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Perils of Pauline (dramatic reading)

<h1 id="id02222" style="margin-top: 5em">CHAPTER XXI</h1> <h5 id="id02223">THE GUEST OF HONOR</h5> "Well, prove it," said Harry. "Show me that you mean it!" "Why, Harry, what a woman says she, always means." "Always means not to do." "But, Harry, really I'm going to be good this time," pleaded Pauline. They were emerging from the gate of the Marvin mansion to the avenue, and as Harry turned to Pauline with a skeptical reply on his lips, the approach of a young man of military bearing stopped him. "By Jove, isn't that—who the deuce is it? Why, Benny Summers!" The young man was hurrying by without recognition, when Harry called sharply: "Hello, Ben!" "Harry—Harry Marvin! By the coin of Croesus, is it really you?" "No," said Harry, grasping his hand, "not the 'you' you used to know. I've been driven into premature old age by caring for a militant sister. Polly, this is Ensign Summers of the navy. Please promise me that you won't get him into danger, because he used to be a friend of mine. He has never done anything more dangerous than run a submarine and shoot torpedoes out of it in a field of mines." "A submarine? Torpedoes?" cried Pauline. "Isn't that beautiful." "But, Benny, how are you? What have you been doing? I haven't seen you in a thousand years." "I'm still at it. And I've got it, Harry. I give you my word, I have." "Got what?" "The torpedo—I mean THE torpedo, in capital letters and italics with a line under the word. I've invented one that would blow—well— I've got it." "Congratulations, felicitations, laudatory, remarks, and enthusiasm," cried Harry. "Without having slightest idea what a torpedo is, I rejoice with you. Come on back to the house, and tell us about it." "I'm sorry, I can't, Harry, now. I'm engaged for a conference with the Naval Board, and I'm late already. But will you and Miss Marvin come to luncheon with me tomorrow?" "Why not you with us, we saw you first?" Summers laughed. "Well, for this reason, I want you to meet Mlle. de Longeon, who will preside at this particular luncheon, and who is—" The flush that came suddenly to the cheeks of the young officer brought involuntary laughter from Harry and Pauline. "I take that as an acceptance—the Kerrimore, East Fifty-sixth street," he called, sharing in their laughter as he fled. But at the gate of the Marvin house he came upon Raymond Owen. There was a hasty clasp of hands and "You're to come, too," cried Summers, continuing his flight. "Where am I to come?" asked Owen, as he approached Harry and Pauline. "To luncheon with Ensign Summers tomorrow. Isn't he dear? I love men who blush. They seem so innocent." "The Fates defend us!" implored Harry. * * * * * Ensign Summers had gained a position beyond his rank in the navy. A natural bent toward science and a patriotic bent toward the use of science as a means of national defense had inspired him to experiments which had resulted in success amazing even to himself. He had been allowed—during the year preceding the meeting with Harry and Pauline —a leave of absence. In that time he had visited Italy, France, England and Germany, and had studied under naval experts. He had come back home with his own little idea undiminished in its importance to his own mind, and he had proceeded with youthful enthusiasm and effrontery to prove its importance to the highest of his commanders. The tests now about to be made—tests of a new torpedo gun and new torpedo—had been ordered by the mightiest in the land. Triumphant in his discovery and wealthy in his own right, Summers was the happiest of men. It was in Paris that he had met Mlle. del Longeon. Exquisitely beautiful, of the alluring and languorous type, quick of wit, tactful, and with great charm of manner, she had completely fascinated the young officer. He had vowed his adoration of her almost before he knew her. His avowals had been repulsed with just that margin of insincerity that would double his ardor. It had required many letters to induce Mlle. de Longeon to leave her beloved Paris and visit friends in America. Summers knew she was not a Frenchwoman, but he was totally in the dark as to what was her nationality. Summers didn't care. He was madly mad in love with her, and there was no other thing to consider. It was for this reason that Mlle. de Longeon was the guest of honor at the little luncheon in his rooms, to which he had invited Harry and Pauline. The affair was quite informal. There were a number of navy men present, a few young married people. The atmosphere of the gathering was "sublimely innocuous," as Mlle. de Longeon remarked to Summers in the hall after the guests had departed. But Mlle. de Longeon had met one guest who did not impress her as innocuous—or sublime—Raymond Owen. Pauline had presented the secretary on his arrival, and Owen had immediately devoted himself to her. Not long after