for an
hour or two? But with the collar, running the
risk of its loss or theft — incomprehensible!
Would he never deal honestly with her, his
daughter, the one living being who had his in-
terests most at heart?
“But surely this is the Margrave!”
“Yes it is. Mrs. Merrilees may be at the
Plaza, or the Savoy, or the Netherlands, even
the St. Regis — not quite so near. If you care
to sit down a moment, I’ll inquire by tele-
phone.”
“You’re very kind,” said Lydia; “but I
fancy I won’t have to trouble you. Mrs. Beg-


CHAPTER XX
“ TT was good of you to come over so late,
dear — to please an old woman.” With
this the Dowager Dragon took Betty Merrilees
into her arms and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Merciful Heavens!” cried that unaffected
person, freeing herself and regarding Mrs.
Beggarstaff with amazement. “What's come
over you? I could have sworn you disap-
proved of me.”
“Not of you, dear,” Mrs. Beggarstaff inter-
rupted with an asperity that showed she was
ashamed of her recent exhibition. “Besides,
I’m truly grateful that they didn’t make me
drag my gout out this abominable night.”
“As important as all that?” demanded
Betty.
“As important as all that,” the Dowager
Dragon affirmed,


208 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
cheerfully — and for that was shown a cold if
adorable shoulder.
“Oh, come now, Betty!” Peter protested.
“Don’t cut up rough with Quoin. Angels
could do no more than he has done today.”
“Really? Permit me to inform you, Peter,
I expect my friends, angelic or otherwise, to
stand by me when I’m in trouble. Mr. Quoin
behaved abominably on the pier this morn-
ing.”
“Either you do me an injustice,” he said
quietly, “ or I’ve done you a grave one. In
the latter instance, I’m anxious to apologize.”
“Meaning, I presume,” said Betty with
ominous eyes, “you still have a sneaking sus-
picion that I really did smuggle that neck-
lace?”
“I’m ready to confess myself wrong — ”
“Then please don’t talk to me. You’re
tiresome !”
& 4 There,” Peter complained, “you go again,
snapping his head off before you give him a
show. Really, Betty, you’re unreasonable.


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 209
Here you go for years, working up the reputa-
tion of the canniest little customs swindler
ever, and then you blaze up simply because
everybody isn’t inclined to take your protested
reformation at face value – and at that with
everything going to prove the said face value
worth about three cents on the dollar!”
“Then you believe it too, eh?”
“Don’t ask me: I might tell you.”
“And you?” Mrs. Merrilees demanded
hotly of the Dowager Dragon.
“I don’t think you above anything I’d stoop
to —if you want the truth, my dear. I myself
wasted several hours today trying to make the
customs look foolish, and — how shall I say
it, Peter?”
“Didn’t get away with it.”
“Much as I disapprove of slang — thank
you, Peter.”
“So all three of you are against me!”
Mrs. Merrilees lounged more deeply in her
chair, swept their faces with insolent eyes, and
laughed unpleasantly. “Well, I’ve been spoil-


210 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
ing for a row all day, and now I’m going to
have one or know the reason why.”
“Make your mind easy about that,” Peter
advised gravely. “As a tidy young disturber
of the peace, Betty, you show class.”
“Shut up, Peter!” Again her glance chal-
lenged the three. “What’s up?” she de-
manded in sudden suspicion. “You didn’t call
me over here now just to tell me you believe
me capable of smuggling that collar — you
know you didn’t!”
“No, my dear,” Mrs. Beggarstaff replied;
“but we did want to talk with you about it.”
“Well?” -
“It’s this way, Mrs. Merrilees,” Quoin vol-
unteered: “We’re all your friends, and all my
interest in this matter is purely unprofessional
as far as you are personally involved.”
Mrs. Merrilees nodded bruskly, but focused
an interested regard on the face of the de-
tective. “Proceed,” she said sweetly.
“We’d like to have your personal word of
honor that you didn’t turn this trick.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 211
Betty laughed, staccato. “But if I say I
did?”
Quoin shrugged. “That would end my in-
terest.”
“And if it turns out I didn’t – eh?”
“Then I may be able to tell you something
to your advantage.”
Betty sat up sharply. “You mean you
know where my necklace is?”
“Did you smuggle it?” Quoin counterques-
tioned.
A note of unimpeachable candor informed
the woman’s voice. “I give you my word of
honor I did not. I know nothing about it.
Beyond the fact that I myself placed a genu-
ine necklace in that case, and saw a paste neck-
lace come out of it — ”
“There!” Mrs. Beggarstaff exclaimed with
a look of triumph at Traft.
The face of this last suddenly assumed a
most unbecoming brick-red hue. “That’s all
very well,” he grumbled, “and I’m not doubt-
ing Betty a little bit; but,” he stammered and


