H. ROBINSON AND HIS REVELATION.
Chelda, meanwhile, was having her interview with H. Robinson.
Captain White had not told her that the Bangor and Rossignol train
was two hours late. She had only found that out by telephoning to the
station.
She was considerably annoyed by it. She was also annoyed by the
detective's presumption in coming to see her, and when he did arrive
she confronted him with a cool and haughty stare.
Yet she was slightly curious with regard to him. The whole criminal
world was unknown to her, but it possessed a strange fascination for
her, and this small experience had convinced her that she would have
made an excellent detective herself, one better qualified by nature
than this puffy, red-faced individual, gasping for breath in the cool
library.
He was by no means her ideal of a detective. She had imagined that he
would be tall and lean, a serpentine kind of a man, capable of twisting
himself into innumerable Protean shapes, whereas he was short and
stout, and of a fiery redness of complexion.
How could he ever disguise those cheeks of alarming hue, those sausages
of arms and posts of legs? She did not like him. It irritated her to
have him sit gazing at her with his moist, gooseberry-coloured eyes,
while he mopped his perspiring face with a new handkerchief stiff with
the creases in which it had come out of some second-rate Boston store.
She was in haste to get him away from the house. Her aunt might return
unexpectedly, and her restless curiosity would be sure to result in
disagreeable discoveries, therefore she opened the conversation by
saying, "If we are interrupted and you are questioned, I wish you would
let it be supposed that you are some one in search of employment."
"All right," he said, with an unctuous laugh, and twisting his head
all around his shoulders in order to reach the regions of neck
behind. "I ought to apologise for being here, but I had something to
communicate,--something I wouldn't trust to no letter."
The reserved young lady vouchsafed him no reply; and, restoring
his handkerchief to its proper place, he took up the tone of their
correspondence, and went on, briskly, "Yours of the tenth was duly
received."
"Indeed," said Chelda, as calmly as if it were a matter of surprise
that her letter should not have gone astray.
"I filled your little commission about the key, but that ain't what
brought me here," and he immediately inflated his whole body in a
manner that betokened a high state of gratification.
"What did bring you?" inquired Chelda, with an impatient desire to
bring him to the point.
"Let me recapitulate," he replied; and he ticked off his words with
the bursting forefinger of one hand against the bursting forefinger
of the other. "Three months ago you gave me your clue. I followed it
up. I tracked Jones, _alias_ Martin, _alias_ Smith, _alias_ Lancaster,
from Persia Street to New York, from New York to Chicago, from Chicago
to San Francisco,--lost him there,--by a regular jumped-up miracle
stumbled on his tracks again of fifteen years later, then burst into
a regular mine, a regular mine. Madam, I have the honour to inform
you that you have laid this great American nation under a debt of
gratitude," and, getting up with difficulty, he made her what he
considered to be a very profound and gentlemanly bow.
It was lost on Chelda. She was ineffably disgusted with him, and took
small pains to hide her disgust.
H. Robinson assumed an injured air. For her sake he was trying to
restrain himself, for her sake he was courting dangers of suffocation
and strangulation from the retention of his great and sensational
discovery, and he was appreciated not in the slightest degree. He would
try again to overawe her.
"You put me on the scent of a gambler," he said, tragically; "I have
run into the biggest bank-breaker in the world. We've done what all the
police forces in the Union couldn't do."
Still Chelda was not impressed. She was startled, slightly startled,
and increasingly annoyed. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Look here," he said, and he whipped out some papers and spread them on
his fat knees. "Look,--'Rewards Offered,'--'Descriptions Given'--'Cut
of Gentleman George in beard and whiskers.'"
"Is that his name?" she asked, and her mind went back to the book of
criminal records.
"Yes, ma'am. You've read of him, of course. All the world knows
him,--the civilised world, of course. I don't see why he didn't take
to China. I should think some big hauls might be made there," and he
became thoughtful until roused by a peremptory question from Chelda.
"Yes, ma'am, it's sure enough. Your man is Gentleman George, and when
we catch him, if you care anything for getting before the public,
you'll figure in the daily press from Maine to Texas."
Chelda's lip curled. It was not worth while to argue. Not all the
tongues of men and angels could make this man understand the inherent
differences between her nature and his. He would revel in notoriety,
she would loathe it.
"Do you mean to say," she asked, deliberately, "that this man I set you
in search of is really the celebrated criminal called Gentleman George?"
"I do,--I've said it, and I say it again. Your married man with the
German wife that boarded in Persia Street, Boston, in a respectable
boarding-house, is the high-roller Gentleman George."
This man was honest, Chelda knew that, for, true to her instinct to
trust no one, she had taken pains to ascertain his character before
she entrusted her case to him. H. Robinson was not a genius, but a
man discharged from a regular police detective force on account of
insubordination and inability to work under orders. Singly, he did
pretty good service and could be trusted. But for the latter assurance
she would never have gone to him.
