THE BROKEN PICTURE
"Hyuh yo' is, honey, smack-dab on time!" called 'Lige's cheery voice,
as he took Echo's bag. "Yo' fo'got ter say which train yo' comin' back
on yistiddy, so ah ben waitin' wid dee cya'age fo dee las' fo'. Ah was
figuratin' on yo' gittin' hyuh fo' dinnah, sho'."
As they bowled along toward home Echo wondered if she could really be
the same girl who had driven away the day before along those self-same
streets! The strenuous events through which she had passed seemed the
terrifying creation of a dream, a nightmarish panorama of the sick
imagination, so wild and incredible all appeared in the serene light of
this day: The painful scene in Craig's library that had ended in swift
tragedy, with the apparition between the portieres of that baleful
face--with its narrow eyes and upthrust of nondescript hair it had
stamped itself ineffacably upon her memory!--the deafening shot and the
after confusion--those breathless moments when she had run along the
wet path, with a sense of flashing lights and alarm behind her--her
safe emergence into the demure street, where she dared not run,
compelling herself to walk albeit ready to faint with fear at sight of
a patrolling policeman--the ghastly delay in the stuffy waiting-room of
the station where she had checked her bag on arrival--the suffocating
relief when at last the express pulled out, bearing her away
unchallenged.
Through the long night she had tossed feverishly in her berth, without
undressing, at intervals feeling the meaning of the catastrophe in
which she had figured surge over her in a flood. That catastrophe
itself had saved her from one horror: but for it she would now be the
wife of Cameron Craig--a thought that made her shiver. Now she was
safe! In all that trip, fortunately, she had encountered no one she
knew. She had seen but one servant at the house and in his presence
had worn a light veil. Only Craig had known who she was! What if she
had been taken--held as a witness? How could she have explained her
presence except by the letters for whose suppression she had been ready
to give her life's happiness? As in imagination she saw her father and
herself pictured in the yellow press, the centre of gossip and
humiliating notoriety, she hugged the letters to her breast with
intensest gratitude toward the desperado who had extricated her from
the instant crisis. With what swift self-possession he had acted for
her safety! That in that lightning-like emergency he should have even
thought of the letters filled her with astonishment. Over and over
again she tried to picture his face behind the mask, as his hand had
held out the packet to her. Her senses had been shocked keenly alive
at the moment: she had even noted--as in tense crises one notes
inconsequent trifles--the ring on his finger with its curious, square
green stone. A thousand times she lost herself in wonder that a man
capable of such a deed to an unknown woman could yet be a common
burglar, one of the desperate gang whose leader was now awaiting trial,
and whose malignant face and levelled pistol haunted her. Then the
shuddering thought would roll over her that she, Echo Allen, had
witnessed the awful act of murder, and she would hide her face in her
pillow, trembling and spent. Dawn had long been whitening the windows
when the strained nerves relaxed and the body, fatigued by two
sleepless nights, found fitful rest.
The sun had been high when she awoke and by the time she had made her
toilette and drunk a cup of coffee she had reached the little station
for which she had ostensibly started the preceding day. A rambling
hack had taken her to the home of her aunt--a recluse who had for a
dozen years regarded the outer world through the blurred medium of
semi-invalidism, absorbed in her languid reading and her flowers. On
arrival Echo had found the frail figure lying out among her roses, with
white, wild butterflies flaunting about her, stronger than she had been
for months past, and free from the querulous humours which generally
held her. So keen was her delight in her betterment that Echo had
found it easy to accomplish her own departure after luncheon, though
she generally stayed the night. There was for the present, therefore,
no added absence to be accounted for, and the lapse of time might never
have to be explained.
As she drove now from the station through the bustling, down-town
streets toward Midfields, the knowledge that her father's secret was
safe overshadowed all the pain through which she had passed. The
dreadful memory dulled in the sunshine and the sense of security buoyed
her. She would never have to tell her part in that terrible night to
any one. Not even to Harry: she could tell him that she had never
loved any one but him: that it had been misunderstanding that had
driven her to send him that unhappy note. Her father himself need
never be made aware that she knew his secret. It would be forever dead
and buried!
She bade 'Lige stop at the post-office. At her aunt's she had wrapped
the letters in thick wrapping-paper and sealed and tied the packet, and
this she now addressed to her father, printing the words in a large,
round hand. Then she bought some stamps, affixed them at one of the
desks that lined the corridor and smudged them with ink to simulate a
postmark. Once at home it would be easy to slip the parcel among his
evening mail. He would believe that Craig had relented of his purpose,
would destroy the letters, and the danger would be gone forever!