212 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
gulped, “but I tell you now I can’t believe it
of Tad, and as for Lydia —” He made an
exasperated gesture. “Quoin’s crazy – that’s
all! ??
“What’s this?” Betty put in quickly.
“Tad and Lydia?” She waited an instant,
her color waning. “What have they to do
with my necklace?” -
“I’ll tell you,” said Quoin gently. “Cra-
ven gave his daughter your necklace, hidden
in a Chinese puzzle box, to bring through the
customs, counting on her exemption, as an
alien, from rigid inspection.”
Mrs. Merrilees rose from her chair, staring
fixedly at Quoin. “You know this to be a
fact???
“I saw it in Miss Craven’s possession. The
rest is inference from contributory circum-
stances.”
The detective endured her stare without
flinching; though the color of his dark face
deepened and his breath came a trace more
quickly. Convinced at length of his sincerity,


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 213
she turned away, moved to a window, and
stood there with her back to the room, gazing
thoughtfully out into the misty chiaroscuro of
the plaza.
“That’s why we wanted your word you
were on the level before we told you,” Peter
explained.
“I see,” said the woman in a gentler voice.
“You didn’t want to seem to imply that
Tad – ?”
“Exactly,” the Dowager Dragon affirmed.
“Please tell me about it.”
“Very well.” Quoin responded with the
story, from his view and point, of Lydia’s ad-
venture in the fog. “It was your necklace in
the box, the real thing, beyond mistake,” he
concluded.
“But,” Betty argued, bewildered, “I don’t
See — ”
“Wait. I think I can make everything
clear. When Southpaw shut the box and gave
it up, on my demand, I watched him pretty
closely, and saw him slip a playing card in with


214 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
the necklace. After I got outside I opened the
box up on my own account, partly to satisfy
myself about the necklace, partly to have a
look at that card. It was a Knave of Dia-
monds.”
Betty swung back from the window. “But
what can that mean?”
“It’s a question I think Craven can answer
– if he will. Anyhow, we’re safe in assuming
the card was intended for him, and certainly
it must have had some significance. That, if
you’ll permit, establishes a secret bond of un-
derstanding between two known blacklegs and
— Thaddeus Craven.”
“But why didn’t you tell me this at the
time?”
“Because, very naturally, I wasn’t at all
sure you wanted to be told.”
“If you’ll please explain — ”
“Quoin means,” Peter interrupted,
“you’ve been such a consistent performer, he
hesitated to do anything calculated to cramp
your style, if this thing was what it looked


218 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“And still, I insist, you forget how little we
know of him. Hark back into your memory,
my dear. How long have we known him?
Twelve or fifteen years at most. How did he
come to know us? Through introductions to
a few clubs, indorsed by Lord Evesden — who
was later drummed out of town for card cheat-
ing, and never came back. But Tad Craven
stuck. He didn’t cheat, and he was amusing,
and as long as he was personable, agreeable,
and seemed to have money nobody bothered
about his pedigree.”
“I’ve been looking Craven up,” Quoin sup-
plemented. “Listen!” He began to read
from a tiny memorandum book: “Came to
New York in ’93 with a British musical comedy
company. His wife, Letty Craven, fell ill dur-
ing the run of the piece and died in a public
hospital of quick consumption. After that
Craven got a job with some show which per-
ished on the road. When he turned up again
he was training with a gang of professional
sharpers with whom he played a few turns on


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 219
the transatlantic ferry route as capper. But
he dropped that before he became known to
the police. Later he was running with the gay
Lord Evesden; but shook him as soon as he
felt solid in New York and those ugly whispers
began to go round about Evesden’s play. The
rest is mainly circumstantial damnation.”
Quoin put away his notebook and began to
tick off his points on his fingers. |
“It may not have escaped you that there’ve
been some pretty stiff burglaries among our
friends in the last twelve years or so. They
weren’t frequent; but they were all big hauls,
and everyone was well planned and culminated
in a clean getaway. And it so happens, when
one comes to look into it, that Craven was es-
pecially thick with all the people victimized.
The biggest coup was the theft of the Joachim
collection, worth several hundred thousand
dollars. Now Lydia Craven, when she came
aboard the Alsatia, was wearing a cameo
from the Joachim collection which she said her
father had given her on her fifteenth birthday.