While she studied his face, he composedly studied hers. He was hurt,
but not made angry by her disdain. H. Robinson was first of all a man
of business; he did not allow private likes and dislikes to stand in
the way of professional advancement.
"If you've a mind to carry the affair through," he said, with some
sympathy in the depths of his pair of matched gooseberries, "you'll get
used to it. You ought to see some women in court for the first time,
and then see 'em for the last."
"You know that I will not carry it through," she said, with arrogance.
He could not conceal his satisfaction. For a few seconds he silently
expanded and contracted his rounded chest, then he burst out with a
relieved, "I expected you'd back out. It ain't an affair a lady ought
to glory in."
"I began the thing from curiosity," she went on. "I am going to wash my
hands of it now."
He choked back his delight, and energetically repressed the words of
thankfulness gurgling in his throat. In imagination he saw himself
hurling his grand discovery at an aggregation of detective forces, and
thereby triumphing gloriously over his former unappreciative associates.
Chelda was becoming increasingly anxious to get rid of him. "I
requested you at the beginning to keep our correspondence strictly
private," she said, hastily. "Have you done so?"
"Yes, ma'am; I'll take my Bible oath on it."
"No one has seen my letters to you?"
"Not a soul, nor a body either."
"You have all the letters?"
"Every one,--filed in my safe."
"You could return them to me?"
"Yes, ma'am, I could," he replied, with a strong emphasis on the
_could_.
He had not had much success until this young lady had fallen into his
hands. He knew that she was rich, and he was prepared to make a very
good thing of the affair.
"You shall be paid," she said, loftily, "but there are certain things I
wish you to promise me."
In spite of the shortness of time, she fell into a brief reverie. Her
active brain was running over the possibilities of the future. She
wished to humiliate Derrice, to poison slightly for her the springs of
happiness, and to survey from a distance the uneasy struggles of this
victim who had so deeply angered her.
But suppose she crushed her. Suppose her aunt would not leave
Rossignol,--would stop to comfort her favourite, and investigate the
cause of the disgrace overwhelming her. Vexatious circumstances might
arise; something unforeseen might happen to implicate her in the
matter. Her first duty was to herself. She would at this moment give
up her vengeance, dear as it was to her, if it stood in the way of her
personal advancement. She had better do so. The detective had taken a
most unwise step in coming to see her. She must shake him off at once
and for ever.
"I will be frank with you," she said, hurriedly. "I had reason to
suppose it would be a good thing to have this man exposed, but he has a
relative,--a young woman who is sensitive. The shock of hearing what
you have told me might be disastrous for her. I did not dream that he
would prove to be so renowned a criminal."
"It's a life sentence, ma'am, if we catch him."
"We must not catch him," she said, haughtily. "I wish you to let the
pursuit drop at once."
"You do," he said, in a thick voice.
"Yes,--I will make it up to you."
"How, might I ask?"
"I will pay your bill twice over."
He chuckled huskily. "You might fill this house with bank-bills. You
might cover old Katahdin with gold plate,--you couldn't move me any
more than you'd move that same old mountain. I'm a Maine man, and when
a Maine man makes up his mind you know the old saying about might that
goes with it. H. Robinson don't go back of his word, and he's sworn to
hunt this man down."
There was a detestable sickening crease in his fat lips, and Chelda
turned her head away for an instant.
"It ain't your picnic now, you see," he went on, persuasively. "I've
done your job. You pay me and I'm done with you. I'll follow this up on
my own hook, and you needn't be one mite afraid of getting dragged in."
If a look could have killed him, he and his secret would at once
have sunk through the floor and nevermore been heard of. The look,
however, did not kill, and in obstinate pride and with repressed
self-satisfaction he presented a folded bill.
Chelda looked over it. "I cannot pay you now," she said, cuttingly.
"No odds,--I don't expect it. It was in the agreement that I'd wait,
but you spoke of part payment. My travelling expenses ain't no
flea-bite."
Chelda slowly drew her purse from her pocket. "Where is this man now?"
"We've located him in New York."
"We?"
"I,--we is professional. You're inclined to mistrust me, but I swear
I'm alone. I'll have no meddling with this job till I'm ready to spring
it. I'm planning to trace his exact hang-out through this relative you
speak of."
"You know who she is?"
"Yes, ma'am, though you didn't take the pains to tell me, no offence
either. You're not bound to tell all you know. I found out all about
her. She's the apple of Gentleman George's eye. Of course he writes
to her. We'll strike at him through her. I I've a little scheme for
scrutinising her husband's mail, but--" and H. Robinson suddenly folded
his lips. This young lady was now out of the combine, and he did not
like too well the expression in the depths of her inscrutable eyes.
After several efforts he succeeded in rising from his chair, bobbed
his head thankfully as she placed some bank-bills in his hand, then
sank back again to write a receipt.
