"You wished it when I said 'poor fellow.'"

"Oh, but you didn't really mean that."

"I did," persisted Lesley. "I should be disappointed in myself if I thought I could fail to recognise a valet when I saw one. And I hate being disappointed--in anyone."

"It _must_ be disappointing to an author--one who has to be a student of character," a.s.sented Aunt Barbara, soothingly.

"Even when she's forgotten all about that part of herself for awhile, owing to--interruptions."

The dovelike little lady looked hurt. "Oh, my dear, I do beg your pardon!" she cried. "Of course I know, at this time of day--I'm only in the library on sufferance."

"I didn't mean you, Auntie," said Lesley, kissing her.

"Not me? Who, then----"

"But I really ought to write."

"I do hope I haven't taken your inspiration away, dearest."

"No. You've given me one."

"I'm so glad. Well, I'll run away now. I've lots of things to see to.

Forget all about the Marquis of Loveland--I mean the valet. Put him out of your mind."

"Don't worry, Auntie. It's quite easy to put a valet out of a tidy, well-regulated little mind like mine."

"Think of d.i.c.k," said Mrs. Loveland. "He's going to be a splendid fellow."

"d.i.c.k's a paper doll," said Lesley.

Perhaps it was because she was not in a mood to play dolls that, when Aunt Barbara was gone, Lesley did not go back to her sofa and her story writing. She picked up the paper which Mrs. Loveland had left lying on the table, but she did not read. She merely looked at Mr. Milton's photograph. Then she went to the desk where she kept papers, and took a cheque-book from a drawer.

"No, that won't do," she said to herself, after thinking for a minute.

She put the cheque-book back in its place, and opened another drawer, not locked, for neither drawers nor cupboards nor hearts were ever locked in this old-fashioned Kentucky house.

The second drawer was full of greenbacks. Perhaps it was a kind of savings bank for the young author; but, poor or rich, authors are proverbially easy about parting with their earnings, and Southern-born Lesley was no exception to the rule.

She counted out a number of bills--(more than half)--folded them up in a blank sheet of paper, torn off the writing pad, that there might be no address upon it, and pressed the flattened parcel into a large, stout envelope. This she sealed with blue sealing wax, and after a moment or two of puzzled reflection, began to print, in big black letters:

"The Marquis of Loveland Waldorf-Astoria Hotel New York To be sent immediately to present address."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Marquis of Twelfth Street

It was Isidora who found out first what was in her father's mind, because she saw the advertis.e.m.e.nt which Alexander the Great had written for the papers. It lay on the parlour table, in clear black and white for any eye to read, when Isidora came to clear away the litter of odds and ends that Emmie the "hired girl" might lay the dinner things.

"Oh, Pa!" she gasped. "Is _that_ what you're going to do?"

"Of course," said Alexander the Great, staring at her over his spectacles, as he wiped his pen and pushed his chair from the table.

"Tell that gel to hurry up. Don't she know by dis dat I've got just twenty minutes for dinner? I'll have to go before dessert, if she don't get busy."

"You want to change the subject, Pa," said Isidora.

"No, I don't. Why for? 'Tain't your business."

"'Twas me had the idea. He won't stand bein' advertised."

"Pooh!" said Alexander.

"I tell you he won't. He'll quit. He's afraid the police are onto him, anyhow."

"Milton ain't lodged no complaint. n.o.body has, or I'd have kicked de feller out, first thing, when you tol' me who he was. n.o.body ain't goin'

to touch him."

"And n.o.body ain't goin' to keep him, when he sees _that_," added Isidora, pointing to the paragraph written in Alexander the Great's clearest handwriting.

"He needn't see it, unless you blab, silly gel," said her father. "What for should he read newspaper advertis.e.m.e.nts? I guess he got somet'in'

else to do."

"Somebody'll tell him."

"People come here to eat, not talk. Anyhow, dis goes."

And it went.

It went to several papers; and though Alexander the Great paid only for the insertion of small paragraphs in the columns of the journals, he chuckled to himself in antic.i.p.ation of receiving far more valuable advertis.e.m.e.nts, gratis; nor was he wrong. In matters of business within the scope of his capabilities Alexander was seldom wrong. That was why he was great. True it might be that "Lord Loveland of the Waldorf-Astoria" (as Tony Kidd had dubbed him) was a back number, and had been superseded in public esteem by at least two promising murderers, and one lively divorcee; nevertheless, even small crimes were thankfully received by newspaper men and women, as Alexander had reason to know. Did he not owe part of his present success to a dearth of sea-serpents, just about the time when Bill Willing had begun to decorate the walls of the new red restaurant in Twelfth Street?

Alexander had spent a little money then in sprinkling a few paragraphs over dull columns that set forth the advantages of pale pills, or bath chairs. Reporters on the prowl had happened to read, happened to laugh, and eventually happened to pa.s.s through Twelfth Street.

So now Alexander hoped again for something to happen, and did not hope in vain. Journalists were not needing sea-serpents at this season, which was rosy with debutantes, pearly with brides, and sparkling with b.a.l.l.s and dinner parties, as well as lurid with exciting murders. But Tony Kidd's enterprising eye lit on Alexander's inspiration, while it was still as fresh as tomorrow's bread, in the issue of "New York Light"

which was in the making.

He considered Loveland still his own--though Tony had pa.s.sed on to better "scoops" since the night when he had changed his first sketchy impressions of the "Difficult Young Man to Approach" into a "story" far more entertaining. He was greatly amused at the latest development of "l'affaire Loveland," and thought that even a preoccupied public would be amused, too, especially as Alexander's own paragraph was quaintly quotable.

"Lost at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, the Marquis of Loveland. Found, Ditto, at Alexander the Great's in Twelfth Street. If you want to be served by a Lord, dine at Alexander's for 25C, Marquis included. You eat your dinner; Waiter Loveland does the rest."

Tony was very busy just then, having an important errand out of town by the first train in the morning, but he secretly commissioned an understudy to be at Alexander's when the red restaurant should open its doors; to order breakfast, and, while seeming to eat, to sketch the new English waiter. The understudy was not to question Loveland himself, but, if possible, Alexander, and was not to let the waiter see that he was under fire of attention. Notes of Loveland's appearance, as well as a drawing, must be made for Mr. Kidd's benefit, because the sharp young journalist was not going to let himself be "spoofed." It was quite on the cards that some other enterprising person might have taken a fancy to call himself a Marquis, in order to attract customers to Alexander's; and if so, Tony's little story would have to differ slightly from the original design.

When he came back from the country, late in the afternoon, however, Mr.

Kidd at once recognised the cleverly executed sketch. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that the young man who had slammed the door in his face at the Waldorf-Astoria was now "pie slinger" in a cheap downtown restaurant.

Tony questioned his understudy as to what he had found out, and learned that Alexander himself had been privately interviewed. The great man had discouraged the artist-reporter from talking with the "Marquis," who, it seemed, was ignorant that he had begun to figure again in the newspapers. The fellow had been starving, said Alexander, and permitted the use of his name to a limited extent, but "might kick" if he heard of the advertis.e.m.e.nts. Alexander wished him to "kind of get used to things"

before people noticed him much, for he was a queer fish, close-mouthed, inclined to hold onto the ragged edges of dignity in spite of his fall.

The idea was to let it leak out very gradually that "Lord Loveland" was being "worked to draw a crowd"; and thus admonished, Tony Kidd's understudy had let the new waiter alone.