220 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
Discreet pumping on the part of Mrs. Beggar-
staff has shown that date to have fallen just
three months after Joachim was robbed. In-
cidentally, the cameo disappeared as soon as
Lydia and Craven met on board. There’s a
sinister thread running all through the history
of Thaddeus Craven.”
His voice trailed off into silence. Mrs. Mer-
rilees was eying him steadily.
“You never got all that information to-
gether since this morning?” Mrs. Beggarstaff
prompted.
“No,” Quoin admitted. “I’ve had my eye
on Craven for sometime.”
“Why?” the old woman demanded bluntly.
“What made you first suspect him?”
“Well,” replied Quoin, “he never rang
true to me; and when it began to be rumored
that he was a candidate for Betty’s hand—
I felt sure he wasn’t worthy of her, and made
up my mind to be sure before forbidding the
banns.”
After a pause Betty looked up defiantly.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 221
“It does make me out a bit of an idiot, doesn’t
it?”
“Nonsense! We were all taken in,” Peter
protested. “Look how I’ve always stuck up
for Tad! But there’s one thing I want to say:
He may be a rotter, and all that sort of thing;
but that girl of his is as straight and fine a
proposition — ”
“Do hush, Peter! We all know you’re in
love with her,” Betty cut in. “Wait until this
infatuation wears off, in another fortnight or
so; give it at least the lifetime of any of your
former attachments. Then I’ll listen to you
in defense of Lydia Craven.”
“You won’t have to listen to me then. Her
innocence will be established long before that,”
Peter blazed up. “Besides, you’ve got no
right to assume, simply because I’ve flattered
a lot of you empty-headed gadabouts with my
attentions, I’m not in earnest now that I’ve
found a girl worth being in earnest about.”
“Bravo, Peter!” Mrs. Beggarstaff ap-
plauded.


222 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“But what is all this to me?” Betty pro-
tested with a break in her voice. “I hope
you’re right, Peter, and I hope if you are you
may be happy. But what about me? To you,
all old friends, I can talk about this terrible
thing. But what about the outsiders? My
name linked with that of a common criminal’s
— oh, I am ashamed, ashamed !”
Unknown to her, the Dowager Dragon was
nodding vigorously to Quoin. This last rose
awkwardly, and spoke with a hesitation un-
common in him.
“If you’ll leave it to me, Betty,” he sug-
gested almost timidly, “I think I can arrange
matters with Craven and recover your neck-
lace tonight, quite without publicity. And,”
he glanced at his watch, “it’s a quarter of
eleven. If I’m to do anything, I have no time
to lose.”


CHAPTER XXI
RUE to her instinct for the dramatic
moment, when the telephone interrupted
Mrs. Beggarstaff answered with no apparent
emotion and nothing more than a noncommit-
tal “Yes?” followed at a brief interval by
“Yes, if you please, at once.” Then, hanging
up the receiver, she set herself artfully to de-
lay Mrs. Merrilees. “This is all very well,”
she announced with complacent determination;
“but I want to know what real evidence you
have got against Craven.”
“Nothing,” Quoin admitted, “beyond cir-
cumstantial evidence, which, however well
grounded, wouldn’t hold together a minute
under the analysis of any able-bodied criminal
lawyer.”
“No actual proof?”
“Not a whit. You may be sure Craven
never took an active hand in any of these


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 225
and silence, the gaze of each seeking the
other's; while, to one side, by these two for-
gotten, Peter Traft waited, watching, some
little sadness and envy in his heart.
Not that he grudged Quoin the guerdon of
a lifetime’s unselfish devotion; but he felt
quite justified in envying them the happiness
that was to be theirs. If he could ever hope
to see Lydia Craven look up into his face as
Betty Merrilees was just then looking up at
Quoin–
Betty, in a melting humor and a gown repre-
senting the finest flower of the Rue de la Paix,
to Peter’s fancy cut a figure that filled your
eye. And in such matters Peter esteemed
himself a distinguished amateur.
But once Lydia Craven had entered the
drawing room Peter somehow no longer cared
to look at Betty. A fellow’s got only a certain
limited amount of eyesight, after all, and it's
no good wasting it on anything he isn’t really
crazy about.
In the severity of her street dress the girl’s


226 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
figure had a graciousness that even Betty’s
couldn’t shadow. And Lydia’s face, set
against the darkness of one of those trim little
hats which in those days were just beginning
to oust the art-nouveau-coal-hod enormities, –
Lydia’s ruddy hair, the transparent pallor of
her brow, the fine glow in cheeks fresh from
the rainy night, her dark and animated eyes
brightening with surprise and half-timid
pleasure, — taken altogether Peter thought
Lydia’s fairness was to Betty’s as sun to
candlelight.
But with delight apprehension was mixed in
his mind. There were still some phases of
life Peter hadn’t fathomed; for one, the an-
tagonism within the sexes, – within the
sex, rather; for it was the attitudes often
adopted toward one another by the most
amiable and delightful of women that per-
plexed his understanding.
Now, with real provocation on her side, what
would be Betty’s attitude toward this rival
beauty?


