Matters were not going ahead to suit the liking of Mary. Aunt Caroline was displaying mild symptoms of impatience because the ship that represented Bill's society career still hung on the launching ways. Bill himself would pay no attention to the business of getting it off. He was never at home at night and it seemed to Mary that he slept very late in the mornings. Pete Stearns was also missing from the household nearly every time that Bill disappeared. He was probably taking covert advantage of his employer's absences, Mary thought.

Thus she was left very much to her own devices, save for occasions when she found it advisable to consult Aunt Caroline. In the case of the latter, Mary observed a threatening tendency to revert to the launching plans that had been conceived by Pete. Whenever she found opportunity she tried to impress upon Bill the fact that unless he helped to devise something else he would find himself forced to follow the charitable and religious route into society. But he waved all that aside in the most optimistic fashion.

"You take care of it," he said. "You're against it yourself; I'm counting on you."

The valet still puzzled Mary. He had an annoying way of appearing when Bill was not around, always ostensibly looking for Bill and always lingering when he did not find him. She could not deny that he interested her; he possessed an element of the mysterious, whereas Bill was as transparent as air. It was not easy to establish the precise status of Pete; Aunt Caroline contributed to that difficulty by lending him a willing ear on any subject to which he chose to devote his fluent tongue. His rank was that of a domestic servant; he even ate with the servants, which was something of which he bitterly complained to Mary. She could not help feeling that there was some merit in the complaint.

Yet she could not and would not accept him on a plane of social equality, although she did not wish to appear snobbish. The relative values of their positions in the household must be preserved, if only for the sake of discipline. She would not have minded an occasional chat with her employer's valet if he did not constantly convey the idea that he was about to step out of his character. He never actually presumed upon her friendliness, but he always made her feel that he was about to presume.

She had a sense of something like espionage whenever Pete was about, coupled with an idea that he viewed her work with suspicion and even derision. Certainly the impression that he made upon Mary was quite different from that upon Aunt Caroline. He never talked theology to Mary, although to Aunt Caroline he would discourse upon it until the dear old lady actually became sleepy.

As for affairs between Bill and Pete, there had been a truce ever since the former threatened to throw his valet out of the house by way of the skylight if he dared to discuss any more social projects with Aunt Caroline. They did very well together so long as it was not necessary for them to play the parts of master and man for the benefit of the household; it was on those occasions that the ever-lurking devil within Pete Stearns took charge of his actions and speech. Outside of the house, of course, all barriers between them were down—and they were outside a great deal.

It was late in the evening of a difficult and dissatisfying day that Mary sat alone in the library, quite vainly trying to scheme something practical for the social launching of Bill. The only thing that cheered her was a faint hope that he would bring home an idea of his own, for he had told her that he was to spend the evening at a private and very exclusive affair. Aunt Caroline had gone to bed early, as usual, and even the valet had disappeared.

"I do hope I'll be able to do something very soon," mused Mary, frowning at a book she had been trying to read. "Poor Nell! She's too sick to help, and even in her bright moments she doesn't seem to want to talk about it. I never dreamed it could be so difficult. It's not fair, either. I came here to be a secretary and they're trying to make me a manager. And he simply won't be managed and—and I don't know how to manage him, even if he would."

"Ps-s-s-st!"

Mary jumped half out of her chair as she looked up and saw the valet standing in the doorway.

"Please make a noise when you walk, or knock, or do something," she said, sharply. "You startled me."

Pete made a gesture for silence, stepped into the room and swiftly surveyed it.

"Where is Aunt—where is Miss Marshall?" he whispered.

"She went to bed long ago."

"Good! Come on, then; we need help."

"Who needs help?" demanded Mary, impressed more by the mystery of his manner than by his words. "What's the matter?"

"The boss is in the hoosegow," answered Pete, his voice tragic.

"What!"

"Mr. Marshall—he's in jail."

Mary leaped to her feet and stared with incredulity.

"In jail! What for? How?"

"Caught in a raid. Come on; we've got to hurry."

"How horrible!" exclaimed Mary. "Is he hurt?"