Lastly, standing in the thronging thoroughfare, at the same dusty
little desk, on a sheet of paper which she bought at the stamp-window,
she wrote to Harry Sevier:
Forget the note I sent you yesterday. Count that it was never written,
that everything--everything!--is as it was when we sat on the porch
together the day before. I can't write the rest--but come to me
to-night, and I will tell you.
ECHO.
She sealed and addressed this--as an afterthought, marking it
_urgent_--and went out to the carriage. A few minutes later the horses
drew up again, this time before the populous office-building that held
Harry's offices.
She climbed the stair slowly, her heart hammering. She intended to
hand the note to his clerk. If Harry had gone home, it would be sent
to him there. On the landing she stopped, her breath coming quickly.
The mahogany door was open and she could see a little way into the
outer office. If she came face to face with him, what should she say?
But no sound of voices, no rustle of paper or scratch of pen, came to
her. She went nearer--the place was empty. She took a hesitant step
or two into the room. The door of the inner office was open--that was
empty too, and its big desk closed. Harry was not there, but the
clerk, at least, should not be far off, as the door had stood wide.
She went closer and peered into the inner office. Facing her from the
wall was a small cabinet, its door, from which splinters of opaque
glass were scattered about the rugs, smashed through as if by a heavy
blow. Beneath it, on the desk-top, was a black bottle and a stained
glass, tipped on its side.
All at once she started. She had caught sight of something that lay in
the fire-place. She went and picked it up: it was a picture of
herself--one she had never known Harry possessed--a photograph of her
portrait that had been hung in a certain spring salon in Paris. It had
been framed in silver, but frame and picture had been broken across,
savagely torn and twisted into a remnant of metal and cardboard.
She dropped the defaced thing with a little cry and caught a hand to
her breast. What must he have been thinking in that moment of ruthless
destruction? It had been after he had read her note to him! Her
cheeks flamed. Did he now despise her for what he had thought her
flippancy, or hate her for having taken his love only to throw it away
like an old glove? As she looked again at the riven cabinet and the
bottle on the desk, a shiver of dread seized her. From the silent
symbols there stood forth outlines that frightened her.
She went slowly out to the hall, the letter she had intended to leave
crushed up in her hand. At the top of the stair stood a tall window
and she halted in its embrasure and leaned against the sill, hearing
dully the muffled clack of the street and trying to see a mental way
through the confusing conjectures that were leaping, like lurking
beasts of prey, upon her. As she stood there voices sounded behind
her, coming from the other end of the hall--the clerk was returning
with a comrade:
"'No,' says he. 'Don't know _when_ I'll come back.' Thought he looked
a bit off coloured, too. Told me to close up the office till I heard
from him, and not to forward anything. Rum go, eh?"
"Seems like mighty poor business," ventured the other.
The clerk sniffed. "Business!" he exclaimed. "Much Sevier cares about
that! A man with a brain like his and a silver tongue to boot doesn't
need business! But after that speech of his the other day I should
think he'd sit tight as wax to those Civic Club people. They're going
to make a real campaign of it and he could get on the ticket sure.
It'd be a _cinch_! Why he wants to light out abroad somewhere beats
_me_! Well, _I_ don't care how long he stays. I'm going to shut up
the shebang to-night and put in some good licks for my law-examination."
They entered the office and the door closed upon their voices.
Echo stood motionless, looking down into the street. Harry had gone
away! He had gone with despair and anger, or worse than anger, against
her in his heart leaving behind him only that mangled portrait and that
ominous bottle on the desk! Where had he gone, and when should she see
him again?
Just across the way a knot of people was gathering in front of a
newspaper bulletin-board whereon a great white sheet was being pasted,
and her gaze--first mechanically, then with a start of shrinking
comprehension--read the staring headlines that had been roughly
lettered upon it:
CAMERON CRAIG SHOT DOWN BY BURGLAR
DESPERATE MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER IN FINANCIER'S LIBRARY
WOUNDED MAN UNCONSCIOUS BUT STILL ALIVE
MYSTERIOUS WOMAN INVOLVED
Cameron Craig was not dead! If he lived, he must one day learn that
the letters were gone from the safe. Would he not then connect her
with their disappearance? What would he do? She was aware, unhappily,
to what lengths he was capable of going! Even though the letters were
not his, would he accuse her of stealing them--_her_?
As she drove away the last two lines seemed to imprint themselves on
her eyeballs in monstrous symbols of flame.