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 227
His solicitude was wasted. Either he under-
estimated the generosity of Betty, or Lydia’s
ingenuousness disarmed. Constraint was ab-
sent from their meeting: they went at once to
each other’s arms.
“It’s so good to find you here, Betty. Oh,
good evening, Mr. Quoin — Mr. Traft, good
evening. The best part is, I thought you were
stopping here, and was in despair when I
found you weren’t.”
“It’s dear of you; but — ”
“I was so anxious to give you — this!”
As she spoke the puzzle box left Lydia’s keep-
ing finally and for all time.
Betty Merrilees uttered a low cry.
“This?” she questioned in a strange voice.
“What?”
“Must I say?” Lydia laughed. “I don’t
believe you really want me to — ”
“Not my necklace!” the woman gasped.
“There! I didn’t tell — did I, Mrs. Beg-
garstaff?”
“No, dear child; but we knew all the time.”


228 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Incontinently Lydia was overwhelmed by a
very unexpected, uncalled-for, motherly, and
protracted embrace; which, while it didn’t lack
affection, served as well the most diplomatic
purpose of preventing the girl from noticing
Betty’s half-hysterical attempts to open the
puzzle box and that the Dowager Dragon was
making significant faces at Quoin over her
shoulder.
“Permit me, Betty,” Quoin suggested. “I
think I know the trick — ”
In another breath the box was open, the
necklace in its owner’s hands.
“Merely my foolish delight to see you again
so soon, my dear.” A hand patted affection-
ately one of Lydia’s flushed cheeks as, released,
breathless, and wondering, she stepped back to
readjust her hat.
“You’re awfully good to me, Mrs. Beggar-
staff. But I can’t stop a minute. I’ve another
errand to run for Father — he's very busy
tonight — ”
“Another errand!” Betty Merrilees par-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 229
roted out of a mind perhaps pardonably con-
fused.
“Yes — I sha’n’t be long. Father asked me
to bring that to you; but promised to call for
me within an hour. So I was to attend to the
other errand first, and wait here with you for
him. But my taxicab broke down and —”
“Craven coming here?” Betty interrupted
incredulously, but checked suddenly at a look
from Quoin.
“As soon as he can get away,” Lydia af-
firmed. “I mean, of course, wherever you’re
really stopping — ”
‘‘The Plaza.”
“That’s just across the way, isn’t it? It’s
odd of him to make such a mistake. He said
the Margrave distinctly. But I’ll ask for you
at the Plaza in half an hour, if you don’t
mind.”
“Mind! On the contrary,” Mrs. Merrilees
said pleasantly, “I’ll be delighted. Tad, too.
That will be fun — rather! We’ll have supper
together — all of us.”


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 231
head. “Why didn’t I think?” Seizing hat
and coat, he threw open the door even as the
elevator gate clanged.
The car had dropped from sight before he
reached the shaft. Planting a thumb on the
push button, he educed only a thin, persistent
grumble from the annunciator bell, steadily
diminishing in volume as the car continued
wilfully to descend.
Infuriated, the young man committed the
soul of the elevator attendant to the nether-
most depths of damnation and, turning to the
stairway, plunged down the six flights in break-.
neck haste, three steps at a time.
Across the lobby he sped as one hounded by
furies and gained the carriage entrance barely
in time to see a taxicab pulling away from the
curb.
Peter gave chase, affording midnight way-
farers the diverting spectacle of a beautifully
arrayed young man — coat tails flat to the
wind and rain, top coat streaming wildly from
one arm, the other brandishing the dernier cri


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 233
“Me!” he declared settling into the place
by her side; then thrust his head out of the
door and panted, “It’s all right, driver. Cut
along — and don’t go too fast – slippery pave-
ments — ”
“But, Mr. Traft — ” Lydia expostulated.
Peter shut the door with a bang, and the
car, with an unobstructed way, picked up wary
heels and stole on up Fifth Avenue.
“You darling!” he declared with emotion.
“Wait – till I get my — breath. Man’s got
— no business courting — when he ain’t in
training.”
Lydia laughed aloud. Impossible to resent
the extravagances of this irrepressible boy!
“I’m in no hurry,” she countered, a hint of
malice making piquant her demureness.
“I got you!” said. Peter, breathing heavily.
Suddenly Lydia realized that Peter was
the cheerfullest soul she had ever known.
She’d be sorry to lose him, with his high spirits
and honest, outspoken friendliness.
But she was bound to lose him; and not him


236 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Nothing doing!” declared Peter firmly.
“Dissimulation isn’t your long suit. I
know !” He nodded with immense gravity.
“You’re fretting about that cussed necklace.”
He drew a long breath and lied magnificently.
“You see, we were talking it over when you
came in: Quoin calling Betty down for making
Craven try to smuggle, and Betty fighting back
like a good one – the whole story coming out.
I don’t care if Tad is your father, he hadn’t
any right to put a raw deal like that over on
you. Now,” Peter wound up , defensively,
“turn loose the heavy artillery! I’ve spoken
my mind when it was none of my business, and
it’s up to me to take the count without a whim-
per.”
Lydia was silent, her face averted. “No,”
she said presently, “I’m not angry with you.
Why should I be? I myself don’t think it was
right. It — it’s pleasant to know somebody
sympathizes, when everybody else seems to
think it nothing at all.”
“Not my way of looking at it,” Peter in-


