MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
It was quite dark in the street, she found, when she had groped her way
down the rickety stairs to it, and a fine, chill rain was falling.
With a wildly beating heart, and dilating, frightened eyes, Editha
looked up and down the sidewalk, hoping to catch sight of the friendly
policeman again. But he was nowhere to be seen, and there were very few
people to be either seen or heard, every one who was fortunate enough to
have a shelter having sought its protection against the storm.
Drawing her cloak closer about her, and calling all her resolution to
her aid, she sped her way, half expecting that at every step some
horrible creature would rise up and confront her, demanding the precious
treasure that lay so close above her fluttering heart. But no such
person was in sight, and no one appeared to be following her; and,
gaining courage from the fact, she grew more calm, and began to breathe
more freely, as she almost flew over the way.
She had nearly gained a more public street, where she could see the
friendly lights glimmering and beckoning her on, and where, once
reached, she intended taking a car home.
Her courage arose with every step; she had only one more low,
ill-looking building to pass, then an open space, before she would be
where no possible harm could come to her. Her heart beat lightly and
cried out within her: “Victory! victory!” for now Earle would be free
from all taint or suspicion—he could hereafter proudly face the whole
world, and no one would dare to point the finger of scorn at him again.
How happy she would be to be able to give him this evidence when he
should return. She had never dared to think that _she_ would be the one
to bestow upon him such exceeding joy, and she hugged to her bosom with
a strange feeling of exultation the closely-penciled paper that was to
accomplish all this.
The low building was nearly passed—two minutes more and she would be——
Safe! she would have added; but a sudden shock prevented her ever
finishing the interrupted thought.
A heavy hand dropped upon her shoulder like the stroke of a hammer, and
a fierce voice whispered in her ear:
“Make no noise and I will do you no harm; scream _once_, and I’ll choke
you; but I must have that paper that John Loker signed for you.”
She knew the instant she felt the touch of that hand—before even a word
was uttered—_who_ it was that had captured her there in the darkness and
rain.
She did not need the aid of a light to know that a burly head, with
flaming red hair, and an ugly face, with a scar under the right eye, and
an ear with part of the lobe gone, towered above her; she could almost
_feel_ that the hand lying so heavily upon her was minus a portion of
the little finger, and a shudder ran through her as it flashed upon her
how much of crime that hand was guilty of, and might be stained even
more deeply, yet, before it should be removed from her.
The sudden shock seemed to paralyze her for the moment, so that she was
powerless to resist. She _could_ not have cried out, even if his threat
had not intimidated her, so terrible was the fright she sustained.
“I will do you no injury, Editha Dalton; but I must have that paper; and
be quick about it, too,” the man repeated, in low tones.
Give up that precious paper voluntarily—that treasure worth more to her
than her whole fortune! Give up all the evidence there was in the world
that Earle Wayne was an innocent, injured, and long-suffering man!
_Never!_
Her whole soul arose at once to arms to do valiant battle for the noble
lover and his honor.
She had been fearful and trembling all the way from John Loker’s house
to this spot, dreading every step lest she should meet this very foe.
Now that the danger was encountered, and she, a frail, delicate girl,
was actually in the power of a desperate villain, and not a person
within hearing to help her, she grew suddenly calm, her brain clear, and
quick, and keen to think, her nerves steady to act.
“How do you know that I have any paper signed by John Loker?” she
quietly demanded.
She knew well enough how, but she asked the question to gain time.
The man laughed a short, scornful laugh; then he said:
“You are a brave little woman, and a good actress;” and there was a note
of admiration in his voice as he spoke. “You thought I did not see you
glance up at the window back of John Loker’s bed half an hour ago,” he
went on, in quick, low tones; “you did not scream nor make any fuss, as
most women would have done on seeing a face like mine peering in upon
them; you knew it was your only chance to get the evidence that would
clear an innocent man from the suspicion of a crime; you showed a plucky
spirit, Miss Dalton, to sit there and write so quietly, when you knew
Tom Drake’s ugly face was looking down upon you. But did you think I
would let you get away with that evidence? Not much—my business is too
profitable to be stopped by having my likeness displayed to the world,
even though it was taken by a hand as pretty as yours. So make haste and
pass it over,” he said, not unkindly, for her dauntless spirit had
really inspired him with admiration for her.
“_You cannot have it!_” Edith said, firmly, while she made an effort to
free herself from the grasp of her captor.
The next instant she would have screamed for help in spite of his
threat, but he, anticipating this, threw one powerful arm around her
slight form, placing his other hand at the same time over her mouth,
and, lifting her from her feet as easily as if she had been a child, he
carried her within the shadow of a door-way in the low building before
referred to.
