RITA.

P.S. Remember--nothing public about last night!

The prospect of a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Kildair appeased him somewhat,

but his anticipations for the afternoon were sorely disappointed, and he

started aimlessly back, with a feeling that a great hole had been made

in the day. As he reached the corner, a red automobile cut in close to

the curb, causing him to step hastily back. Inside he recognized Slade.

He watched the red machine come to a stop before Mrs. Kildair's and then

whirl away, after depositing the massive figure of its owner. Beecher,

with a little wounded vanity, lingered a moment, hoping to see him

reappear; but, as the sidewalk continued empty, he was forced to

conclude that he had come by appointment.

"She might at least have seen me," he said angrily. "What the deuce has

she got to see Slade for?"

All at once he perceived that his steps had led him in the general

direction of the quarter in which Nan Charters resided, and, as he had

come to make an impression on one woman, he soon began to consider

transferring his attack on another. Only, he remembered that he had

determined to treat Miss Charters with indifference, to correct any

erroneous ideas that she might have formed from his previous impulsive

conduct.

"That's so," he said, angry now at himself, at her, and at a condition

of affairs that left him with an hour of idleness on his hands. "If I

call now, she'll think I'm hot on the trail. I could stop, though, and

inquire about her health," he thought, hesitating; "that would seem

natural, after last night."

But he rejected this as a subterfuge, and continued his slow, uneven

progress down Seventh Avenue, which he had selected at random in search

of a little oddity and interest; and gradually he recognized that the

vexation he felt was, in reality, not at being unable to find an excuse

for calling on Miss Charters, but the keen sense of disappointment he

had in missing an intimate hour with Rita.

It was essentially the woman of the world in her that fascinated him,

the woman of mysterious experience, of sure knowledge and complete

command of situations. He wished to increase the intimacy of his

position, because to be favored by her meant something--something that

awoke his masculine sense of supremacy and fed his vanity. Determined

on a long bachelorhood that would open to him all sorts and conditions

of society and adventurous experiences, he had determined likewise to

avoid the dangerous field of young girls of his own set and to exercise

his curiosity with women of the world--older women, professional women,

with whom an impulsive infatuation brought no risks, but something to be

taken at value, a mood that was charming because it would pass.

All at once an idea came to him that reconciled his easily satisfied

conscience and appeared sublimely politic. He would drop in on Nan

Charters, just to show his indifference.

"I'll stay fifteen minutes--be quite formal and a little bored," he

said, chuckling.

And he went without too much enthusiasm toward his destination, thinking

of Rita Kildair and planning in his imaginative mind a series of

confidential conversations for the tete-a-tete on the morrow.

"To see Miss Charters," he said, giving his card to the boy in the

elevator, who turned it over doubtfully, hesitated, and disappeared like

a float in an opera, mounting heavenward.

Beecher ceased to think of Rita Kildair, and prepared himself, smiling

astutely, for his approaching scene with the young actress whom he

intended properly to discipline for her effrontery in imagining that

he--Edward T. Beecher--had entertained for a moment any other than a

polite social interest. Miss Charters excused herself--she was lying

down and dining out.

He cast a furious look at the telephone-booth, by means of which she

might personally have assured him of her great regret, and stalked out

in a worse temper than ever--Rita Kildair, Nan Charters, all the women

in the world consigned to perdition.

"Confound them all!" he said, brandishing his cane. "What a lot of time

a man wastes over them. She might have telephoned me. They only exist

in this world to distract us from what we ought to do. I wonder if she

did it on purpose--just to give me an appetite. Well, if she did--she's

succeeded," he said ruefully.

He went to his rooms, resolved to meet her at every opportunity, to

revenge himself by showing her he could play the game more cleverly than

she could; and in his angry resolve there was very little trace of the

indifference of which he had been so confident.

*CHAPTER VII*

Gunther had a suite in one of the newer hotels that tower over the

eastern entrance to the park. When Beecher arrived, a quiet, powerfully

built man was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking with

enjoyment. Beecher recognized immediately Cyrus McKenna, formerly of

the United States Secret Service, founder of the great detective agency

that bore his name.

"Ted, shake hands with my good friend Mr. McKenna," said Gunther,

appearing in the doorway with a refractory collar in his grasp.

"McKenna, shake hands with Mr. Beecher. Fire away, Ted. I'll be out in

a second."

"Glad to know you," said McKenna, grasping his hand.

Beecher was aware of the quick, estimating scrutiny and a sense of

unusual physical vitality. But he was disappointed in his first glance

at this man whose investigations had been the terror of corrupt

politicians and unscrupulous agitators. McKenna was physically the ideal

detective, in that not a feature possessed a trace of oddity which could

betray him to the public, in which he thus mingled without fear of

recognition. He was neither short nor tall, neither thin nor unusually

heavy. His head was round, well-spaced, and evenly formed, without

affectation of mystery or astuteness, lit up by a jovial good humor when

animated, and quite blank and indecipherable when in repose. The eyes

alone, like the eyes of a painter or a sculptor seeking tones or

modelings that escape the common glance, were noticeable for a certain

quality of penetration, expressed in the countenance by innumerable fine

lines that gathered in the eye-pits.

"Mr. McKenna," said Beecher, who had an instinctive desire to impress

the detective with the lucidity of his observations, "I will give you

quickly the details that are important. First, here is the plan of the

apartment, which may or may not be of use."

