On the steps of the Barton Arms an hour later Hood and Deering ran into two men who were just leaving the inn. Hood greeted them heartily as old acquaintances and remained talking to them while Deering went to ask for rooms.
“The suspicions of those fellows always tickle me,” he remarked as he joined Deering at the desk, where he scrawled “R. Hood, Sherwoodville,” on the register. “Detectives—rather good as the breed goes, but not men of true vision. Now and then I’ve been able to give them a useful hint—the slightest, mind you, and only where I could divert suspicion from some of my friends in the underworld. I always try to be of assistance to predatory genius; there are clever crooks and stupid ones; the kind who stoop to vulgar gun-work when their own stupidity gets them into a tight pinch don’t appeal to me. My artistic sensibilities are affronted by clumsy work.”
“Perhaps—” Deering suggested with a hasty glance at the door—“maybe they’re looking for me!”
“Bless you, no,” Hood replied as they followed a boy with their bags; “nothing so intelligent as that. On the contrary”—he paused at the landing and laid his hand impressively on Deering’s arm—“on the contrary, they’re looking for me!”
He went on with a chuckle and a shake of the head, as though the thought of being pursued by detectives gave him the keenest pleasure. When he reached their rooms he sat down and struck his knee sharply and chuckled again. Deering turned frowningly for an explanation of his mirth.
“Oh, don’t bother about those chaps! I repeat, that they are looking for me, but”—he knit his fingers behind his head and grinned—“they don’t know it!”
“Don’t know you are you!” exclaimed Deering.
“You never said a truer word! More than that, they’re not likely to! There are things, son, I—Hood, the frankest of mortals—can’t tell even you! I, Hood, the inexplicable; Hood, the prince of tramps, the connoisseur in all the arts—even I must have my secrets; but in time, my dear boy, in time you shall know everything! But there’s work before us! The long arm of coincidence beckons us. We shall test for ourselves all the claptrap of the highest-priced novelists.”
Deering walked to the window and stared out at the landscape, then strode toward Hood angrily.
“I don’t like this!” he wailed despairingly. “You promised to help me find those stolen bonds, and now you’re talking like a lunatic again. If I can’t find the bonds, I’ve got to find Ranscomb, and get back that first two hundred thousand I gave him. I can’t stand this—detectives waiting for us wherever we stop, and you babbling rot—rot—” Words failed him; he clinched his hands and glared.
“Don’t bluster, son, or I shall grow peevish,” Hood replied tolerantly. “At the present moment I feel like taking a walk under the mystical May stars. The night invites the soul to meditation; the stars may have the answer to all our perplexities. Stop fretting about your bonds and your friend Ranscomb; very likely he’s busted, clean broke; that’s what usually happens to fellows who take money from their friends and put it into the metals. Possibly he swallowed poison, and went to sleep forever just to escape your wrath. Let us take counsel of the heavens and try to forget your sins. We must still move the way the slipper pointed—northeast. The road bends away from the inn just right for a fresh start. We depart, we skip, we are on our way, my dear boy!”
They had walked nearly a mile when Deering announced that he was tired, and refused to go farther. He clambered upon a stone wall at the roadside. On a high ridge some distance away and etched against the stars was a long, low house.
“Splendid type of bungalow,” Hood commented, throwing his legs over the wall. “I’m glad you have an eye for nice effects—the roof makes a pretty line against the stars, and those pines beyond add a touch—a distinct touch. Bungalows should always be planned with a view to night effects; too bad architects don’t always consider little points like that.”
Deering growled angrily. Suddenly as his eyes gazed over the long, sloping meadow that rose to the house he started and laid his hand on Hood’s knee.
“Steady, steady! Always give a ghost a chance,” murmured Hood.
If the figure that danced across the meadow was a ghost, it was an agile one, and its costume represented a radical departure from the traditional garb of spirits doomed to walk the night.
“A boy, kicking up before he goes to bed,” suggested Deering, forgetting his sorrows for the moment as he contemplated the dancing apparition.