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 237
sisted. “Listen to me now! Why not marry
me and chuck the whole game, — Betty, Tad,
Quoin, the whole outfit? Think how good it
would be to know you don’t have to care what
they think! Just say ‘Peter, you’re on!’ and
we’re off – winter in Egypt – everything like
that. You see? Not a bit of use fretting about
people when life makes itself so easy.”
“Please don’t, Peter. It makes you seem
— unsympathetic, after all.”
“Don’t you believe it. I’m so full of sym-
pathy for you that it hurts me. Please won’t
you marry me?” -
“I can’t listen to you if you will go on this
way!” she cried, half distracted. “I’m not
thinking of marrying anybody.”
“I know. It’s just as good a line as it ever
was, and you read it to perfection. But it
loses force with repetition, my dear. Don’t
forget that this is another scene — several
chapters farther on — and no other fellow has
turned up to make it difficult for you to decide.
I know, 'cause I’ve been watching.”


238 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Please be — kind – if you can’t be seri-
OuS.’’
“But I am serious.”
“Ah, but you promised me you never were
and never would be!” She tried to laugh;
but not very successfully.
“That just goes to show how little I knew
myself. The diagram is, of course, I never
wanted to be serious before I fell in love with
you. Don’t you understand that, really? I
love you, Lydia!”
The girl sighed and looked away, troubled,
a strange, sweet fluttering in her bosom. And
Peter was searching her shadowed face with
eyes she dared not meet lest they surprise her
agitation and wrest a victory from it. Her
lips grew tremulous, her eyes dim.
“I love you,” he repeated gently. “Oh,
believe me, heart of my heart!” His hand
closed firmly over her own.
“But,” she protested in a voice scarcely
more than a whisper, he had to bend very near
to hear, “but, Peter — ”


242 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Oh, all right.”
Peter backed out and offered his hand. He
closed strong fingers round hers.
“No, you don’t — not till you keep your
Word ' '’
“Then — listen, Peter!” her voice was
low, but clear and very sweet. “It doesn’t
make an ounce of difference to me about —
those others so long as it’s only me you love
now and always will!”
With this Lydia ran up the steps, leaving
Peter dazed with the memory of her face at
parting.
And indeed the wits of the young man were
reeling, drunken with the fragrance of his
beloved. It was some moments before he be-
gan to recover. Interim, he stood bareheaded
in the drizzle, blinking fatuously at an electric -
arc on the corner of Park Avenue. Then sud-
denly he remembered what misgivings had
sent him headlong from the Margrave to over-
haul this taxi of Ten Thousand Elysian De-
lights. But when he did remember it was too


244 SHEEP'S CLOTHING
inferences, Peter climbed back into the cab,
and for five minutes hugged himself in private
ecstasy.
Everything was for all the best in the best
of all possible worlds. He needed only to
crowd things a bit, rush the wedding through
before Lydia realized that people were onto
Craven, keep her if possible ignorant forever
of old Tad’s disgrace — That could be fixed,
no doubt. Fortunately Betty wasn’t vindic-
tive. Quoin’s commission from her had been
merely to scare Craven silly and run him out
of town. And that, of course, would keep
things dark; for Craven would never dare
return.
Of course, if he ever found out his daughter
didn’t know, and her husband didn’t want her
to know, he would likely try on a little black-
mailing, just to keep body and soul together.
But Peter wouldn’t mind that — not in mod-
eration. Anyway, he’d always liked old Tad;
and to think of him in want, who had been so
refulgent a figure in the life of town, would


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 245
be keen discomfort for his prospective son-in-
law. Peter dared say old Tad could do with
a tidy bit of blackmail — something adequate
and regular. And he, for one, would never
begrudge it.
But when five minutes had elapsed Peter
began to fidget. That’s a long time to wait
for a girl you’re crazy about, who has just
owned up she’s crazy about you!
He consulted his watch: ten minutes past
eleven. Lydia had come to the Margrave
about a quarter of: they couldn’t well have
been more than a quarter of an hour coming
up town. Peter became convinced that he had
waited ten minutes, not five.
Things began to look dubious. He hopped
out and up the steps of 98.
The outer door was fastened; but a steady
pressure on the push button brought a shadow
to skulk suspiciously behind lace-screened in-
ner doors. One edge of the curtains was
pulled aside a trifle, he was inspected nar-
rowly, and then the shadow materialized into