He went to the low table-desk at the side, and drew out paper and

pencil. McKenna brought up a chair at his side, and Gunther, coming in,

sat down opposite.

"It concerns the theft of a ruby ring worth over fifteen thousand

dollars," said Beecher, busy with his pencil, "taken last night, between

eight and eleven, at the apartment of Mrs. Rita Kildair. The

circumstances are so extraordinary that you will be interested in the

problem itself."

The detective smiled in a slightly amused way and asked:

"Am I retained in her interest or in yours?"

"In mine," said Beecher quickly. "The theft took place at a social

gathering, you understand, and in the party were persons well known in

New York society. Mrs. Kildair, as is natural, particularly desires

that nothing shall become public."

"Does she know that you intend to consult me?"

"No--and I am not sure I wish her to know."

"Is she employing detectives?"

"Yes."

"Whom did the ring belong to?"

"To Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher, annoyed that he had forgotten this

rather important detail.

"Let me see the plan," said McKenna, who glanced at it a moment and

nodded. "Now go on."

"There were eleven persons present, including Mrs. Kildair," said

Beecher, after a moment's pause. McKenna took the pencil and prepared to

inscribe the list. "Myself, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Cheever--"

"I can give you a pointer on them," said Gunther, speaking for the first

time.

"Unnecessary," said McKenna. "I know the card episode."

"Mr. and Mrs. Bloodgood."

"Mrs. Bloodgood--yes."

"Mr. Garraboy."

"Joseph L. or Edward C., the broker?"

"The broker. Miss Nan Charters."

"The actress--yes."

"Miss Maud Lille."

"Know anything about her?"

"She's a journalist; writes books too, I believe."

"Well?"

"Bernard L. Majendie and John Slade."

The detective raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"They were there--together?"

"They came separately. Slade joined the party at the last moment; he

was not expected."

"A very interesting crowd," said the detective slowly, studying the

list. "What servants?"

"None."

"You are sure?"

"Mrs. Kildair has only two, a Japanese butler and a lady's maid, both of

whom were out."

"You are positive?"

"Absolutely. The occasion was an informal supper. Mrs. Kildair, while

preparing the dishes, placed her three rings on the pin-cushion of her

dressing-table--at this point here on the plans--fastening them with a

hatpin. The table, as you see, can be easily seen both from the studio

and the dining-room."

"What were the circumstances of her placing the rings on the

pin-cushion? First, when did it occur? After all the guests had

arrived?"

"Yes," said Beecher, who immediately corrected himself. "No, I'm wrong;

Slade arrived later. But, as I say, he was a surprise. Majendie was the

last of the invited party to come. Immediately afterward Mrs. Kildair

went into her bedroom to put on an apron and take off her rings."

"Who was in the room?"

"Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille, and Garraboy," said Beecher slowly.

"They saw her take off the ring?"

"Yes; they even announced it later."

"Was there much passing to and fro?"

"All the time. I am quite sure every one was in the room several

times."

"Did any one use the hall?" said the detective, indicating it on the

plan. "I see it opens into the dining-room also."

"Quite a number," said Beecher. "I remember using it myself. We were

all going and coming, carrying dishes, glasses, bottles, provisions."

"One question: did you notice the ring on the pin-cushion yourself?"

"Yes; I distinctly remember seeing two or three rings, I don't remember

which."

"Go on."

"After about three quarters of an hour of preparation, we took our

places at the table, with the exception of Mrs. Kildair, who was still

moving about us. It was then that Slade came in, was introduced, and

took his place."

"He did not pass into the bedroom, then?"

"No. Mrs. Kildair went in immediately, took off her apron, and

discovered the loss of the ruby ring."

Beecher, without further interruptions from McKenna, recounted in detail

the return of Mrs. Kildair, the locking of the doors, the extinguishing

of the lights, the announcement of the theft, the beginning of the

counting, the sound of the ring on the table, and the discovery of its

second disappearance. Then he stopped, awaiting the questioning of the

detective.

"No; go right on," said McKenna, with a little gesture of his pencil

that dotted an imaginary _i_.

Beecher continued, describing the lighting of the lights, the confusion

in the room, the sending for the detectives, the discussion as to the

order of search, and the failure to recover the ring. Omitting his

personal observations of Miss Charters and their conversation in the

cab, he recounted his return to Mrs. Kildair's, his meeting with

Garraboy, the discovery of the detective, the strangeness of Mrs.

Kildair's attitude, and her concealment of the identity of the next

visitor. He concluded, and both young men looked at the detective as if

they expected him to solve the problem on the instant--an attitude that

was not lost on McKenna.

"I suppose you young men believe every word that has been written on

deduction," he said, grinning and biting off the end of another cigar.

"Presume you've already determined that a woman took the ring, and

lacked the nerve to face the risk--that the strong, daring nature of a

man seized the opportunity the second time, and, because Slade and

Majendie are millionaires and Bloodgood the respectable owner of a

newspaper, the thief is either Garraboy, a gambler in stocks, or

Cheever, with an ugly reputation."

The two young men smiled guiltily.

"But I say, McKenna, you don't reject deduction entirely," said Gunther.

