The Haunted Pajamas. Elliott Francis Perry
telling me.
"Yes, sir – said she just scared her maid – oh, batty! Because she looked so ugly in 'em – that's what she thinks, but of course —shucks! Anyhow, she never wore 'em any more, and a day or two later some coolie stole them – sold 'em probably."
Suddenly she yawned, stretched her arms above her head, and flashed me a dazzling smile. By Jove, in the loose-fitting garments she looked for all the world like an Oriental houri, or some jolly lovely thing like that.
"Gee, but I'm sleepy!" she said behind her little hand. "If you'll excuse me, Dicky, I believe it will be off to the springs – the bed springs, for little Frankie. Good night, then. See you in the morning."
And with another radiant smile, she moved toward her room.
"Good night," I said wistfully.
By Jove, somehow I had hoped she would offer to kiss me, now that we were engaged in a way. But then, of course, it wouldn't do – she knew that. So ought I. Perhaps in the morning at the boat!
And the door closed behind her. I stood blinking after her a moment; then I fixed my attention gloomily upon the cellarette. Poor little girl and her foolish – but adorably foolish – college bravado! Sorrowfully I locked the cellarette and dropped the key in my pocket.
Then I locked the outer doors of the hall and apartment, leaving the keys unmolested on the inside. On the whole I decided I would not have up the janitor's gossipy wife.
Next I sought Jenkins at the back.
"We will lock up back here, Jenkins, and go over to my rooms at the club for the night."
Jenkins stared fixedly over my head. "Certainly, sir."
"And Jenkins – h'm!" I crumpled a bill into his mechanical palm. "You will never allude to having seen that sweet – um – you understand, Jenkins? Never seem to remember, even to me, that you ever saw any one up here to-night."
"Certainly not, sir," indignantly. "I wouldn't, anyhow."
Yet his eyes, rolling back from the ceiling, seemed to hold me oddly for an instant. In them was a touch of sadness.
"But may I speak of that Mr. Billings, sir? You know, if he comes – "
"Jenkins!" sharply.
"Certainly, sir!" Jenkins' mouth closed, traplike.
But all in vain my early rise the next morning, my careful toilet and my dash in a taxi to a florist and then to Tiffany's for a ring. At the pier I dodged about in the crowd, the boy trailing behind me with the big purple box, but not a devilish thing could I see of Frances. By Jove, I almost broke my monocle straining! At last I was sure she must be left, for the last passengers were passing over the gang-plank.
"Hello, Dicky!"
The voice, coarse and hearty, came from an athletic young man in a hurrah suit. On his head, perched jauntily above a mass of yellow hair, was a straw hat with a crimson band.
I stared at him through my glass, but it was not any one I knew at all. I looked at him coldly, for there's nothing so devilish annoying as familiarities from strangers. I thought I could freeze him off.
But he only grinned. "Looking for Miss Billings?"
"I – I haven't seen her," I answered stiffly. But his question alarmed me.
He chuckled in my face. "Guess you don't know her in her clothes, eh, Dicky?" And I did not need the punch he gave me in the side to make me stagger backward. "A thousand thanks, and good-by, old chap. I see they're hauling in the plank."
He lingered for one bearlike grab at my hand.
"And say, don't forget – for I know Jack Billings better than you do – don't ever let him know about all that Scotch last night."
He called over his shoulder with a grin: "Keep it dark – as dark as those black pajamas, Dicky!"
And as long as I could see, he stood on the deck, waving his hat at me as I stood there with my mouth open, my eyes following him with horror.
By Jove, who was he, and what did he know?
CHAPTER VIII
HER BROTHER JACK
"Good night, Dicky!" came up the elevator shaft. And then more "good nights," growing fainter with their laughter as the car shot down.
"Good night," I called after them. "Devilish sorry you fellows won't stay longer!"
"Jolly good lie, Jenkins," I said, yawning sleepily, as I dropped back into my own apartment.
"Yes, sir," assented Jenkins demurely. "It's sleeping on the divan the other night, sir. Eight hours there ain't nothing like eight hours in bed and in your pajamas."
"Pajamas!" I ejaculated, startled.
For all day I had been thinking of her. I wondered if Billings would happen to think to invite me up for the week end. But he had so many times, and I had never gone.
"By Jove, that reminds me," I said. "Those red silk pajamas!"
"Yes, sir." Jenkins' face hardened in an odd, wooden way.
"I was wondering, Jenkins, if those pajamas were torn any in our little row the other night."
Poor Jenkins winced a little. "I think not, sir," he muttered humbly – "leastwise, they were all right last night when Mr. – " He seemed to catch himself abruptly. "I mean when I found them this morning, sir."
He returned with the garments I had received from Mastermann, and again we spread them under the lamp on the table. They looked singularly smooth and unwrinkled. There was not a single tear or break, not even with the delicate cords that twisted to form the frogs of the coat.
"My, sir! But ain't they red!" breathed Jenkins. "Them cords look like little red snakes."
I cut an anxious glance at Jenkins, for I did not like his reference to snakes. Seemed ominous, somehow. But his appearance was composed and reassuring. And, by Jove, come to look, the cords did look just like tiny, coiled serpents of glowing fire. Why, they were so jolly red they hurt your eyes. Fact! And thin as the beautiful stuff was, this brighter red ran all over the other, covering every inch of it and forming the closest, finest what-you-call-it embroidery. It was as faint and dainty a pattern as that on a soap bubble! Fact is, I could not trace it, even with my glass.
The only part that wasn't covered with this embroidery business was the stuff used to cover the knots, or little balls, over which the cords were meant to hook. In working with some of these cords, idly fastening and unfastening them, I got a little impatient with one that seemed tight, you know, and I used my manicure knife to pull the knot through.
"Careful, sir," warned Jenkins. "Likely to cut something."
By Jove! No sooner said, than I did it!
The dashed blade slipped somehow and cut into the threads that tied the covers or caps or whatever-you-call-'ems, over the knots. And when I pulled, the beastly piece of silk came off in my fingers.
And then – oh, but I say! I just gave a sort of yell and dropped the whole thing!
Ever have some silly ass try to scare you by poking a red hot cigar at you in the dark? Know how you jerk back? Well, there you are! For, give you my word, when I peeled off the little cloth cap, regular blazes of crimson fire seemed to shoot from the end of the knot.
Fact is, it wasn't a knot at all, but a button – a devilish glassy button, something bigger than a dime, perhaps, and thick as the end of your little finger. And there it lay against the silk, burning its way through it like a red coal of fire.
Dashed if it didn't look that way, anyhow. I just sat there blinking like a jolly owl, waiting to see the stuff begin to smoke, before I had presence of mind to tell Jenkins to touch it to see if it would burn.
But Jenkins wouldn't. He just stood there with his jaw hanging and his eyes bulging like champagne corks!
And it was just then that Billings rolled in.
I say "rolled in," because it always