Once there, he sat her down upon her feet again, though he still kept
her mouth firmly covered with his hand.
“_I’ve got to have it_, d’ye hear?” he said, fiercely; “if not by fair
means, why, then, by foul. I’ve no wish to harm you, and if you’ll give
it up _quietly_ I’ll let you go; if you won’t, it will be the worst for
you, that’s all. Will you give it up? Nod your head if you mean yes.”
Editha could scarcely breathe, his hand was so heavily pressed over her
mouth and nostrils, and she was absolutely powerless in the strong man’s
grasp.
She knew she was at his mercy, but she knew also that he could not get
possession of her treasure without removing his hand from her face,
which would give her an advantage over him, because she could call for
help.
So, instead of nodding her head as he had commanded her to do, she
resolutely signified her defiance by a decided shake.
The man uttered a round oath at this.
Evidently he had not anticipated any such determined resistance, and for
a moment he appeared undecided what to do.
“I’d like to strangle what little life there is left in that traitor out
of him,” he muttered, angrily, referring to John Loker.
His sentence was hardly completed when he uttered a suppressed howl.
Editha’s white teeth had suddenly closed over the fleshy part of his
palm with a force that made him cringe with pain, and at the same time
remove something of the pressure over her mouth.
Taking advantage of this, she threw back her head with a violent motion
and sent forth a shrill cry for help.
The cry was her salvation, and help was nearer than either of them
thought.
A quick, firm tread soon sounded upon the pavement, and then the tall
form of a policeman became visible close at hand.
The villain saw that his “game was up,” and that the wisest thing for
him to do would be to get out of the way, and, with another fierce oath,
he released his hold upon his victim and beat a hasty and inglorious
retreat, vowing vengeance upon her in the future.
With succor at hand, and the disappearance of her captor, Editha’s
courage and strength failed her utterly.
Her nerves had received a terrible shock, for which she of necessity had
now to pay the penalty.
She did not faint, nor go into hysterics, nor make any Other
disturbance, but she clung in speechless terror and trembling to the
sturdy policeman who had come to her aid.
“Are you hurt, miss? Did the villain _dare_ to hurt you?” he asked,
sternly.
“No, not much; but, oh, oh! he frightened me terribly,” she whispered,
shaking as with the ague, and her teeth chattering audibly.
“Poor thing! poor thing! this is a bad place for such as you to be in,”
he answered, pityingly. “I thought to watch for you,” he continued,
“until you came out from John Loker’s house, and then take you safely
through this dismal street; but there was a scrimmage down here apiece,
and I had to go. But I was a sort ’o looking for you as I came along
back, and I suspected at once that it was you when I heard you cry out.
Did the wretch steal anything from you?”
“No; but he wanted something which he knew I had, and I wouldn’t give it
to him.”
“_Wouldn’t_, eh?” repeated the policeman, with a little chuckle at her
spirit and resolute tone. “Should you know him if you should ever meet
him again?” he asked, presently.
“Oh, yes,” Editha answered, with a shudder, feeling that it would be
impossible ever to forget that repulsive face that had so startled her
at the window in John Loker’s miserable home.
She was now beginning to recover her strength, and signified her
readiness to go on if her companion would accompany her. She longed to
get away from the dismal place, and as if she would never dare enter a
by-street again as long as she lived.
The man readily went with her to the next street, and waited to see her
safely seated in a car, and in less than fifteen minutes she was once
more in her own luxurious home, heartily thankful for her escape from a
ruffian’s power.
Mr. Dalton expressed some surprise at her being out so late—remarked,
with some indifference, that she looked pale, and asked if she was not
well, and then added that dinner had been waiting for more than half an
hour.
She simply replied that she was well, and regretted that he should have
waited dinner for her, but she had been unavoidably detained.
Editha Dalton knew that she must keep her own counsel regarding that
evening’s adventures.
The time had come when she could not trust her dearest interests in the
hands of her father. She knew he would have no sympathy with her
regarding the confession she had obtained and would oppose rather than
aid her in making it public to vindicate Earle.
But she had resolved to go to Mr. Felton, on the morrow, put the
precious evidence in his hands, and be guided by his ever wise counsel.
She retired to her own rooms as soon as dinner was dispatched, and
immediately set herself to work to make a careful copy of John Loker’s
confession to send to Earle. And then, with something of the fear
creeping over her that she had experienced while in Tom Drake’s power,
she looked around for a safe place in which to hide the original. She
would not take it below and put in into the safe, for she knew that
burglars were not troubled nowadays about opening such things, let them
have ever so complicated a lock, and she could not sleep until it was
safely disposed of somewhere.
