CLAYTON GRAHAM’S MURDER
When Marion awoke the next morning she saw Alma Allyn standing by her
bed-side, her eyes fairly bulging with horror.
“Quick, Marion, look!” she cried, holding out the morning paper.
“Clayton Graham is dead. He has been murdered in his own apartments.”
The young girl sat bolt upright in bed and snatched the paper hastily.
She could hardly speak for a moment after she finished reading.
“It was Carlotta, no doubt,” said Miss Allyn, slowly, “for they say she
is missing and has been since midnight.”
“It is dreadful,” cried Marion, springing out of bed. “Oh, it doesn’t
seem possible that she could have done it.”
“Well, they know it was a woman,” said her friend, as she glanced over
the paper again, “and who so likely as Carlotta?”
“I knew they had been quarreling frequently of late—every one in the
company knew it,” was the thoughtful answer, “but still I can’t think
that she would actually murder him, for, in spite of her bad temper, I
believe she loved him.”
“It was probably done in a second; she had, no doubt, lost her
self-control completely when she shot him,” said Miss Allyn.
Marion dressed herself hastily and ate her breakfast; then, as soon as
she could, she started for the theatre.
There was quite a group of girls at the stage door when she reached
there and, of course, they had all come on the same errand.
“The notice on the call board says that the treasurer will take charge
at once,” said one of the girls just as Marion came up. “He is Graham’s
brother and I believe he has money in the enterprise.”
“Well, there’ll be no performance to-night, anyway,” said another
girl turning away, “but the new manager has called a rehearsal for
to-morrow.”
Marion waited to see for what time the rehearsal was called and then
started back uptown to tell Dollie what had happened.
A block from the theatre a carriage was driven closely to the curb and
a handsome young man, tall and aristocratic in appearance, leaned out
of the window and greeted her eagerly.
“Oh, Mr. Ray!” cried Marion, as she recognized her old friend and
champion. “I am so delighted to see you again!”
In an instant Mr. Ray was out on the pavement beside her.
“Do let me drive you wherever you are going,” he said, quickly.
“To Dollie’s, then,” laughed Marion, as she entered the carriage.
Her lovely face was radiant as Mr. Ray smiled down into her eyes, for
in a second Marion’s beauty seemed enhanced a hundred fold.
Her cheeks flushed and paled at the unexpected pleasure and little
dimples appeared that were not often seen and which made her face for
the minute almost as childishly sweet as her twin sister’s.
“And I am delighted to see you also,” murmured Mr. Ray, softly. “Both
my sister and I have been striving to meet you, but you have no idea
how busy we are, Marion.”
He uttered her name as though it was sacred to him, and the fair girl’s
eyelids drooped shyly as she heard him.
“You see we have sold our house and are storing the most of our
things,” he continued, rather sadly, “for there are only two of us now,
and we intend to travel. I am in wretched health, and I know it is
better.”
He spoke a little doubtfully, as if arguing with himself, but Marion
understood and hastened to turn the subject.
“I am sure that you must be busy with all that to do,” she added,
quickly, “but have you heard that my manager is dead, Mr. Ray? I am to
have a vacation perforce—I do not know for how long until I see our new
manager to-morrow.”
“I read of the horrible occurrence,” was the answer. “I am glad all
women are not like that dreadful Carlotta.”
Once more he gazed down into Marion’s eyes with his tender smile, and
the fair girl’s heart throbbed with a sweet emotion.
She knew only too well what he was longing to say, and she knew also
why it was that the words could not be uttered.
Archie Ray had loved her almost from the hour they met, and then, poor
fellow, he supposed he had a right to love her—but later, before the
sweet question had been asked, he discovered that the woman whom he had
married when a boy at college, and who he thought had been dead for
two years, was still alive, and, more, that she was now a thoroughly
dissolute character.
The knowledge had shocked him beyond expression, but he had borne it
like a man and Marion had helped him. Only a short time after the
discovery the wretched creature died. She had drifted to Blackwell’s
Island as a “drunk and disorderly,” her face disfigured by vitriol
which had been thrown upon her by another low woman.
It was Marion Marlowe’s lot to round out the fearful tragedy, for at
the very last moment, when poor Mary Ray’s body was _en route_ for
Potter’s Field, it was she who rescued her remains and gave them back
to her husband and to a Christian burial.
Since that time Marion and Mr. Ray had met but once. That was at
Dollie’s wedding at the little flat in Harlem.
And now he was thinking of going away, yet she knew that he loved her
more deeply than ever—she could read it in his eyes and in his voice
when he spoke to her.
But the beautiful girl was not so sure of her own sentiments as she was
of his, for the question of love had always been put aside by her—there
was too much else to be considered in the fearful struggle for
existence. Until Dollie was safely settled she did not dare to think of
herself, but now with these tender eyes looking almost into her soul,
Marion was forced to, in a measure, analyze her feelings for him.
“You will come and see us, will you not?” she asked earnestly, as she
raised her lovely eyes to his face. “Dear Dollie is so happy in her
little home. Do promise me that you will come and see us.”
There was something in her voice that thrilled his very soul and in an
instant every barrier seemed to melt from between them.
A sudden pallor appeared upon his handsome face at her request, then a
flush rose swiftly to his very brow as he answered:
“I will come, Marion, on one condition,” he murmured, eagerly. “Oh,
Marion, darling! Don’t you know that I love you? May I not come to you
as your lover, dearest?”
He had taken her hands in his as he spoke and his dark eyes were
looking into hers as though he would read her heart’s every secret.
But after the first flush of excitement the loyal girl’s lips became
firm and she raised her eyes to his face with a tender, anxious
expression.
“Oh, Mr. Ray! I am so sorry! But it cannot be! I am too young, too
inexperienced! I do not know my own heart! Do, please, please forget
that you have asked me that question!”
Archie Ray’s face paled to the lips, but he smiled at her bravely.
“As you will, Marion,” he said, almost sadly. “Forgive me if I have
pained you, but, oh, my darling, do not decide too quickly! Give me a
month, a year, and I will wait patiently.”
Marion bowed her head. She could not answer. This avowal of love had
almost overwhelmed her.