"Only in his feelings," said the valet. "Get your hat; you're needed."

"But—where do you want me to go? What can I do?"

"Bail him out; get him home. We can't let his aunt know about it, can we? We've got to produce him at breakfast, haven't we?"

Mary felt appalled and helpless.

"But how can I bail him?" she asked. "I haven't any property, or any money, or——"

"I'll put you wise to the ropes," said the theological valet in a hurried voice. "Come on. Aren't you willing to help?"

"Of course I am," said Mary, indignantly. "I'll be ready in a jiffy."

When she came down-stairs again Pete was waiting at the front door, which he closed gently behind them. In front of the house stood a taxi, into which he thrust her with much haste, following himself, after he spoke an order to the driver.

"Where are we going?" asked Mary, as the taxi gathered speed.

"Jefferson Market—it's a police court."

She could not repress a shiver.

"You said a raid? What—what kind?"

"Listen," said Pete. "Now this is what happened: the boss went to a scrap—a prize-fight."

Mary, sitting in the darkness of the taxi, compressed her lips. He had made her believe that he was going into society!

"Fights are against the law in this State," continued the valet. "While it was going on somebody told the police. And the police came and, among others, they got the boss. He got stuck in the window that was too small for him."

"Oh!" gasped Mary.

"They'll be taking him to the night court by the time we get there. And we've got to bail him out."

"How?"

"We get a bondsman. There'll be one of 'em there; I've got it arranged. He's in the business; professional bondsman, you know. Only he won't put up a bond on my say-so. I'm only the valet, you understand; it takes somebody higher up, like a secretary. We'll get it across all right, if you put up a good front. Got any money with you?"

"A little," said Mary. "About twenty dollars, I think."

"That'll help with what I've got. We've got to give this bird some cash down."

Mary was bracing herself as rigidly as she could in a corner of the seat. It was difficult to prevent a rising tide of indignation from overwhelming her, although she realized it was a time to keep her head. Of course, there was but one thing to do—get Bill Marshall out of jail. But after that she felt that she would be entitled to a reckoning. How awful it was! Her employer—her social climber—her dÉbutante—in jail after a raid on a prize-fight!

At Jefferson Market she was hustled out of the taxi, across the sidewalk and up some steps that led to a badly-lighted corridor.

"Wait here; I'll get him," whispered Pete.

Mary shrank herself as small as possible against a wall and waited. The valet was not long in returning. With him was a middle-aged, stout, red-faced person who swiftly inspected Mary with a piercing pair of eyes.

"This the dame?" he asked, in a casual tone.

Mary stiffened at the question.

"This is the lady I told you about," said Pete. Then addressing Mary: "This is the gentleman who is going to bail Mr. Marshall."

"Don't travel too fast," said the bondsman. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Who are you, anyhow?"

He was looking at Mary with another critical glance. Her cheeks had become red by this time; to Pete she seemed to be growing taller.

"I am secretary to Mr. William Marshall," she said. "My name is Miss Norcross. And I do not wish to be addressed in the manner that you now assume."

There was a flash of dismay in Pete's eyes, to be succeeded by one of admiration. As for the bondsman, he stared for several seconds in a sort of dull surprise.

"Oh, no offense," he said. "Got anything to identify you?"

Mary opened her bag and drew forth some letters, which she handed to Pete. She would not permit this creature to receive them from her own hand. He seemed to sense the import of this employment of an intermediary, for he surveyed her once more, this time with what was obviously a more respectful curiosity. Then he began reading the letters.

Even a professional bondsman is permitted to have knowledge of the upper world, and this one was not wholly ignorant of names in the social register. His eyebrows went up as he read, and Mary was once more made aware of the potent magic of references. She continued to grow taller. When he made a move to return the letters she indicated that he was to hand them to the valet, which he did.

"I guess it'll be all right," he said. "The bond'll be for a thousand. The prisoner himself is good for it, but I got to have additional security. I'll want to see the prisoner when he's arranged, and if he ain't the right one, tip me off. And I'll take fifty bucks now."