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 247
“Thanks,” said Peter, graciously accepting
the proffered envelope.
It wasn’t sealed. Unceremoniously he lifted
the flap and withdrew the inclosure, a square,
white, heavy correspondence card with the ad-
dress stamped in black letters. Below a stub
pen had been used with disastrous effect:
“DEAR MR. TRAFT – Please don’t wait for
me. I can’t tell how long I may be detained.
“Sincerely,
“LYDIA CRAVEN.”
Dear Mr. Traft, nonplussed, accepted dis-
missal with what grace he could muster. “Oh
—ah — thanks,” he said blankly. “Awf’ly
good of you — ”
“Good evening, Mr. Traft.”
“Good evening.”
The door closed. Peter grunted disgust
and went slowly down the steps.
It certainly looked all right: no question
about that woman being straight goods. Of
course Lydia might have been decent enough


250 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
The chauffeur didn’t even signify he had
heard, so positive became his immobility at
sound of those magic syllables, “Five dol-
lars.”
Hastily Peter dragged his overcoat across
the bosom of his shirt and crowded himself
into the corner nearest the curb.
Bearing out his premonition, Craven
stopped to speak to the chauffeur — and the
eavesdropper cursed bitterly to hear no more
than the confused grumble of their voices.
Then without the least warning the car shot
away at a round pace westward.
Simmering with profanity, Peter seized the
speaking tube to bellow a demand for incon-
tinent halt; but on second thought permitted
the car to round into Madison Avenue before
he gave the order.
Again at pause, this time halfway down the
avenue block, the cab ejected an infuriated
fare.
“What the blank did you do that for?”
“Why in blank shouldn't I?” the chauffeur


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 251
demanded as hotly. “You told me not to let
on, didn’t you? Here — come through with
that five | **
Choking, Peter found his money, disbursed.
“How did it happen?”
“Why the old gink says, did I bring a
young lady and was I waitin’ for her, and I
says yes, an” he slips me three bones — the
clock says two-forty — and says to clear out,
I won’t be needed. And what did you want
me to do about that, seein’ you didn’t want
him to know you was inside?”
“Oh, all right,” said Peter wearily. “You
did precisely the right thing. Only — I didn’t
quite understand.” He eyed perplexedly the
colored lights of a drugstore across the
Way.
“Well, what’s the good word now, boss? If
you’re done with me, I’m on my way.”
“No,” Peter insisted, “I’m keeping you.
Run around the block and wait just out of
sight on Park Avenue. I’ll walk back.”
Buttoning top coat to chin and sacrificing


252 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
his Bond Street topper to the elements, Peter
trudged back to 76th Street, then eastward
past number 98, regarding the house aggres-
sively.
It looked down on him now, he thought de-
fiantly, with a touch of contemptuous pity for
his impotence to read the riddle of its staid,
uncommunicative walls.
Embittered, he walked on to Park Avenue,
and found his chartered car at the appointed
place. Pausing beside it, and ignoring the
chauffeur’s well meant advances (stimulated
by the romantic notion that this swell young
guy was tryin’ to beat it with the old duffer’s
daughter, and had stubbed his toe in the get-
away), Peter painfully excogitated the inevi-
table conclusion that the only thing he could
do was wait and watch. He comforted himself
a little with the cold assurance that Craven
was now with his daughter. Whatever old
Tad’s shortcomings, Peter couldn’t believe he
would suffer a hair of Lydia's innocent head
to be harmed. Only —


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 253
What the deuce was keeping the two of them
there so long? -
Then abruptly a second taxicab swung round
one of Park Avenue's scrubby little ovals of
grass and shrubbery, slid into 76th Street,
checked briefly in front of 98, discharged two
passengers, and slipped away toward Madison
Avenue. Peter recognized something familiar
in the association of a long and slender figure
with one short and stoutish, as the two dodged
hastily into the basement area of number 98
and disappeared.
“Musical comedy rogues,” mused the per-
turbed young man: “the tall thin scoundrel
and the short fat sharper; Messrs. Southpaw
Smith and Gordon, of course. What in thun-
der – Confound it! she must be all right!
Craven would never let anything happen to
her.”
He began to fume impotently. No good try-
ing the front door again.
Then he thought of consulting Quoin by tel-
ephone, and had started back through 76th


254 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Street toward the corner drugstore, when a
taxicab shot round from the avenue, passed at
a smart clip, and immediately slid to as smart
a stop, while the door swung open and a man,
jumping out, hailed sharply:
‘‘Peter | ?”
“Quoin — thank God! How in the name of
wonder — ”
“Found Craven had left the Great Eastern,
taxied back to the Margrave, got the address
Miss Craven gave from the carriage porter.
Luckily you made such a sensation bolting
after her taxi that it had fixed the number in
the fellow’s memory. Now what’s up?”
Briefly Peter detailed the inconclusive and
unsatisfactory circumstances of his vigil.
“In through the basement, you say?”
Quoin pondered this darkly. “Looks like a
move to trick somebody – Craven, at a guess.
Come along.”
Grasping Peter’s arm, the detective trotted
him rapidly back toward number 98.
“What are you going to do?”