"Oh, no, I believe in 'deduction forward,'" said McKenna, laughing. "If

I know there's a thief in the company, I deduce he'll steal if he gets

the chance. Now, before I put a few more questions to you, let me tell

you this. My business isn't in deducing how the theft was done (I get

my man and sweat him out; he'll tell me that), but who did it; and for

that it don't take any deduction, either. Give me time, money, and no

strings on me, there isn't any crime can't be worked out."

"But how the deuce are you going to locate a ring," said Beecher, "if

you don't know whom to follow?"

"The ring's the easiest part," said the detective. "You may not know it,

but every stone of great value is what's called a named stone; every

jeweler knows of it. Now, there aren't many rubies worth over fifteen

thousand floating around. If you don't believe it, I'll show you how

easy it's done. Inside a week I'll give you the history of the stone

and just how it came into the hands of Mrs. Kildair."

"You mean no one can dispose of it to a jeweler without its being

recognized?"

"Unless he's done it within these twenty-four hours, which is quite

probable if a certain suspicion of mine isn't far wrong."

"Deduction," said Gunther, laughing.

"Not entirely; and, besides, that's not quite fair. It just happens that

I may be interested in a couple of persons in your party from another

tack. No, gentlemen; deduction's all right, if it's honest deduction

and if you use it in its place; but the great thing's motive.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, get down to your motives and you get

your criminals. Show me the person who needed to steal that ring, or who

just simply had to steal it, and you've got your man."

"But suppose that applies to two persons there, or even three," said

Gunther, who perceived that the detective did not intend to commit

himself.

"Possibly."

"Or it may be the hysterical act of a woman who will never attempt to

sell the ring."

"Possible--more than possible."

"And then it will never be found."

"That's right."

"But you don't think that's the case," said Gunther. "And you have an

opinion."

McKenna gave him a quick look of appreciation.

"That's right; but it's not who took it, but why it was taken. In

forty-eight hours I'll know a little bit more about the habits of the

ladies and gentlemen we're dealing with, and then I'll be more

communicative." He paused, with a little pardonable pleasure in the

mystification he was preparing, and added: "In forty-eight hours I'll

give you a little story about each of the persons who were at that party

which'll beat anything in the story-telling line you ever came up

against. Now, Mr. Beecher, before we get down to questions, here's one

thing I want you to do. Find out from Mrs. Kildair what's her detective

agency. Say you've a friend who's trying to track a valet for stealing

and want a good address--see?"

"You are not going to shadow the detectives?" said Gunther curiously.

"You bet I am, till I know more about them," said McKenna. "Young man,

I can tell you more than twenty cases I've been on where the detective

who was called in to make a search went cahoots with the thief."

"Detectives!" said Beecher, amazed.

"You bet. I don't trust my own, when I've got anything that's got to be

done right. I don't trust any one man; I put two on it. My dear

fellow, the crooks that pick your pocket or break into your house are

only amateurs. The real criminal, the criminal of brains, joins a

police force, becomes a detective, a clerk, goes slowly, gets to be a

cashier or president of a bank. You think I'm joking. Not at all. Look

here; just stop and think it over, and you won't laugh. For every bank

president who takes the funds of his bank, speculates, and _loses_, how

many do you think win out and never get caught?"

"That's so," said Gunther thoughtfully.

"It's too big a subject," said McKenna, smiling. "I shake hands every

day with gentlemen who ought to be breaking rocks. Now, let's get back

to business. Mr. Beecher, what did you notice of any kind last night

that would make you suspect any one? I don't mean opinions, but eyes."

Beecher hesitated an interval that did not escape the notice of the

detective.

"Nothing," he said at last, unwilling to mention the name of Nan

Charters. He added, to cover the hesitation: "I suspected Garraboy, but

I admit there's no proof--personal dislike."

"Why do you dislike him?"

Beecher shrugged his shoulder and his glance went to one side.

"Mr. Gunther, will you get me my office?" said McKenna, suddenly looking

at his watch. "You know the number."

Gunther disappeared in the hall in search of the telephone.

"Now, Mr. Beecher," said McKenna, smiling, "I'm like a doctor, you know.

There's no use calling me in unless you give me all the facts. What's

the name of the lady who excited your suspicion, whom Mr. Garraboy was

so attentive to, and on account of whom, I rather guess, you got

interested in this case?"

The startled look Beecher gave him amply gratified McKenna, who

continued:

"What's Miss Charters' position in this business?"

Beecher admitted the correctness of the surmise with a laugh, and,

Gunther being absent, quickly recounted the different moments of Nan

Charters' agitation and the conversation in the cab.

At this moment Gunther returned. "I say, McKenna," he said, "some one's

trying to get you on the wire."

McKenna passed to the telephone, and almost immediately returned.

"Look here, gentlemen," he said, "if you want to try your hand at

deduction, here's something to work on. The Clearing-house has just

refused to clear for the Atlantic Trust, Majendie's resignation has been

accepted, and tomorrow there'll be a run on every bank in the city--and

God help those who're caught in the stock market!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

The two young men and McKenna descended by the elevator into the lobby

of the hotel. The news of the Clearing-house's drastic action against

the Atlantic Trust was already in the scare-heads of the evening papers,

though Majendie's resignation was still unknown. The halls were crowded

with a fleet of newspapers, spread out, fluttering feverishly.

Everywhere was a suppressed murmur and nervous tension, which

occasionally exploded in exclamations when acquaintances met. The news

was indeed staggering to the little man of the Street; the great

Atlantic Trust with its hundreds of millions of deposits was on the

verge of collapse and this at the end of a period of depression and

alarm!