Mary brought forth what she had and handed it to Pete. He played up to the situation by palming his own resources as he received Mary's contribution, and then began counting off bills that were apparently all supplied by her. The bondsman pocketed the money.

"Sign here," he said, producing a paper from his pocket.

Mary received the paper from Pete and examined it. For all she understood of its contents it might have been printed in Chinese. But nowhere did it mention Bill Marshall. It dealt with a defendant named "Henry Smith." She was being swindled!

"Give me a proper paper," she said, sharply. "This has nothing to do with Mr. Marshall."

The bondsman grinned and Pete made the explanation.

"That's the name he gave on the police blotter. It's all right, ma'am."

So Mary produced a fountain pen and signed, dimly aware that she was probably committing one of the varied degrees of forgery. When she had finished, it appeared nowhere that Mary Wayne was going to the rescue of one William Marshall, but rather that Nell Norcross had undertaken to guarantee a bond that would open the jail doors for Henry Smith.

"Now we'll go up to court," said the bondsman, and he led the way.

Mary had never been in a court before, much less a night court, which is peculiar to itself in atmosphere and characters. She slipped into a place on a rear bench, anxious now to lose something of that stature she had attained during her interview in the corridor. The bondsman and Pete went forward and stepped inside a railing.

Mary waited and watched. The judge who sat behind a high desk was yawning. Two persons whom she took to be clerks were fumbling over papers. There were several policemen in uniform. On the benches about her were numerous and, for the most part, unpleasant persons.

Two women were led through a side door, evidently to be "arranged," as the bondsman said. They seemed at ease. A policeman said something, the judge said something, the clerks did something, and they passed on, still in custody. Then came a man, who followed the same routine; then another woman.

And then out of the side door, which was constantly guarded by a policeman, came several men—and among them Bill Marshall, towering almost proudly, it seemed to Mary. She listened breathlessly, but could not hear a word; everybody was talking in low tones. All she knew was that Bill was standing in front of the judge, and evidently unashamed. Pete and the bondsman were there, too, and presently the group moved over to the clerk's desk.

This, it seemed to Mary, was a critical instant. She knew that they must be examining the bond; she felt as though she, too, ought to be standing there with Bill Marshall, a defendant at the bar. A sense of guilt was overwhelming her; if anybody had touched her on the shoulder she would have screamed. And then it was over, in a most perfunctory and undramatic manner. "Henry Smith" was not returning to the place beyond the side door, but was passing through the swinging gate that led to the space reserved for benches. His valet was at his heels. The bondsman showed no further interest in them. He stayed inside the rail, where he chatted with a policeman.

Up the center aisle came Bill, swinging along jauntily. As he neared the bench on which she sat, Mary became aware that a young man who had been occupying a place beside her was as much interested in Bill as herself. This person suddenly sprang into the aisle, gripped Bill's hand and then linked arms with him. Together they passed out of the court-room.

Mary, too, had risen, and now the valet was beckoning to her. She followed him out beyond the swinging doors. There in the corridor she observed Bill Marshall in one of his intimate and happy moments. He was laughing with a wholesome lack of restraint and was slapping on the shoulder one of the most ill-favored persons that Mary had ever seen. This was the young man who had joined Bill in the moment of his triumphal exit.

He was not over five feet six, but he was somewhat broader in the shoulders than most youths of that stature. His clothes seemed too tight for him, although they were not a misfit, but rather, the product of a tailor who must have received his inspiration from a brass band. His skin was swarthy; his dark eyes small and bright. His nose appeared to have undergone a flattening process, in addition to which, it displayed a marked tendency to point to the left. One of his ears Mary observed with particular attention; it had been twisted into a knotty lump and stood out from his head in an aggressive effort at self-advertisement. It was not within Mary's province to know that this was a singularly perfect specimen of cauliflower, or "tin," ear.

"Oh, it's all right now, Bill," the young man was saying, "only if you'd 'a' took my tip an' follored me you wouldn't 'a' been pinched at all. Gee! I had an easy getaway."

"You always did have speed, Kid," remarked Bill. "Oh, well, it's nothing in our young lives. Where do we go from here? Where's Pete?"