SHEEP's CLOTHING 259
“Yes,’’ said Lydia; and opening her wrist
bag produced Craven’s note.
“No – please don’t rise,” interrupted Mrs.
Ellsworthy, crossing to her. “Mr. Craven
mentioned this over the wire. Pardon — ”
Taking a chair beside the reading lamp, she
opened and scanned the message with careless
interest. A nod confirmed evident foreknowl-
edge of its contents. Folding the note ab-
stractedly, Mrs. Ellsworthy seemed for some
moments preoccupied.
But Peter Traft had claims not long to be
disregarded, and presently Lydia stirred rest-
lessly, with an inquiring look ready for the
eyes that her hostess then lifted from the
carpet.
“You’ve met this — ah — Mrs. Merrilees,
no doubt?” Mrs. Ellsworthy queried unex-
pectedly. “Is she then such a beauty as they
say?”
“She’s very beautiful,” Lydia returned,
“ and I’m very fond of her. But, if you don’t
mind, Mrs. Ellsworthy, I have another ap-


260 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
pointment; in fact, with Mrs. Merrilees and
my father — ”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear.” Mrs.
Ellsworthy assumed a convincing look of con-
trition. “So thoughtless of me. I quite for-
got to tell you: Mr. Craven wants you to wait
for him here, rather than keep the appoint-
ment at the Margrave.”
The Margrave again!
“The Plaza,” Lydia corrected absently;
then in a breath remembered. “I’m sorry,”
she said, rising, “but I can’t wait. If Daddy’s
coming here, he’ll get the answer from you
personally; so there’s no need,” here Mrs.
Ellsworthy rose in her turn. “And — I left
a friend waiting in the taxi.”
** A friend?” -
It was none of Mrs. Ellsworthy’s affair, but
quite automatically Lydia answered, “Mr.
Traft.” -
“But really hadn’t you better wait? I’m
sure Mr. Craven won’t be long now.”
Mrs. Ellsworthy was moving slowly toward


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 263
sashes of the two windows were guarded with
locks requiring a key; through the panes
closed steel blinds with hasps and padlocks
were to be seen. There was not a bell button
on the walls; and the telephone on the desk
yielded no response to the girl’s manipulation
of the receiver hook — evidently an extension
cut off from the main line.
At length Lydia yielded to the inevitable,
sat down, composed herself to the best of her
ability, and strove to fit some reasonable ex-
planation to this atrocious and high-handed
act. There was but three:
She was the victim of a nightmare.
Mrs. Ellsworthy was insane.
Or else Craven had never meant her to re-
store the necklace to Mrs. Merrilees!
Bending forward, an elbow digging into her
knee, her chin clipped between knuckles and
palm, her mouth mutinous, her eyes smolder-
ing, a hot spot in each cheek, motionless, Lydia
brooded.


CHAPTER XXIV
A KEY grated almost inaudibly in the
lock. Lydia started; but before she
could move the door swung open far enough
to admit Craven, and was at once slammed
behind him.
A pace or two from the wall the man pulled
up and stared at his daughter, his face dark
with temper.
Slowly Lydia rose and confronted him, hard
eyes challenging his relentlessly.
“What’s this,” he demanded abruptly in
an ugly voice, “what’s this I hear about your
bringing Peter Traft here in a taxi?”
“What does this mean,” the girl retorted,
“that you send me here to be locked up, as
though I were a thief to be held for the
police?”
He ignored, if he was sensible to, the


SHEEP'S CLOTHING 265
stressed pronoun. “I want an answer to my
question,” he said threateningly.
“I demand an answer to mine,” she re-
turned, unyielding.
With an impatient gesture Craven advanced
as if meaning to seize her and enforce obedi-
ence. But halfway he paused, let his hand
fall, with obvious effort relaxed; mustered a
flickering and uncertain smile, meant to be
ingratiating; moderated his tone. “Oh,
come now !” he said in strained indulgence.
“We can’t go on forever quarreling, you and
I, Liddy.”
“I agree,” she replied coolly. “Any ex-
planation you can make — ”
“It’s all a mistake. Mrs. Ellsworthy, a
most zealous woman in — ah — our service,
misinterpreted my message, believed it imper-
ative you should be detained, and when you
showed temper committed an unpardonable
error. I’ll see she apologizes; meantime I,
your father, express my sincere regret.”
Briefly Lydia analyzed words and tone, and