“In a clown’s suit, if I’m any judge,” said Hood, jumping down from the wall and moving cautiously up the slope. The dancing figure suddenly darted away through a clump of trees.
“Of course,” remarked Hood when they had reached the level where the figure had executed its fantastic gyrations, “of course, it’s none of our affair; but, in that story I was telling you about, the heroine danced around at night in strange costumes scaring people to death. I’m not saying this ghost has read that book—I’m merely stating a fact.”
They found a path that zigzagged across the meadow and followed it to the edge of a ravine. Below they heard the ripple of running water; and as an agreeable accompaniment some one was whistling softly.
In a moment the rattle of loosened gravel caused them to drop down by the path. The pantalooned figure came up, still whistling, and paused for a moment to take breath. Deering, throwing himself back from the path, grasped a bush. The twigs rattled noisily, and with a frightened “Oh!” the clown darted away, nimbly and fleetly. They followed a white blur in the starlight for an instant and heard the patter of light feet.
“A girl,” whispered Deering.
“I believe you are right,” remarked Hood, feeling about in the grass, “and here’s a part of her costume.” He picked up something white and held it to his face. “She dropped her clown’s cap when you began shaking the scenery. I seem to remember that a girl’s hair is sweet like that! In old times the clown’s cap was supposed to possess magic. Son, we have begun well! A girl masquerading, happy victim of the May madness—this is the jolliest thing I’ve struck in years—a girl, out dancing all by her lonesome under the stars—Columbine playing Harlequin!”
“We might as well be off,” he added, relighting his pipe. “We frightened her ladyship, and she will dance no more to-night. However, we have her cap, which points the way for to-morrow’s work.”
“You’re going to hang around here watching a girl cut monkey-shines!” moaned Deering. “You haven’t forgotten what we’re looking for, have you!” he demanded, shaking his fist in Hood’s face.
“Once more, be calm! Don’t you see that you’re on the verge of a new ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’; that the world’s tired of work and gone back to play! Don’t talk like a tired business man whose wife has dragged him to see one of Ibsen’s frolics—‘Rosmersholm,’ for example—where they talk for three hours and then jump in the well! The fact that there’s one girl left in the world to dance under stars ought to hearten you for anything. We don’t find in this world the things we’re looking for, Deering; we’ve got to be ready for surprises. I won’t say that that’s the girl who ran off with your bonds; all I can say is that she’s as likely to be the one as any girl I can think of. Tut! Don’t imagine I don’t sympathize with you in your troubles; but forget them, that’s the ticket. This will do for to-night. We’d better go back to the Barton and to bed.”
He yawned sleepily and started toward the road. Deering caught him by the arm.
“I was just thinking—” he began.
“Thinking is a bad habit, my boy. Thought is the curse of the world. The less thinking we do the better off we are. Down at Pass Christian last winter I sat under a tree for a solid month and never thought a think. Most profitable time I ever spent in my life. Camped with a sneak-thief who was making a tour of the Southern resorts—nice chap; must tell you about him sometime.”
He chuckled as though the recollection of his larcenous companion pleased him tremendously.
“I don’t believe I’ll go back to the Barton just yet,” Deering suggested timidly. “It’s possible, you know, that that girl might——”
“You’ve got it!” exclaimed Hood eagerly, clapping his hands upon Deering’s shoulders. “The spell is taking hold! Wait here a thousand years if you like for that kid to come back, and don’t bother about me. But cut out your vulgar bond twaddle, and don’t ask her if she stole your suitcase! As like as not she’ll lead you to the end of the rainbow, and show you a meal sack bulging with red, red gold. Here’s her cap—better keep it for good luck.”
Deering stood, with the clown’s cap in his hand, staring after Hood’s retreating figure. It was not wholly an illusion that he had experienced a change of some sort, and he wondered whether there might not be something in Hood’s patter about the May madness. At any rate, his troubles had slipped from him, and he was conscious of a new and delightful sense of freedom. Moreover, he had been kidnapped by the oddest man he had ever met, and he didn’t care!