"What do you know about the ten of hearts?" I began with directness.
"I am a shade; all things are known to me."
"You may be a lamp-shade, for all I care. What do you know about the
ten of hearts?"
"Beware of it,"--hollowly. From under his toga he produced a ten of
hearts!
My knees wabbled, and there was a sense of looseness about my collar.
The fellow knew I was an impostor. Why didn't he denounce me?
"Is the back of your card anything like this one?"--ironically. "I
dare say it isn't. But have your good time, grave monk; doubtless you
are willing that the fiddlers shall be paid." And wrapping his toga
about him majestically, he stalked away, leaving me staring
dumfoundedly after his receding form.
Discovered!
The deuce! Had I been attired like yon Romeo, I certainly should have
taken to my heels; but a fellow can not run in a Capuchin's gown, and
retain any dignity. I would much rather be arrested than laughed at.
I stood irresolute. What was to be done? How much did he know? Did
he know who I was? And what was his object in letting me run my
course? I was all at sea. . . . Hang the grisly old Roman! I shut my
teeth; I would see the comedy to its end, no matter what befell. If
worst came to worst, there was always Teddy Hamilton to fall back on.
I made off toward the smoking-room, rumbling imprecations against the
gods for having given me the idea of attending this masquerade, when it
would have been cheaper and far more comfortable to go to the theater.
But as soon as I entered the smoking-room, I laughed. It was a droll
scene. Here we were, all of us, trying savagely to smoke a cigar or
cigarette through the flabby aperture designated in a mask as the
mouth. It was a hopeless job; for myself, I gave it up in disgust.
Nobody dared talk naturally for fear of being identified. When a man
did open his mouth it was only to commit some banal idiocy, for which,
during office hours, he would have been haled to the nearest insane
asylum and labeled incurable. Added to this was a heat matching
Sahara's and the oppressive odor of weltering paint.
By Jove! Only one man knew that the back of my card was unlike the
others: the man who had picked it up in old Friard's curio-shop, the
man who had come to Blankshire with me! I knew now. He had been there
buying a costume like myself. He had seen me on the train, and had
guessed the secret. I elbowed my way out of the smoking-room. It
wouldn't do me a bit of harm to ask a few polite questions of Mr.
Caesar of the sardonic laugh.