As they proceeded toward the carriage entrance, Gunther stopped to speak

to one of the clerks at the desk, who, with a frightened face, came out

to seek his advice. McKenna profited by the moment to say to Beecher:

"By the way, if you're a friend of Miss Charters', find out if she has

any money invested in Wall Street, and who she's dealing through."

"Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she ought

to get out?"

"Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I'm in a hurry.

Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you're so interested

in this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood."

He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance.

Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detective

had expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of the

instantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberately

avoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had this

complete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressive

oddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, he

was conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearing

away a precious illusion.

"There's a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust,"

said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile.

"The Atlantic Trust can't fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren't

as bad as that."

"Don't know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow,

what's bound to happen is--I should say--a receivership and closed doors

to-morrow."

"But that means panic."

"Sure."

Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before,

correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies.

"By Jove, how game he was!" he said aloud. "I should hate to think there

was anything crooked in him."

They had reached Forty-second Street in their smooth and rapid flight.

There, newsboys were shrieking the latest extra, dodging under the heads

of horses, swinging on the steps of surface-cars, bumping their shrill

way through the crowd, with their hysterical instinct for heightening

the effect of a sensation.

Gunther stopped the automobile and bought a handful of papers which a

dozen urchins fought to press into his hands. On every sheet, front

page, accompanied by sudden scare-heads, was the photograph of Bernard

L. Majendie, whose resignation had been demanded and accepted.

The two scanned the pages for additional details. Some papers hinted at

criminal actions--the district attorney had been suddenly summoned to

town. Scattered through the sheets were photographs entitled,

"Majendie's Palace on Fifth Avenue." "$100,000 Yacht of Deposed

President." "Newport Estate of Millionaire."

"Is he a crook after all?" said Beecher, flinging down the extra.

"No, he is not a crook," said Gunther quietly, repeating the words with

slow emphasis. "He is a speculator, a great speculator, and he has been

made the victim of greater speculators who covet his territory. Then,

there is this to be said: I doubt if at the present moment any great

public corporation would face an investigation without alarm."

"What do you mean?" said Beecher, with his thoughts still wandering back

to the handsome, stoic features of the Majendie of the night before.

Gunther began to speak, and, as he became serious and animated, Beecher

followed him with surprise, noting the vigor and vitality that

transformed the young idler.

"The present era we are passing through," said Gunther, "is probably

America at its worst. We see only the gorgeous facades of things: the

skyscraper, the industries that have developed into little kingdoms. We

only try to comprehend statistics, and we are satisfied that we have

bounded into greatness. As a matter of fact, the true test of the

industrial greatness of a country is honesty. Dishonesty and graft are

economic weakness--waste. A railroad that is spending a million a year

to fight off hold-up state laws is by so much handicapped in its

function of promoting commerce by low freight rates. A corporation that

secures its franchise by bribing aldermen has taught them to blackmail

in the future. It is difficult to say where the responsibility

began--whether capital corrupted politics, or whether, in our

unscientific political system, corruption was not inevitable."

"What do you mean by that?"

"At this time, when our political history is one of business

development, we are over-burdened with useless offices. Aldermen and

legislators who receive on an average less than a thousand a year--often

less than it costs to be elected--are suddenly intrusted with the

responsibilities of laws and franchises involving millions. When you

ask yourself how a man is to continue a political career, support a

family, and fight a costly fight for reelection on a thousand a year,

the wonder is that any remain honest. We have not the slightest

conception of values in America; the worst paid professions are those

the vigor of the nation depends on most--the minister, the teacher, and

the legislator. There are ministers living on five hundred a year,

teachers on six hundred, legislators on less, while the carpenter or

plumber who doesn't make at least $5 a day is unorganized." Then,

perceiving that he had wandered from his subject, he added: "You see,

Ted, this state of affairs results: politics becomes the business of

business. Industry is at the mercy of the legislator, and the

legislator knows it. He may restrict the field of business of insurance

companies, prohibit others from operating in his state, add or detract

from the wealth of individuals by tariffs, force the adoption of certain

building material on contractors, regulate rates of railroads and force

them to adopt certain life-preserving devices; can create rival

franchises or tax out of existence corporations that refuse to pay its

blackmail.

"That is why there are, back in the secret life of every great business,

ledgers it is not good the public should see. That is one reason why

business goes into politics, nominates its men, and assists them--in

order to protect itself against strikes and blackmail. The great

political alliance of business is almost always expressed by the

railroad which is the natural agent. All this is known; every newspaper

that will shriek out horrified editorials next week knows this; but when

the Atlantic Trust is caught in a business depression, and is unable to

get ready money from influences it has antagonized, the public will

learn only that one institution has secretly contributed to a political

party, maintained a huge fund for lobbying purposes, made loans on

securities that were speculative, and transgressed the letter of the

law. The public will be indignant, and Majendie will be disgraced."

"But, Bruce," said Beecher, who was thinking of the analysis that had

been made, "if we are so riddled with corruption, where is it all going

to end?"

"The end will come in the opening of another phase of national life. We

will become honest through the purifying process of another generation.

Honesty, you see, has this one great advantage over corruption--it is

the goal of corruption. Those who acquire, wish to retain, to resist

those who in turn wish to graft from them. Stealing was an attribute of

distinction, until men came to live together. The next generation will

purify and reorganize."