"Here's your key," he said, suddenly, "I most forgot."
Chelda took the small, oddly-shaped piece of metal from him. Ever since
childhood she had known that her aunt kept her dearest possessions in
the little table at the head of her bed. In the lower drawers were her
family jewels. In the upper one were treasures beyond the treasures of
gold or precious stones.
The contents of this upper drawer had never been shown to Chelda,
and she had never had any curiosity to examine them, for she knew
pretty well that they were heart souvenirs,--old profile pictures,
daguerreotypes, and badly painted miniatures, locks of hair, scraps
of satin and velvet from wedding gowns, faded letters, and withered
flowers, taken from the hands of the dead.
But lately there had been some additions made to this store of
treasures,--something that drew her aunt to frequent contemplation and
meditation behind closed doors. There had also been a new lock put on
the drawers, and Chelda had become possessed of a teasing curiosity
to know what this concealed mystery foreboded. She was continually in
fear of a new heir. Her aunt had always treated her as her adopted
daughter, yet she had never bound herself by a sure and certain promise
to leave all that she possessed to her favourite niece. And now--would
the key fit? It was exceedingly peculiar in shape, and if there were
any flaw in it the detective must take it back to Boston to have
another made.
She hastily drew out her watch. The picnickers would probably not be
returning for some time yet. "Will you wait for one minute while I try
this?" she asked of H. Robinson.
"Cert'nly," he responded, and, folding his fat hands behind him, he
strolled to the window and gazed out at the blue sky and the bluer
river.
Chelda assured herself by a glance from the back of the house that
there was no one approaching from the direction of the wood, and then
going swiftly to her aunt's room, she knelt before the table and fitted
the key to the lock in the upper drawer.
It worked smoothly,--she had a week previous taken a successful
impression,--then, unable to withstand the temptation of casting
one glance in the sliding receptacle open at last before her, she
delicately insinuated her fingers among its miscellaneous articles, in
search of some object of enlightenment.
The velvet shoe first caught her attention. "Little Jane's
shoe,--carried over half the world by her unworthy Louis."
Jane was her aunt. Louis, Louis,--who was he?
Ah, her scapegrace uncle, dead long since. He had run away from the
parental roof, and had subsequently been much of a traveller.
Here was a letter, a half-open letter, the paper yellow, the ink pale,
in which the closing words related to this same uncle. "If Louis should
come home."
She wondered how long Louis had lived after leaving home. He had
apparently survived his father's death, and she carefully restored the
letter to the exact spot from which she had taken it.
"Gentleman George and His Gigantic Games,"--this was a newspaper
extract. Her aunt knew, then, that Derrice's father was a criminal. How
had she found out? Did Justin Mercer know? Surely not; he would never
have married the daughter of a man who had violated the law of his
country.
Her surprised mind ran off in this new field of conjecture, until,
suddenly remembering the necessity for haste, she laid the extract
back beside the shoe, and was about closing the drawer when one of the
flippant head-lines arrested her hand.
"The Bank Burglar a Fetich Worshipper. Undertakes No Job without His
Charm of the Velvet Shoe."
She caught the paper up again, and breathlessly read through the
article, in which was jauntily outlined the phenomenal career of a
man who had successfully carried through some of the greatest bank
robberies the world had ever known.
The reading finished, she sank back on the floor and stared in blank
horror before her.
Gentleman George was Louis Gastonguay. The errant son had never died.
Derrice Mercer was her cousin. Fool! Fool that she had been! and she
clasped wildly her beating breast.
A hundred confirmatory occurrences flashed into her mind. A long chain
of evidence linked itself before her eyes. She had thought herself so
clever,--how unutterably stupid had been her proceedings! She had set
a ball rolling that would crash in pieces this ancient house. She saw
herself discovered and dishonoured, her aunt's gray hairs brought down
in sorrow to the grave. She herself had pointed out the game to the
hunter below. Nothing would stop him. Nothing could restore her to her
lost estate of guiltlessness.
This was revenge,--revenge indeed,--a blow that would strike her as
well as her victim. She would lose French Cross. Her aunt would cast
her off; she would be a beggar. The thought was maddening, stunning.
She had never had any sorrow like this. Bernal Huntington's loss had
occasioned her sullen grief,--and even in the midst of her terror a
passionate remembrance of him swept into her mind,--but that was grief
of the mind only. She had suffered then, but not like this, not like
this.
Her whole body was now in agony,--the delicate pampered body that might
soon be snatched from the luxuries so necessary to it. It would have to
suffer privations that would be strange and fatal.
A deathly sickness overpowered her, and she buried her face in her
hands. Relentless figures flitted, before her,--Miss Gastonguay grim
and inexorable, Derrice agitated and weeping, Justin with a face turned
sternly from her.
Her mind gave way under the strain imposed on it, and her shrinking
body grew weak. The pale faces grew black, faded into mist, and she
fell headlong on the floor.