He glanced around and beheld not only Pete, but Mary Wayne.

Bill slowly flushed a fiery red and his eyes widened to almost twice their size. He faltered for an instant, then rushed forward.

"Miss Norcross! Why, what in thunder——"

"I had to bring her, sir," said Pete, hastily dropping into character. "They wouldn't accept me as additional security, sir."

Bill hesitated. The cool gaze of his secretary upset him far more than if she had flung scorn in her glance.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," he began. "I wouldn't have had you come here for all the world. It isn't right. It's a shame! Why—— Peter, how dared you bring Miss Norcross to this place? No; don't try to make any excuses. You ought to be thrashed for it."

"Your valet was not to blame in the least degree," said Mary, in a frosty tone. "It appears that it was necessary for me to come."

"Yes, sir," echoed Pete.

"I don't care," stormed Bill. "It's no place for her. I won't have it. I'd sooner lose a leg than have Miss Norcross come here."

But in his soul he was really not so much disturbed over the fact that she visited a police court as he was over her discovery of Bill Marshall as a prisoner at the bar, although he was not at the time capable of analyzing his emotions very accurately. He was ashamed, confused, angry at the presence of Mary Wayne, whereas but a moment before he was enjoying the relish of an adventure and a joke.

"Shall I get a taxi, sir?" inquired Pete.

"I'll get it myself. Wait here, Miss Norcross."

Anything to escape even for a moment from the level gaze of those accusing eyes. He dashed down a staircase, followed by Pete, who had a word he wished to say in private.

Mary now observed that the young man with the tin ear whom she had heard addressed as "Kid" was watching her attentively. As her look settled upon him he stepped forward, swiftly tipped a derby, swiftly replaced it on his head and favored her with a confident and confidential smile.

"Friend of Bill's, it seems," he observed. "Well, we had a nice evenin' for it."

"I do not seem to know you," said Mary.

He stared in honest astonishment.

"Y' don't know me?" he echoed.

"I do not."

"Y' mean to say Bill never told y' about me?"

"He never did—and I do not think I am interested."

His small, black eyes blinked at the astounding news.

"Why, I'm Kid Whaley. Everybody knows me. Bill's my best friend. Wot? Y' never heard of Kid Whaley? Say, are y' kiddin' me? Why, it's only last week I put away Battlin' Schwartz. Knocked 'im dead in five rounds, over in Trenton. Say, don't y' read the papers? Aw, y' must've heard of me. Sure y' have. Why, I'm gonna be the next champ. Ev'ry-body knows that. An' take it from me, th' champ knows it, too. You ask Bill; he'll tell y' right."

During this outburst of sincere protestation Mary stood stiffly where Bill had left her. She would have preferred to walk away, but for the fear that this voluble young man would follow her.

"Aw, g'wan," he added, as he playfully poked a finger into her arm. "You're givin' me a josh. Any friend o' Bill's knows me. Why, he's crazy about me. I ain't been inside th' ropes once in a whole year that Bill didn't have a roll bet on me. Why, him an' me——"

He paused for an instant as he sighted the returning Bill, only to break forth:

"Hey, Bill; get this. Here's a dame never heard o' Kid Whaley. Whadda y' know about that? An' she's a friend o' yours."

"Shut up!" snarled Bill savagely.

Kid Whaley stared in bewilderment.

"Come, Miss Norcross; there's a taxi waiting."

He seized her by the arm and urged her rapidly toward the staircase. Mary went willingly; escape from the Kid was the immediate necessity.

"Hey, Bill; y' comin' back? Hey, Bill——"

They lost the remainder of the Kid's plea as they hurried toward the street.

Pete Stearns was standing guard over a taxi as they emerged from Jefferson Market and, as he sighted them, he flung the door open. Mary permitted herself to be propelled into the vehicle with more force than grace, and Bill followed. Pete was about to make a third member of the party when his benefactor placed a determined hand against his breast and pushed him half-way across the sidewalk. Then Bill leaned out, shouted a direction at the driver, slammed the door and settled back with a sigh, prepared to receive whatever his social secretary might decide was coming to him.