“That? That is my niece. The daughter of my sister Angelica here.”
“Is she your mother?” demanded Mr. Mayfair of Mary.
“Yes, sir,” breathed Mary from her corner.
“Madam, is she your daughter?”
Mrs. De Peyster did not reply.
“Pardon me, my sister is ill, and somewhat deaf,” put in Mr. Pyecroft. “Angelica, dear,” he half shouted, “the gentleman wishes to know if this is your daughter.”
“Yes,” from Mrs. De Peyster in smothered voice.
“Well, I know they’re here,” doggedly insisted Mr. Mayfair, “and I’m going to see them! I have witnesses who saw them enter.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Pyecroft looked surprised and puzzled. “The witnesses can swear to seeing young Mr. De Peyster come in?”
“They can swear to seeing a young man and woman come in. And I know they were Mr. De Peyster and his wife.”
“That’s strange.” Suddenly Mr. Pyecroft’s face cleared. “I think I begin to understand! It was at night, wasn’t it, when the witnesses saw them come in?”
“At night, yes.”
“I’m sorry you have been caused all this trouble, Mr. Mayfair,”—in a tone of very genuine regret. “But there has been a blunder—a perfectly natural one, I now see. Undoubtedly the young couple your witnesses saw were my niece and myself.”
“What!” cried Mr. Mayfair. For a moment the undeflectable star reporter was all chagrin. Then he was all suspicion. “But why,” he snapped out, “should you and your niece slip in at night? And why should you live here in hiding?”
“You force me into a disagreeable and humiliating admission. The fact is, our family is in severe financial straits. We simply had no money to live on, and no prospects in sight. To help us out temporarily, my sister Matilda invited us to stay here while Mrs. De Peyster is in Europe. But for Mrs. De Peyster to know of our being here might cost my sister Matilda her position, which accounts for our attempt to get in unseen and to live here secretly. We had to protect Matilda against the facts leaking out.”
Mr. Mayfair stared searchingly at Mr. Pyecroft’s face. It was confused, as was quite natural after the confession of a not very honorable, and certainly not very dignified, procedure. But it was candor itself.
“Hell!” he burst out irefully. “Some one has certainly given me a bum steer. But I’ll get that young couple yet, you see!”
“I’m sorry about the story,” said Mr. Pyecroft. And then with a slight smile, apologetic, as of one who knows he is taking liberties: “Perhaps, as compensation for the story you missed, you could write a society story about Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper entertaining for the summer her brother, sister, and niece.”
Mr. Mayfair grinned, ever so little. “You’ve got some sense of humor, old top,” he approved dryly.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Pyecroft, with a gratified air.