"I didn't know you'd gone into things so deeply," said Beecher,

impressed.

"I've worked like a pup since I started to amuse myself," said Gunther,

with a laugh.

The automobile drew up before the glittering doors of Lazare's, and a

gilded footman, recognizing it, flashed obsequiously to their door.

"Say, let's cut this out," said Gunther, frowning. "I'm out of the mood

now. Let's run off for a chop and a baked potato somewhere. I'm tired

of this."

"Too late," said Beecher, laughing and pointing to an upper window where

a feminine arm was waving frantically. "We're caught." Then, suddenly

he remembered the hint of McKenna's, and added: "I say, what's the story

about Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood? I'm not up on the gossip, you know."

Gunther signaled impatiently to the flunky to close the door, and

related, what every one knew, the attachment of the financier and the

wife of the owner of the New York _Star_.

"Of course, every one believes what he chooses in such matters," he

said. "Personally, knowing Majendie, I believe it's purely

platonic--such things do happen. He has a sort of old-fashioned

chivalry, you know. Bloodgood is a hard old nut, leads his own

life--chorus girls' friend and all that--thirty years older than his

wife--parents got her into it--and I shouldn't be surprised if he took

advantage of the situation to touch up Majendie through the Atlantic

Trust for a good-sized loan. The rumor was that Mrs. Bloodgood was to

get a divorce. If so, it may have been held up by this rotten business.

One thing's clear: she's crazy about Majendie, and doesn't care who sees

it--poor devil. Well, let's get out."

They entered Lazare's, saluted by a sudden storm of clatter, music, and

shrill laughter. Lazare himself, seeing Gunther, came up hurriedly,

anxiety in his olive face, while several employees hovered near, with

eager ears. Gunther exchanged again a few words on the financial

situation, and led the way into the elevator.

"McKenna's a great one," he said. "Rather puzzled you, didn't he?

There's no show about him--he's direct. You'll see the way he works.

It'll be a revelation."

Beecher did not answer.

The disclosure of the relations of Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood had

suddenly recalled the suspicion that had come to him the night before,

while following the agitation of Nan Charters; and he was asking

himself, in a bewildered manner, if Mrs. Bloodgood, desperate, perhaps

on the verge of a separation, had not in an uncontrollable moment taken

the ring. Gunther continued in praise of McKenna:

"It's the organization that's wonderful. It's like a spider-web, and

McKenna sits in the center and pulls the threads. What the public never

gets is this--that half of the work's done before McKenna's on the case.

He knows to-day where every forger is living, every cracksman. He's got

his informers in every saloon, in every cheap hotel, where thugs

congregate. If a bank's robbed, nine times out of ten he can tell in a

day who's done the job, because he knows who's disappeared from his

regular haunts. A detective agency is a great news bureau that never

prints its news."

"I guess the case is more complicated than I thought," said Beecher,

struck by the new lead. "It begins to look as though a whole lot of

persons might have taken the ring."

"Thinking of Mrs. B?" said Gunther quickly.

"Yes," said Beecher meditatively. They were in the corridor leading to

the private dining-rooms. He put his hand out and checked his companion.

"I say, who's Madame Fornez?"

"Opera squealer," said Gunther irreverently; "Carmen and all that sort

of thing. Bob Holliday's daffy about her. Come on; let's face the

music."

He nodded to the attendant waiting with extended ears, who now sprang

forward to open the door on the flaring room and the dazzling white of

the richly covered table set for five.

Holliday and two women in decollete instantly burst into exclamations of

reproach.

"Sorry; couldn't be helped--business," said Gunther, without taking the

pains for a more elaborate apology. Then, sure of his explanation, he

added: "You probably missed it. Poor old Majendie's up the spout.

Forced resignation. There'll be the devil to pay to-morrow."

The reproaches ceased, succeeded by a rush of excited questions.

Holliday, a tall, scoured blond, who had been drumming at the piano, was

so disturbed by the news that he forgot his duties as a host.

"_Allons_, Bobbie," said Mme. Fornez, turning her great Spanish eyes on

Beecher with an expression of approval, "introduce your nice-looking

friend."

Beecher, amid laughter, was presented. Mme. Fornez, who, from pride

perhaps, chose to retain the freedom of the peasant, tapped him

familiarly on the arm and said: "I like you. You don't look so clean

and stupid as most of your dollar men. You will sit by my side. I

select you. Monsieur Gunthere, Bobbie--enough of your old panics and

your stocks; you have two charming ladies present, that's all you need

to know. Bobbie, obey me at once!"

Beecher was giving his hand to Mrs. Craig Fontaine, a young widow,

slight, with quick eyes, and almost masculine vitality, and an

extraordinary elegance of dress and carriage, whom Gunther called

Louise. She was scarcely twenty-six, possessed of a large fortune from

her husband, who had been killed in a steeplechase three years before.

Her position in society was unquestioned, and, being of a singular

temperament, she did as she pleased. She was seen everywhere with young

Gunther, and gossip had already arranged their marriage--an eventuality

which she alone, who ambitiously desired it, knew to be impossible.

Beecher, who was particularly sensitive to the air of distinction that

always surrounded her, even when most unbending, took her hand with a

little extra gallantry, saying:

"I changed my mind on your account only, Louise, and I expect you to

reward me."