“_What_ shall I do with it?” she said, with flushed cheeks and anxious
brow. “Something tells me I must _hide_ it even for to-night.”
No drawer with any common lock would be a safe place, she reasoned—she
could not keep it about her person, and for a long time it was a matter
that caused her much perplexity. All at once her eyes lighted. In her
jewel-box, which was quite a large one, there was a raised velvet
cushion, with places on it for the different articles of jewelry she was
in the habit of wearing.
This cushion was securely glued to the bottom of the box. What omen of
impending evil could have inspired Editha with the idea that underneath
this would be a safe place to hide her evidence?
She carefully pried it from the box, folded the papers just to fit the
bottom, then, pressing the cushions firmly back into its place, she once
more arranged her jewels in their accustomed position, and then,
apparently satisfied with her work, she resumed her seat and began to
write an account of her adventures to her dear one across the sea.
It is said that “coming events cast their shadows before;” whether this
be true or not, I cannot say, but one thing is certain, and that is that
it was _well_ for Earle Wayne’s honor that Editha Dalton was guided by
her impressions to so adroitly conceal John Loker’s confession just
where she did and just _when_ she did.
The next morning Editha did not make her appearance at the
breakfast-table.
This was something unusual, for the young girl had always made it a
point, even since Mrs. Dalton’s death, to be neatly and attractively
dressed and in her place opposite her father promptly every morning upon
the ringing of the breakfast-bell.
Mr. Dalton, angry at thus being obliged to wait two successive meals for
her, curtly ordered a servant to go and awake her, and tell her he was
waiting for her.
The girl hastened to do his bidding, but soon returned, with pale and
affrighted face, saying that Miss Editha was not in her chamber, her bed
had not been occupied during the night, and that both sitting-room and
bedroom were in the direst confusion.
Mr. Dalton, was of course, instantly alarmed at this startling
intelligence, and hastened at once to investigate the matter.
He found it was even worse than the girl had stated. Drawers, boxes, and
closets had been overturned and emptied of their contents, and lay
scattered in every direction upon the floor, chairs, and bed. Clothing
had been unfolded, shaken out, and then thrown hastily aside; dresses
were lying over chairs, with their pockets turned inside out and rifled
of their contents. Editha’s costly writing-desk was overturned upon the
floor, her letters and papers scattered in every direction; and then it
was for the first time that Mr. Dalton knew for a certainty of her
correspondence with Earle, for stooping down to pick up these letters,
he had gathered up with others those that the young man had sent across
the sea to her.
Never had those beautiful rooms been in such dire confusion before, and
nothing seemed to be missing but Editha’s jewelry, which had been taken
from its box, and that was left standing, empty and open, in its
accustomed place, and a very common hat and circular waterproof, which
she had been in the habit of wearing in stormy weather. Editha herself
was gone—that was evident, and no one appeared to know when nor whither.
Mr. Dalton was nearly stupefied at first, and the thought flashed upon
him that she might have fled to Earle.
But he soon dismissed this idea, for he knew her character well enough
to know that if she was bound to marry Earle Wayne she would do it
boldly, openly, and in defiance of the whole world; moreover, she never
would have gone away voluntarily and left things in that style, taking
nothing with her for her own comfort or needs.
No, it was a deep and incomprehensible mystery.
Days and weeks were devoted to the search of her. Detectives were
employed, the police were notified, and advertisements were inserted in
all the leading papers, but all without avail; no clew could be gained
as to the whereabouts of the missing girl; and Mr. Dalton was at last
left entirely alone and desolate in his beautiful home.
Only one thing was discovered that seemed to have any bearing on the
matter, and that was her adventure with the unknown ruffian after her
visit to John Loker’s house.
The policeman who had rescued her gave an account of what he knew of the
matter, and then Mr. Dalton went himself to see the wretched family,
thinking perhaps some further information might be gleaned from them.
But John Loker had died the day following Editha’s visit there, and
after the funeral the family had disappeared, and no one knew anything
of them.
To say that Mr. Dalton was not extremely distressed over the strange
affair would be very unjust to him.
He availed himself of every possible means to solve the dreadful
mystery; but, as we have already seen, he was an utterly selfish man,
and it was not in his nature to brood over anything either troublesome
or disagreeable; and the source from which he at length drew consolation
may perhaps be revealed by the following soliloquy with himself, as he
sat one night in the library, considering the pros and cons of the
future:
“If anything—ah—fatal—_should_ have—happened to Editha—if she should not
be—_living_, her—fortune then will be—_mine_, I suppose.”
And even while he spoke a strange look settled over his face, there was
a queer quaver in his voice, and he was as white as the immaculate tie
which he wore about his neck.