luncheon was served the voice of Mlle. de Longeon rose suddenly above the general talk. "But, Mr. Summers, you have not told us yet of your new invention. When shall the plans be ready? When shall you rise to the realization of your true success?" Summers beamed his happiness in the face of the brazen compliment, like the good and silly boy he was. "I'm supposed to keep this secret," he answered, "but I can trust every one here, I know. The plans are going to be sent out day after tomorrow." "You mean you will have them completed—all those intricate plans?" queried Mlle. de Longeon in a tone of breathless admiration. "I'll work all tonight and most of tomorrow; but, of course, it's only a case of putting into words ideas that have already been put into solid metal. My gun and torpedo are ready for work. It isn't so very difficult, and it's—well, it's a lot of fun." "And great honor," paid the woman he loved. For a moment their eyes met, but only for a moment. The next, Catin, the valet, who was taking charge of the luncheon, under pretense of anticipating a waiter moved quickly to fill her wine glass. Even the subtle eye of Owen was not sharp enough to see Mlle. de Longeon pass him a crushed slip of paper, and she had been too long trained to concealment of even the simplest emotions to betray uneasiness now. Nevertheless, there was the possibility of surprising Mlle. de Longeon, and that possibility was realized as she glanced at Raymond Owen. His set, tense face reflected for the moment all his hatred of Harry and Pauline, who were talking blithely with Ensign Summers, another naval officer and two of the wives of the civilian visitors. She turned to him with a suddenness that would have seemed abrupt in the manner of one less beautiful. "Mr. Owen, do come to see me," she said. "I am sure—at least I think I am sure—that we have many matters of mutual interest." In her softly modulated tones, the invitation had no significance beyond the literal meaning of the words. "It will be an honor," he answered. "Tomorrow evening, then?" "Delighted. And, later, the Naval Ball?" "No, I'm afraid the Ensign will not permit any one else to take me to the ball; but we shall meet there, afterward." In a New York street, among the lower there was at that time a foreign agency that was not a consulate, but was visited by diplomats of the highest rank in a certain nation, the name of which, or the mystery of whose suspicions, need not be touched upon. There was no regular staff at the agency. The rooms were maintained under the name of a certain foreign gentleman—or, rather, under the name that he chose to assume. There were two servants, but they saw little of the master of the house. He was seldom at home, but when he was, he had many visitors. An hour after the luncheon in the rooms of Ensign Summers, the master of the mysterious dwelling was at home. And he had four guests. It would have, greatly surprised Ensign Summers had he known that one of the diplomat's guests was his own man servant, Catin. "It is the worst duty I have ever had to perform," the diplomat said solemnly. "It means, almost certainly, your death. But it is death for your country. It is the command of your country. The submarine must be destroyed and the plans—we shall get the plans through another agent." "I am not afraid to die," said Catin. "Then here is the model of a submarine—not of the one you will enter, of course, but it will give you an idea. I have marked the place where you will secrete the explosive until the proper moment. I have also indicated the position for you to take in order to have some faint chance of reaching the surface and being saved." One of the other men stepped forward and handed Catin a small square box. "This is the explosive. You know how to handle it." With a military salute, Catin turned and left the place. Within half an hour he was carefully brushing Ensign Summers' clothes, as Summers came in. "Would it be too much to ask, sir," inquired the perfect valet, "that I might accompany you in the submarine? I am afraid you will be very uncomfortable without me." Summers laughed good-naturedly. "It's impossible, Catin. This boat is a government secret in itself, and my new torpedo makes it a double secret. No one but a picked crew will be allowed on it, except—" "'Except, sir?" "Well, I admit I could command it. But it would be very unwise, Catin, and, I assure you, I shall get along all right." Mlle. de Longeon's apartment was characteristic of the lady herself. The artist would have found it a little too luxurious for good taste— a little over-toned in the richness of draperies, the heavy scent of flowers, the subtleties of half-screened divans—there was something more than feminine—something feline. To Raymond Owen, however, it was ideal. The dimmed ruby lights, the suggestive shadows of the tapestries, were in tune with the surreptitious mind of the secretary. But