Between the two, from his college days, had been a sort of confidential

intimacy which Beecher had the knack of cultivating.

Holliday having ordered the dinner, Mme. Fornez took special delight in

countermanding everything that could be countermanded, substituting

other wines and abolishing the soup, scolding her escort all the while

with a calculated tyranny which Mrs. Fontaine admired with a slight

smiling tribute of her lips, as the clever advertisement of a

professional woman that Mr. Holliday's fetch and carry attentions were

entirely on her own sufferance.

"How have you escaped being married?" said Mrs. Fontaine in a bantering

tone to Beecher, after Mme. Fornez had relinquished him for a moment.

"Because I fly like a coward," he said, pleased at the compliment

implied.

"Seriously, Teddy, you've been back in civilization two months and you

are not yet caught?"

"I am not the marrying kind," he said, with conviction.

"What's he say--your Teddy?" said Mme. Fornez, turning, with a laugh.

Beecher repeated his statement.

"_Allons donc_, you!" She broke into a ripple of laughter. "What do

you say, Madame Fontaine?"

Mrs. Fontaine's reply was a tolerant, amused smile, and, leaning over,

she pinched his ear.

Beecher furiously defended himself.

"Yes, that's what all you women say. You think you can catch any man.

It irritates you to think any man can resist you."

"Ah, no, no," said Mme. Fornez energetically. "There are lots of men who

can't be married. I don't say that, but what I say is this: a woman

knows, the moment she meets one of you, if he is the kind that marries.

A clever woman knows if she can marry him, but all women know if he is

the marrying kind the moment they look in his eye. Is it not so, Madame

Fontaine?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Fontaine calmly, with a glance around the table.

"Nonsense," said Beecher valiantly; "women are as easily fooled as men."

Mme. Fornez, drawing back her head, surveyed him critically.

"Teddy, you will marry the first pretty woman who makes up her mind to

marry you," she said, tapping the table, amid laughter. "I see it; I

know it."

"I say, how do you see it?" said Holliday, who was what might be called

"_un faux Anglais_."

"It is in the eye; it responds or it does not respond," said Mme.

Fornez, who shrugged her shoulders in Holliday's direction, and said:

"You, you will never marry unless--unless there is one _big_ panic.

Teddy, here, has the responsive eye. I saw it at once when I said he

was a nice boy. Oh, you needn't be furious and blush," she added,

pulling his other ear. "It is quite right. I like you. You shall play

with me. You are much nicer than Bobbie, who is all collar and cuffs."

"And Mr. Gunther?" said Beecher, to cover his confusion.

Mme. Fornez looked at him with the same critical estimation.

"Ah, Monsieur Gunthere is very interesting," she said. "What do you

think, Madame Fontaine?"

She asked the question with a little of that malice which women can not

help showing toward one another. But Mrs. Fontaine, with the perfect

control that never left her, answered at once:

"Bruce will marry, but he is not the marrying kind. He will marry when

he pleases and how he pleases, not the least sentimentally, a woman, a

young girl, who will raise up a family of children--a son to succeed

him, as he will succeed his father."

"Yes, yes, that's it," said Mme. Fornez excitedly. "He can not be

caught; any woman would know that."

Gunther smiled without embarrassment.

"Perhaps," he said.

"Yes, any woman would know it," repeated Mrs. Fontaine, looking at him

with a little smile. "The reason is, as Madame Fornez says, in the

eyes--they don't respond. It's more than that, they make no

distinction. They look at a woman as they do at a man. He is quite to

be congratulated."

"Ah, _la pauvre femme_," said Mme. Fornez--who was very romantic--in a

whisper, pressing Beecher's arm. Then aloud, taking pity, "_Allons, mes

enfants_, we are getting too serious. Bobbie, jump up and play us

something lively."

The dinner continued gaily. They reached the theater in the middle of

the second act of the operetta, and deranged the whole orchestra in the

five minutes necessary for Mme. Fornez to be sure that she was properly

recognized. Then, having carried off Elsie Ware, a dainty prima donna

with the wiles and figure of a child, they proceeded to the party at

Lindabury's studio, Mme. Fornez complimenting Elsie Ware on the quality

of her voice, which was insignificant, and saying nothing of her acting,

which was distinguished for its charm and natural gaiety.

Beecher, squeezed in between Louise Fontaine and Mme. Fornez, slightly

bewildered by the fragrance of soft, filmy wraps, immensely flattered by

the favor he had won, nevertheless was wondering to himself whether

among the gay party he was approaching would be the laughing eyes and

rebellious ashen hair of Nan Charters, whom he intended to treat _en

ennemi_, and whom he particularly wished to witness his triumphant entry

at the side of the celebrated Emma Fornez.

*CHAPTER IX*

The party was in full progress when they arrived. Jack and Tom

Lindabury resided, as far as they could be said to reside anywhere, in a

great green stone house of the 1860 period, with a deep garden in the

back on which originally stood a stable, access to which was had, in the

Parisian style, by a long, vaulted passage at one side. The Lindaburys,

having discovered, as many other young men of fortune did at this

period, the social adaptability of the artist's atelier, had transformed

the stable into a great studio, with a kitchen and two or three

dressing-rooms, which served when the place was given over to amateur

theatricals or to the not always restrained fetes of the brothers'

invention.

