Mickleworth."
"Let us begin in the butler's pantry," suggested Cousin Laura Fanshaw, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
The Christmas party sought high and low; they penetrated to the upper floors, and not until Selma had sung "In the Gloaming" before every closet door did they give up the quest.
"It's most mysterious," asserted the host.
"It's worse," his wife corrected him; "it's most ill-bred."
"Oh, we must look again," cried Selma, now in real distress; "he may be lying somewhere faint and ill."
"Nonsense!" rejoined Mrs. Pease. "Leave him alone, and, my word for it, he will make his appearance in a little while looking silly enough.
Lemuel, a glass of water, if you please."
While the good lady sank exhausted to a chair, her devoted son-in-law hastened to the dining-room to supply her want.
"The ice-pitcher is not there," he said, returning. "I'll ring."
"But the pitcher must be in its usual place on the sideboard with the other silver," his wife protested.
"But all the same, it isn't," he insisted. "There is nothing on the sideboard; not a thing. Come see for yourself."
This gave occasion for the playful aphorism concerning the inability of man to see beyond his nose, but presently a scream from Mrs. Livermore confirmed her husband's statement.
"My pitcher!" she cried piteously. "My silver dishes! My epergne! Where have they gone? Where is Auguste?"
"Auguste," said Mary Anne, who, scenting an excitement, now ran up the kitchen stairs, "has also gone. He drove off with the sofa in the van."
"With the sofa?"
"Yes, ma'am; sitting on it."
"Robbed!" cried Mr. Livermore, with a lightning flash of keen conviction, and the entire company repeated in a hollow chorus:
"Robbed!"
But Mr. Livermore's lightning, after the manner of such fluids, was not satisfied to score a single bull's-eye.
"It was a deep conspiracy," he went on, becoming clairvoyant, "and ten to one that Mickleworth young man was in the plot."
"You shall not say such horrid things of him, papa," cried Selma.
"A thief!" persisted Mr. Livermore, disregarding her. "A villain in disguise! I don't believe that this impostor was ever Cousin Dick's old chum."
"Oh, papa," Selma interrupted, trembling; "Dick himself introduced Mr.
Mickleworth to me at Southampton last summer. I did not tell you about it till you could know him and see how nice he is."
"Nice?" gasped her mother. "Nice?"
"Yes, mamma," Selma cried, sobbing, but still undaunted; "awfully nice, and he can write the most respectful little notes."
"Notes?" screamed her mother. "Selma, you stand there and tell me you have corresponded with a burglar? Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!"
Miss McCunn, much disturbed, had retired to the smoking-room, where Mr.
Bertram Pease did all he could to comfort her. Doctor Van Cott on the stairs had put an impartial arm about each of the Misses Mapes. Cousin Laura Fanshaw, behind a screen, wept copiously on Mr. Sellars's left lapel.
"In my young days," said Mrs. Pease, "we kept a closer watch on both our children and our silverware."
"Mother," cried Mrs. Livermore, "don't make things worse by being aggravating. Poor Selma is suffering enough."
"I am not suffering at all," protested Selma stoutly. "My faith in George remains unshaken."
"George!" ejaculated her mother. "Lemuel, do you hear?"
"I do," replied Mr. Livermore, "and I'll attend to George's case just as soon as I can get Mulberry Street on the telephone."
"Stop!" cried his wife; "we must avoid a scandal."
The doorbell, which had taken such an active part in this eventful evening, now rang again. A silence followed, while the form of Bates was seen to pass through the hall. Then, almost with his accustomed dignity, though somewhat pale and wet about the head, he reappeared.
"Mr. Mickleworth!" he announced.
"I knew it!" Selma cried, with jubilation.
And Mr. Mickleworth it was, in truth, though much disheveled as to dress. A streak of mud lay on his rumpled shirtfront, and his evening coat suggested active combat. From each shoulder hung a nosebag, such as teamsters use for feeding horses in the street, and each bag bulged with priceless silver heirlooms. Behind him came a stalwart minion of the law, bearing the family ice-pitcher on a massive salver.
"Ah, ha!" cried Mr. Livermore complacently. "So, ho! 'Caught with the goods on,' as you say officially. You have done well, officer, and this night's work shall not go unrewarded."
"It wasn't me," the policeman protested ungrammatically; "this here young feller did it all himself."
"That we already know," said Mrs. Livermore.
"Be quiet, my child, until we hear the story," put in Mrs. Pease, who usually objected to her daughter's methods.
And the policeman told his tale.
"This here young chap," he said, with generous fervor, "must be a regular Herculaneum. He burst the lock and stopped the van and knocked two of the robbers out of time. When I came up he had the Frenchman by the throat, a-rolling of him in the mud. All I had to do was to ring for the patrol, and help him bring the stuff right back to you for recognition."
"Ahem!" said Mr. Livermore. "Ahem! Ahem!"
"Papa," cried Selma, while tears of triumph made her eyes more bright, "aren't you going to shake hands with George?"
And thereupon Mr. Livermore cordially enough did shake hands with George.
"Papa," said Selma, "won't you tell George that his part in this night's work shall not go unrewarded?"
"Oh, tell him that yourself," cried old Mrs. Pease impatiently.
In the drawing-room Mr. Bertram Pease was playing the Wedding March.