268 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
where you didn’t mean to meet me after I’d
called here — and by downright good luck
found her with Mrs. Beggarstaff. So I gave
her the necklace, and came on here — Mr.
Traft escorting me, though not at my re-
quest.”
“Good God!” said Craven again, his ac-
cents quavering. “Do you know what you’re
saying, Liddy?”
“I’m afraid — I know too well.”
With an inarticulate groan Craven sank into
a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“You’ve ruined me!”
“I’ve saved you, you mean.”
“You don’t understand. What – ?” He
looked up eagerly. “What did they say when
you — when you gave back the necklace?”
“They were kind enough to say nothing, to
pretend Mrs. Merrilees had instigated the
smuggling swindle that you invented — to
blind me. Even Mrs. Merrilees pretended, in
the goodness of her heart. And I was de-
ceived until — this Mrs. Ellsworthy locked me


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 269
in, and so gave me a chance to think from a
true point of departure. Then I understood.
I thought it all out — realized that you had
stolen the necklace — that you were an asso-
ciate of criminals — that I was the daughter
of a common thief!”
Groaning, Craven covered his face again.
“Now,” said the girl, “let me go. I don’t
know what action they mean to take against
you, but, as for me, I ask nothing better than
to be permitted to go and forget you.”
“You mean you won’t appear against me?”
he asked.
“Not if I can manage to lose myself —
another name, perhaps — ”
“It won’t be necessary,” Craven inter-
rupted in a voice of chill despair. He rose,
stood staring at her with eyes deep sunken in
sockets that had been suddenly hollowed out
by despair. “I’m done for !”
A certain simplicity in that declaration con-
vinced and struck fear into a heart that had
been impregnable to all other appeals.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 271
short, and to keep up appearances until after
the marriage made up my mind to turn one last
trick, – the necklace, — and then,” he laughed
bitterly, “virtue! But they were on the same
job. And then you turned up. Otherwise I
could have come through with the loot and
saved myself. Now — ”
He paused an instant, profoundly specula-
tive. “I may have a chance yet for a get-
away. They don’t know where I am; though
they may suspect. If only I can get an hour’s
lead out of town — ”
The sound of sobbing disturbed him. What
lies had conjured up — fear, disgust, contempt
— the truth had exorcised: the rags and tat-
ters of her childhood’s love for him alone re-
mained. Spent, broken in heart and spirit,
humbled and torn with the horror his confes-
sion inspired, Lydia sat huddled in misery,
racked with tearing sobs.
Craven moved to her side, touched her hair
with hesitant fingers. “Well, well!” he said
huskily. “We were fond of each other,


276 SHEEP’S CLOTHING
property, — I have no idea what, — and that
I was to find some pretext to detain her until
he followed. She got here about eleven in a
taxicab with this gentleman. When she heard
Mr. Craven was coming she refused to wait,
and I had to lock her in the room to keep her.
Mr. Traft — I’m sorry — I put off with a note
ostensibly from her. When Mr. Craven came
he went directly to the girl. While he was
upstairs two men of my acquaintance came to
the basement door, and I let them in.”
“Southpaw Smith and Colonel Gordon?”
“Yes. Mr. Craven had — business rela-
tions with them, I believe. They forced their
way upstairs, declaring they must see him.
When he came down they were waiting for him
in here — in shadow. Smith stepped out and
said something to him in a low tone — I didn’t
hear. Mr. Craven shook his head and made
an inaudible reply. Smith lost his temper at
that, and said aloud, ‘You lie! Permit me to
present you with this token of our esteem.’”
“And that was — ” Quoin prompted.


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 277
“This,” said the woman, pointing down to
Craven’s clenched right hand.
With an exclamation of surprise Quoin bent
over and, after some difficulty with the stiffen-
ing fingers, stood up, exhibiting a Knave of
Spades.
** And then?”
“Nothing. They went away, Smith and
Gordon, by the basement.”
“There was a quarrel — blows were
Struck?”
“No. Mr. Craven said something to this
effect, “If that is your decision, very well—
so be it!” Smith merely laughed unpleasantly,
called Gordon, and turned down the basement
stairs. Afterward I heard the gate slam as
they left.” -
“And Craven — ”
“He stood looking at the card, swaying and
mumbling to himself. I wondered if he had
been drinking. Then I noticed he was holding
one hand to his side, as though his heart was
paining him. I was alarmed, and asked if I


SHEEP’S CLOTHING 279
dead man, sighed, “Well–poor devil!”
then, unfolding a handkerchief, placed it
gently over the livid and distorted mask.
“Better not move him till the doctor comes;
though I fancy we can save you the trouble
of an inquest, Mrs. Ellsworthy. And we’ll do
our best to keep it out of the papers. We’d
better draw the portières while Peter gets Miss
Craven out of the house. Yes, that 's your job,
Peter; but better not tell her anything until
you get her away. Take her to Mrs. Beggar-
staff—don't you think?” *-
“Yes,” agreed Peter, “for a few days or
weeks — as long as she needs to get over it.”
“And then?” asked Quoin curiously.
“Why,” said Peter in surprise, “didn’t
you know we were going to be marria: 3 *
TELE END


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