Gunther's party emerged from the hollow passage into the sudden cool of

the short garden, where masked stone seats and arbors were faintly

disclosed by the great stable lantern which swung at the entrance of the

studio. Several couples, profiting by the obscurity, could be seen

moving in the sudden shadows of the garden, laughing with a nervous,

stifled laughter, as groups crossed or joined one another.

Holliday and Beecher, recognizing acquaintances, saluted them with the

light banter, which was the note of the evening. Mme. Fornez, inside,

called her companions with exclamations of surprise which drew the

whispered curiosity of every one to her entrance.

"Oh, how funny it is! Look, Teddy, what do you call it? It is

your--cowboy life, is it not?"

The great room had been transformed into a mining saloon of the type

made popular by a certain play of the day. A bar ran across one end,

presided over by an impossibly wicked bartender. A roulette-wheel was

crowded at one side, while a negro orchestra, in 1850 costume, was

busily sawing away, led by a cotton-head darky on a soap-box, who droned

out his directions. Three-fourths of the room were in costume, Indian,

Spanish, cowboy or frontier At the appearance of the new arrivals in

evening dress, a shout went up:

"Tenderfeet, tenderfeet!"

"Fine them!"

"Shoot 'em up!"

But, in deference to Mrs. Fontaine and Emma Fornez, the protest was not

so boisterous or accompanied by such rushing tactics as had greeted

others. Nevertheless they were fined and escorted to one of the

dressing-rooms. The men were forced to don dusters and white top-hats,

and the women were given sombreros and mantillas.

Mme. Fornez, despite the frowns of Holliday, clung to Beecher's arm,

insisting on being personally conducted, plying him with innumerable

questions.

"Oh what a terrible man! What an awful knife. I like the black

men--_sont ils rigolots_--with their red and white collars. I want to

see the bar-man toss drinks--so, in the air, Teddy. Come this way."

All at once she stopped, and, facing about, took him by the lapels of

the coat.

"It does not annoy you that I adopt you--that I call you Teddy?" she

said, with a simulation of timidity and a sudden concentration of her

swimming black eyes.

"Emma," he said, laughing, "if you stop there I shall die of

disappointment."

She frowned a little at the "Emma," but yielded the point.

"You are not very responsive, Monsieur Beecher," she said, with a flash,

"when I am so nice to you."

"My dear Emma," said Beecher, who, not being in love, could see clearly,

"if I don't fall at your feet, it's because I know very well that the

moment I did you would bulldoze me like Bob Holliday."

Emma Fornez looked at him with a sudden gay approval.

"Teddy, you are very nice," she said decidedly. "You understand how to

play. I forbid you to fall in love, to get caught by any other woman,

you understand. You are to be mine for the whole season--_hein_?"

"Nothing promised," said Beecher, laughing.

Holliday came with two or three friends, clamoring to be introduced.

Beecher profited by the confusion to make the turn of the room, which

was crowded with laughing groups striving to penetrate the disguises of

others while maintaining their own. At the faro table, a group from his

club called to him to join them, but he kept on, saluting the dealer,

costumed according to Bret Harte, with an approving wave of the hand.

The assembly was one of those curious social demarcations which prevail

when formal society essays to be Bohemian, and which is probably evolved

by the women in their always curious desire to study at close range

those whose lives they are generally condemning. As is usually the

case, the guests were made up of those who remained wrapped up in a

mantel of inquisitive respectability, and would go early; a large body

who waited impatiently for this first secession; and a certain element,

not all professionals, at present exceedingly punctilious, who would

inherit the right to put out the lanterns and close up the doors.

Young Beecher, pacing restlessly, nodding and smiling, searched in the

crowd without quite admitting to himself what it was he sought. In the

short period of his return, he had gone into many different sets, always

retaining the prerogatives of his own. The women, besides those of the

younger married women whom he knew, were of the opera, the stage, one or

two, even, whose names were electrically displayed in vaudeville. He

was caught up, greeted enthusiastically, and extricated himself with

deftness, seeking in a general way to reach the great fireplace near

which he had detected the figure of Mrs. Kildair.

The men, without exception, were of his own kind--of that second

generation which is the peculiar problem of America. They were strong,

well put together, with heads chiseled somewhat on the vigorous lines of

the father spirits, condemned by the accident of wealth to the most

un-American of professions, the idler. Without the mental languor of

the foreign dilettante, consumed in reality by their own imprisoned

energy, they were a restless, dissatisfied testimony of the error of

their own civilization, the inability of the great, barbaric,

money-acquiring American to comprehend the uses of wealth. Tonight,

threatened with tomorrow's disaster, stirred by the restlessness of the

multitude, this excess of baffled energy was felt everywhere: at the

bar, in the Anglo-Saxon intensity; at the faro table where the play had

a certain desperate counterpart of the spirit that had assembled the

future; in the momentary sudden accesses of gaiety that began to spread

through the hesitant crowd, as an overturned bottle spreads its fluid

over the cloth.

Beecher, too, without comprehending it, felt the stimulus, awakening all

the nervous unemployed funds of energy within him and the intoxication

of movement and laughter that brought him a sudden feverish hilarity,

brought also a sense of unrest and dissatisfaction. Underneath all the

over-excited spirits of frivolity was a current of grave apprehension

which he felt in the occasional groupings of men and the low snatches of

conversation which reached him.

"Bo Lynch's cleaned out."

"--not the only one."

"--and thousands thrown on the market."

