"Now, how can I get that key?" thought Bessie. "If I only had a long stick! I 'll try to reach it with a chair."

But she could not come within a yard of it even with this help.

"I wish I knew how to swear," she murmured. "I really believe I would.

Perhaps I can pick the lock with a hairpin. I have heard of prisoners escaping in that way. Prisoner. _Tom's prisoner_."

She smiled involuntarily, and then, realizing what she was doing, gave herself a shake of disapproval.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Bessie d.y.k.e," thought she. "After the way that man has treated you, you should hate him. I will hate him, the horrid thing."

Leaning over, she strove to unlock the drawer with the hairpin but scored a decisive failure, and in consequence again waxed wrathful. The next bright idea that suggested itself to her mind was that she might possibly drag the desk across the floor to where the key lay exasperatingly plain in view, but she found her young strength far too little to even budge the c.u.mbersome old piece of furniture. Then another plan came to her and she gave a little gurgling laugh, half delight, half fear, and began to consider it in detail.

"If I dared, oh, if I dared," she whispered. "I wonder if I can risk it? It would n't take a minute. _I will do it, so there_."

As she spoke, she fumbled with the fastening of her dress. The next moment it fell from around her waist, and stepping out of the circular heap of millinery surrounding her which it made upon the floor, she was free to go where she pleased.

Flushed with success, and yet frightened beyond measure lest she should be caught by some stray guest in her present incomplete costume, the girl danced laughingly across the floor, keeping out of line with the door for fear some one might enter the next room, and, reaching the key, pounced on it in triumph.

"Now we will see," she laughed. "Oh, you think you are very clever, Mr.

Thomas Moore, but I fancy there are one or two others just as sharp as you are."

Hastening back to the desk, she inserted her prize in the lock and endeavored to turn it, but did not succeed in doing so, for it did not fit at all well. She tried again and again, but no better success rewarded her efforts, and slowly it dawned upon her that this was not the required key. She had again fallen victim to the cunning of the young Irishman.

"It is n't the one," she cried. "It is much too big. Oh, he did it on purpose. What _shall_ I do?"

It was quite evident that she could not long remain in such abbreviated attire without being detected by some one.

A vigorous pull at the skirt now limply pendant from the prisoning drawer proved that it was just as impossible to release it when vacated by its owner as when it adorned her person. In fact, Bessie's brilliant idea had availed her not in the least, and, realizing this, she was about to step into the skirt with a view to a.s.suming her shackling finery, when the sound of her tormentor's voice, singing softly to himself as he approached, gave her warning of his coming.

With a little gasp of alarm Bessie fled to the cover of the portieres which separated the window recess from the room and sheltered by their clinging folds waited for developments.

_Chapter Seventeen_

_HONORS ARE EASY_

The poet strode gayly into the room, quite at peace with the world and decidedly pleased with one Thomas Moore, in both these particulars holding opinions widely differing from the views cherished by the young lady concealed behind the curtains.

"What?" remarked Moore. "Is she gone? Dear me, how unkind of her to go without saying good-bye."

Then, apparently observing the skirt for the first time, he continued:

"Ah, she has left this behind for me as a souvenir of the occasion. How considerate of her."

Stooping, he unlocked the drawer and drew forth the imprisoned millinery. Then flinging it carelessly over his arm, he started toward the door, apparently intending to return to the crowded rooms which he had just quitted.

From behind the curtains Bessie regarded his actions with an exasperation and helplessness which were about equally possessed of her mind. What should she do? If she betrayed her presence she would be more than ever at his mercy, yet it was clearly impossible to allow him to carry off her skirt, as he seemed to purpose doing. Abandoning all pride, she gave a squeak of alarm as Moore reached the door.

"Did I hear some one address me?" he demanded, turning on the threshold.

"Sir," said Bessie, desperately from the window, her brown head visible between the curtains.

"Oh, you are there, are you?" said Moore, apparently greatly astonished.

"Bring me that--_That_," she said, blushing a little as she spoke.

"That what?" he asked.

She pointed angrily at the skirt adorning his arm.

"That," she repeated more loudly.

"This?" said he, obtusely, holding up his prize.

"Yes. Give it to me immediately."

"But," objected Moore, "I don't know that you have any right to it. Can you prove it to be your property?"

"I can," replied Bessie with emphasis, "but I won't."

"I am sorry, Mistress d.y.k.e, but under the circ.u.mstances I really must refuse."

"But it is mine, Mr. Moore."

"But I have no proof that it is n't somebody else's. Perhaps it belongs to Mr. Sheridan."

"What nonsense."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Richard Brinsley is said to be fond of the petticoats. Perhaps this is one he carries around with him. I 'll go ask the old boy."

"Don't you dare," she cried.

"Well, can you identify this as your property?" insisted the poet, not loth to prolong her discomfiture.

"Certainly, sir," she replied. "You will find a handkerchief in the pocket with my initials st.i.tched in the corner with white silk."

"All right, my dear," said Moore, looking for the pocket and not finding it immediately. "Where is the infernal--Oh, I have it!"

And inserting his hand in the elusive object of his quest he drew forth a powder puff.

"Oh," said Bessie, and vanished behind the curtains, while Moore viewed his recent find with delighted curiosity.

"What's this, Bessie?"

No answer rewarded his inquiry.