I Could hold out no longer. I had preserved my secret jealously for two entire days, and my greater secret had been seething in my brain, and all that, for a day. Jack had given me his entire confidence. Why shouldn't I give him mine? I longed to tell him all. I had told him of my adventure, and why should I not tell of its happy termination? Jack, too, was fairly and thoroughly in the dumps, and it would be a positive boon to him if I could lead his thoughts away from his own sorrows to my very peculiar adventures.
"Jack," said I, at last, "I've something to tell you."
"Go ahead," cried Jack, from the further end of his pipe.
"It's about the Lady of the Ice," said I.
"Is it?" said Jack, dolefully
"Yes; would you like to hear about it?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Jack, in the same tone.
Whereupon I began with the evening of the concert, and told him all about the old man, and my rush to the rescue. I gave a very animated description of the scene, but, finding that Jack did not evince any particular interest, I cut it all short.
"Well," said I, "I won't bore you. I'll merely state the leading facts.
I got the old fellow out. He took my arm, and insisted on my going home with him. I went home, and found there the Lady of the Ice."
"Odd, too," said Jack, languidly, puffing out a long stream of smoke; "don't see how you recognized her--thought you didn't remember and all that. So you've found her at last, have you? Well, my dear fellow, 'low me to congratulate you. Deuced queer, too. By-the-way, what did you say her name was?"
"I didn't mention her name," said I.
"Ah, I see; a secret?"
"Oh, no. I didn't suppose you'd care about knowing."
"Bosh! Course I'd care. What was it, old boy? Tell a fellow. I'll keep dark--you know me."
"Her name," said I, "is Miss O'Halloran."
No sooner had I uttered that name, than an instantaneous and most astonishing change came over the whole face, the whole air, the whole manner, the whole expression, the whole attitude, of Jack Randolph. He sprang up to his feet, as though he had been shot, and the pipe fell from his hands on the floor, where it lay smashed.
"WHAT!!!" he cried, in a loud voice.
"Look here," said I--"what may be the meaning of all that? What's the row now?"
"What name did you say?" he repeated.
"Miss O'Halloran," said I.
"O'Halloran?" said he--"are you sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure. How can I be mistaken?"
"And her father--what sort of man is he?"
"A fine old felloe," said I--"full of fun, well informed, convivial, age about sixty, well preserved, splendid face--"
"Is--is he an Irishman?" asked Jack, with deep emotion.
"Yes."
"Does--does he live in--in Queen Street?" asked Jack, with gasp.
"The very street," said I.
"Number seven hundred and ninety-nine?"
"The very number. But see here, old chap, how the mischief do you happen to know exactly all about that house? It strikes me as being deuced odd."
"And you saved her?" said Jack, without taking any notice of my question.
"Haven't I just told you so? Oh, bother! What's the use of all this fuss?"
"Miss O'Halloran?" said Jack.
"Miss O'Halloran," I repeated. "But will you allow me to ask what in the name of common-sense is the matter with you? Is there a bee in your bonnet, man? What's Miss O'Halloran to you, or you to Miss O'Halloran?
Haven't you got enough women on your conscience already? Do you mean to drag her in? Don't try it my boy--for I'm concerned there."
"Miss O'Halloran!" cried Jack. "Look here, Macrorie--you'd better take care."
"Take care?"
"Yes. Don't you go humbugging about there."
"I don't know what you're up to, dear boy. What's your little joke?"
"There's no joke at all about it," said Jack, harshly. "Do you know who Miss O'Halloran is?"
"Well, I know that she's the daughter of Mr. O'Halloran, and that he's a fine old fellow. Any further information, however, I shall be delighted to receive. You talk as though you know something about her.
What is it? But don't slander. Not a word against her. That won't stand."
"Slander! A word against her!" cried Jack. "Macrorie, you don't know who she is, or what she is to me. Macrorie, this miss O'Halloran is that lady that we have been calling 'Number Three'."
It was now my turn to be confounded. I, too, started to my feet, and not only my pipe, but my tumbler also, fell crashing to the floor.
"The devil she is!" I cried.
"She is--I swear she is--as true as I'm alive."
At this moment I had more need of a good, long, low whistle than ever I had in my life before. But I didn't whistle. Even a whistle was useless here to express the emotions that I felt at Jack's revelation. I stood and stared at him in silence. But I didn't see him. Other visions came before my mind's eye, Horatio, which shut out Jack from my view. I was again in that delightful parlor; again Nora's form was near--her laughing face, her speaking eyes, her expression--now genial and sympathetic, now confused and embarrassed. There was her round, rosy, smiling face, and near it the sombre face of Marion, with her dark, penetrating eyes. And this winning face, this laughter-loving Venus-- this was the one about whom Jack rated as his Number Three. This was the one whom he asked to run off with him. She! _She_ run off, and with him! The idea was simple insanity. She had written him a letter--had she?--and it was a scorcher, according to his own confession. She had found him out, and thrown him over. Was not I far more to her than a fellow like Jack--I who had saved her from a hideous death? There could be no question about that. Was not her bright, beaming smile of farewell still lingering in my memory? And Jack had the audacity to think of her yet!
"Number Three," said I--"well, that's odd. At any rate, there's one of your troubles cut off."
"Cutoff?"
"Yes."