there remained for him a picture that he admired more—Mlle. de Longeon coming through the portieres with a cry of pleasure. "I am so glad you came—and so sorry I must send you away quickly," exclaimed Mlle. de Longeon. "The little ensign has telephoned that he is coming early to take me for a drive before the ball." "I can come again—if I may have the honor," said Owen, rising quickly. "Oh, there is time for a word," she said, smiling. "There was something you wished to say to me, was there not? Something you did not care to say at the luncheon yesterday?" "Yes. Why do you hate Miss Marvin?" Owen was silent for a moment. "Why do you hate the little ensign, as you call another?" "What do you mean?" "I mean that we can be of service to one another, in all likelihood, and that, therefore, we should be frank friends. You wish to have Pauline Marvin out of the way, do you not?" "How did you find that out?" "People engaged in similar business find out many things. Now I—" "Wish to be rid of Ensign Summers." "Precisely." "You are an international agent?" "Yes. And I offer you my aid and the aid of the powerful men I control in return for your aid to me and them. Is it a bargain?" They were seated on one of the curtained divans, a low-turned light above them. She leaned forward. Her long, delicate hand touched his. A splendid jewel at her throat heightened the magic of her beauty. "Because it is my business to hate him—and make love to him at the same time. Come, Mr. Owen, let us be frank." For the first time in his life Owen felt himself mastered by the sheer fascination of a woman. "What am I to do?" he said breathlessly. "I will tell you tonight at the ball. Now you must run away." He arose instantly, but as she stood beside him, he turned, caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately. She protested with a little cry and a struggle not too violent to damage her coiffure. He drew back from her. There was something of astonishment in his eyes—astonishment at himself. "You are the only woman in the world who ever made me do that," he gasped. "Go, go," she pleaded. "But you are angry? You break our agreement?" "No, but I am overcome. I shall meet you tonight." He caught her hand to his lips, and hurried from the house. It was more than an hour after he observed her arrival at the Naval Ball before Owen had the privilege of a greeting from Mlle. de Longeon, and then it was only a smile as she passed him on the arm of a distinguished looking foreign diplomat. Owen saw that she spoke a quiet word to her escort, who turned and looked at Owen. She beamed brightly at Owen, who smiled back at her, and moved slowly toward the door of the conservatory into which she and the diplomat had disappeared. He was surprised, a moment later, to see Pauline rush by him, with a little laugh. "Is anything the matter?" Owen called. "Nothing you can help. Stay right where you are," she cried. Owen laughed his understanding and moved over to where Harry and Lucille were talking with Ensign Summers. Meanwhile, Pauline, in the darkest recess of the conservatory was pinning together a broken garter. As she started back to the ballroom she was surprised to hear voices near her. There was something about their foreign accent that roused the ever-venturous, ever-curious interest of Pauline. She crept along a row of palms and peered through an aperture. Mlle. de Longeon and the diplomat were talking together as they paced the aisle of palms on the other side. Pauline crept nearer. Presently the voice of the diplomat became distinguishable. "It is all arranged. The thing is to be done in Submarine B-2 tomorrow. All you have now to do is—" Pauline could not catch the final words. The two moved back to the ballroom. She followed close behind, a little suspicious, but with the thrill of a new plan gripping her. She saw Ensign Summers step forward early to greet Mile. de Longeon. Another dance was beginning. "This one is Mr. Owen's," said Mile. de Longeon, as she moved away on the arm of the secretary. "Have you anything to tell me?" he asked. "Yes. Induce her to make Summers take her down in his submarine tomorrow, and she will never trouble you again." As the dance ended, Pauline and Harry, Summers and Lucille, joined them. "Mr. Summers, I have a great request to make," declared Pauline. "I grant it before you breathe a word," he answered. "I want you to take me along on your submarine trip tomorrow." "Polly, have you gone crazy all over again?" cried Harry. "I don't believe it would be—" began Summers. "It must be," she commanded. "Well, I promised too soon, but I'll keep my word." Owen and Mile. de Longeon had stepped aside. "What does it mean?" gasped the secretary. "She is doing the very thing we want her to do." "Sometimes Fate aids the worthy," said Mile. de Longeon softly. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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