Perkins, the Fakeer. Edward Sims van Zile
my veins. Was it not more than probable that my library contained a few volumes dealing with the occult sciences? At all events, I was sure that I owned several books relating to Oriental philosophy. Then there was Sir Edwin Arnold's "Light of Asia" at my disposal, and, if I became impatient of research, I could look up "Reincarnation," "Transmigration" and kindred topics in the encyclopædia.
But what had become of my courage? Great as was my curiosity regarding the strange psychical displacement that had made me practically a prisoner in my own home, I feared to take steps that, while they might increase my erudition, might also deprive me of all hope of the night's readjustment.
"I'd better leave it alone," I murmured to myself, despondently. "My very ignorance of this kind of thing may prove to be my salvation in the end. I'm up against it, there's no doubt of that. And the queer thing about it all is that I'm not more astonished at what has happened. It didn't hurt a bit! It was like taking gas. You wake up in a dentist's chair, and the only tooth you knew you possessed has gone. I wonder, by the way, if it would pay to consult a doctor–some specialist in nervous disorders? I could use an assumed name, and– Bosh! I haven't the sand to do it. And it might lead to an investigation as to my sanity. Great guns, girl! You here again?" The last words I spoke aloud, gazing upward into Suzanne's pale, disturbed face.
"I am so worried about madame," said Suzanne in French, glancing nervously around the library, as if she sought in my environment an explanation of her mistress's eccentricity. "Would it not be well for madame to come up-stairs and try to get a nap?"
"A nap!" I cried, in a vibrant treble. "Not on your life, girl! I'm up for all day, you may bet on that. Get me the morning papers, Suzanne. And–wait! Where's Jenkins?"
Suzanne gazed at me in surprise.
"He's eating his breakfast, madame."
"Bring me the papers, and then tell Jenkins to take a day off. Tell him he may go as far away as Hoboken if he wants to. He needn't return until to-morrow."
Suzanne glided from my side with a quick, silent movement that reminded me of a black cat.
A wild, fleeting hope seized me that Jenkins would carry the girl away with him, but presently Suzanne entered the library again.
"Jenkins sends his thanks to madame, and will take a holiday, after reporting to monsieur at his office," said my pretty gadfly, glibly, placing the morning newspapers beside me.
"Confound his impudence!" I exclaimed, and I saw at once that Suzanne considered me "no better."
"And now, girl, what next? Jones, I suppose."
"Yes, madame. He is awaiting your pleasure outside the door."
At that moment Jones entered the library.
"You called me, madame," he said, pompously, magnificent as a liar. "Your orders, madame?"
"We have guests for dinner, Jones," I remarked, bravely.
"Yes, madame. How many?"
"Four, Jones. Six at the table, that is. Cocktails to start with, Jones, and serve my best wines–freely, do you understand? I want you to give us a dinner to-night, Jones, that'll–make a new man of me," I murmured under my breath.
"Yes, madame," said the butler, respectfully, but I certainly caught a gleam of delight in his heavy eyes. "You give me carte blanche, madame?"
"Throw everything wide open, and let 'er go, Jones," I cried, with enthusiasm. Caroline should see that I know how "to provide."
Jones bowed, more, I believe, to conceal his astonishment than for mere ceremony, and turned to leave the room.
"Jones," I called, before he had disappeared, "if you talk to Jenkins before he leaves the house I shall discharge you."
The butler turned, with a flush in his face, and gave me a haughty stare. Then he said, recovering his machine-made humility:
"Yes, madame. Your orders shall be obeyed." With that he was gone.
"Go to the 'phone, Suzanne," I said at once, "and call up 502, Rector. When you've got 'em, let me know."
Suzanne was too nervous to accomplish this task, and I was forced to go to her assistance.
"Hello!" I heard Caroline's voice crying presently, and it warned me to be careful.
Standing at a 'phone it was hard for me to remember that I was far from being quite myself.
"Who's this?" came to my ears from 502, Rector.
"Has–ah–Mr. Stevens reached the office yet?" I asked.
"We expect him every moment. He's late this morning," came the answer in a man's voice, (I had grown very sensitive to sex in voices.) "Who is this?"
"I am–ah–Mrs. Stevens." Suddenly, I realized that I was talking to Morse, my head-clerk. How he happened to be in my inner office puzzled me. "Anything new this morning, Morse?" I inquired, impulsively. There was a sound that can be described as an electric gurgle at his end of the line.
"Hello," he cried, above a buzzing of the wires that might have been caused by his astonishment. "Are you still there, Mrs. Stevens?"
"Well, rather," I said to myself. Then aloud: "Will you kindly call me up–ah–Mr. Morse, the moment Mr. Stevens arrives?"
"On the instant, Mrs. Stevens," said Morse, deferentially.
Curiosity overcame my discretion.
"How did the market open, Mr. Morse?" I asked, recklessly.
Again that electric gurgle escaped from my startled clerk.
"It seems to be very feverish, madame," answered Morse, evidently recovering his equanimity.
"Naturally!" I exclaimed, feelingly, but I doubt that Morse caught the word.
"Is that all, Mrs. Stevens?" he asked, presently.
"That'll do for the present–ah–Mr. Morse," I said, reluctantly. "Good-bye!"
I returned to my seat beside the reading-table and found Suzanne gazing at me with soft, sympathetic eyes.
"If I had but dared to tell him to unload," I mused aloud, but went no further, for the French girl's glance had become an interrogation-mark.
"Tell monsieur to unload?" murmured Suzanne, who sometimes spoke English when she especially craved my confidence. "But–mon Dieu!--monsieur is not–what you say, madame, loaded?"
I broke into a silvery, high-pitched laugh that annoyed me, exceedingly. But it was not unpleasant to realize that the girl knew that Mr. Stevens was a gentleman. I felt grateful to Suzanne for her good opinion. A moment later, the telephone rang, sharply.
"There's Caroline," I said to myself; but I was quickly undeceived when I had placed the receiver to my ear.
"Is that you, Caroline?" I heard a voice saying. "This is Louise. What have you decided to do about those lectures on Buddhism? Will you join the class, my dear?"
"Not in a thousand years!" I fairly shrieked through the 'phone. "Good-bye!"
"More trouble, madame?" asked Suzanne, as I tottered back to my chair. "I am so sorry. Really, I think madame should come up-stairs with me and lie down. I will bathe madame's head, and she may drop off for a time."
"Suzanne," I said, solemnly, making a strong effort of will and controlling my temper nicely–"Suzanne, if you suggest a sleep to me again to-day I shall be forced to send you to Hoboken to find Jenkins. What's that? The telephone again? Ah–Mr. Stevens must have reached his office."
I was right this time. If my memory is not at fault, our conversation across the wire ran as follows.
"Hello!"
"Hello!"
Silence for a time and a buzzing in my ear.
"Is that you, Caroline?" from my office.
"You know best–ah–Reginald," in the sweetest tones that I could beget in my wife's voice.
"Hello!"
"Hello!" I returned. "Pleasant