"Eddie Fontaine's crowd."

"Copper'll blow up higher than a kite!"

"--if Slade goes too."

"They say there's a line formed in front of the Atlantic."

In his progress he encountered Jack Lindabury, lank and

broad-shouldered, with the magnificent shell of a head that might have

been set on the shoulders of a Gladstone. They shook hands with

cordiality.

"Devil of a mess about Majendie," said Lindabury.

"Are you hit?"

"Of course; Eddie Fontaine's had us all in on his tip. Some of the

crowd are liable to be wiped out. They tell me Bo Lynch had plunged

every cent in the world."

"Shouldn't wonder," said Beecher, reflecting. "Is he here?"

"Sure; he's the bartender," said Lindabury.

Beecher, surprised, nodded and made his way toward the end that had been

converted into a frontier saloon, where, behind enormous mustaches, he

recognized the long features of his fellow lodger.

"What'll y'have?" said Lynch, in hoarse accents. Then, perceiving that

he was recognized, he drew Beecher aside and said anxiously:

"You owe me fifty, Ted; we pulled it out. Go over and stake it at the

table for me, if you've got it."

"Sorry," said Beecher, eying him critically and resolving to lie.

"Oh, well," said Lynch philosophically, "it'll look big as a house

to-morrow."

"Are you cleaned out, Bo?" said Beecher anxiously.

"Oh, no; I'm worth thousands," said Lynch, with a grin, "until the

market opens to-morrow."

"Tough luck."

"Steve Plunkett's worse--he's got to negotiate his gold fillings, they

say."

A party came up, clamoring for attention, and Lynch hastened to the

rescue. Beecher continued curiously toward the faro table, admiring

with an admiration tinged with compassion the _sang froid_ of the

losers, who in a desperate attempt to recover the imminent loss of the

morrow, were staking sums that made the spectators raise their eyebrows

in amazement.

"Supposing that Jap came back and sneaked the ring the second time,"

said Gunther, taking his arm.

Beecher started in surprise.

"I wasn't thinking of that," he said.

"But I was. That puzzle of yours has been running in my head ever

since. I've got six people now absolutely logically worked out for the

thief--perfect deduction. Take me over to Mrs. Kildair; I want to meet

that woman."

"I say, Bruce," said Beecher as they started to cross the room, "it's

going to be an awful smash. All the boys are caught. There'll be the

deuce to pay here later on."

"Shouldn't wonder--they started in pretty fierce."

"Eat, drink, and be merry--eh?"

"Sure."

By the hazards of the crowd they found themselves opposite Nan Charters,

who was on the arm of Charlie Lorraine, a clean-cut, pleasant type of

the racing set, decidedly handsome in a dark way.

"Hello, fellows, any old clothes to give away?" said Lorraine, who had

the topic of the evening in jest. "I speak first. How the deuce did

Eddie Fontaine miss you two? Heard what we are doing? We are organizing

the Eddie Club. Every one who's taken his tip is going up to live on

Eddie's farm for the winter--great idea, eh?"

While Gunther and Lorraine were laughing over this plan, a creation of

Bo Lynch's, Beecher was listening to Nan Charters, with a difficult

attempt at calming the sudden emotion which her appearance with Lorraine

had fired within him.

"What a dreadful time you chose to call!" she said directly. "Don't you

know that it takes a modern woman hours to mix her war-paint?"

She looked at him with a little tantalizing malice in her eyes.

"Coquette," he thought furiously. "She is delighted because I was ass

enough to call and give her the opportunity to refuse to see me."

"Oh, not a call," he said aloud, committing the stupidity of lying. "I

was just rushing downtown, and stopped to inquire how you were after

last night."

This answer brought a natural pause. Each looked at the other, he with

defiance, she with laughter in her eyes.

"You're staying late," he said at last, because her listening attitude

forced him to say something.

"Yes, indeed."

"It'll be more amusing when it thins out," he said in a purposely

languid tone.

"When the sight-seers have left--yes," she said, smiling.

Wishing to show what slight importance he attached to the encounter, he

contrived to nudge Gunther as a signal that he was ready; but, his

friend proving insensible, he was forced to proceed.

"Did you come with Mrs. Kildair?" he said perfunctorily.

"No."

"With whom?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it was

uttered.

"With Mr. Lorraine--of course," she said, looking down modestly, but

beneath her eyelids he divined again the cunning malice.

At this moment, to his delight, Emma Fornez perceived him, and, being

profoundly bored by her chance cavalier, a purely passive listener

thoroughly bewildered by her sallies, gave a cry of joy:

"Teddy, traitor, where have you been?"

Dismissing her companion with a bob of her head, she seized Beecher's

arm, exclaiming:

"Heavens--save me! I have been shrieking at a deaf-mute."

In the crowd, the head of her late companion could be seen, rolling his

uncomprehending eyes. Beecher, overjoyed at the arrival, which gave him

an advantage he was quick to perceive, nodded to Miss Charters and

departed, exaggerating, for her benefit, the confidential intimacy which

Mme. Fornez's attitude permitted.

"Who is that woman?" said Emma Fornez immediately. "She is watching us.

She doesn't seem pleased. _Tant pis_!"

"Nan Charters--one of our younger actresses."

"Ah! Good?"

"Yes."

"She is pretty--in a way," said Mme. Fornez, using her lorgnette,

without caring in the least that Miss Charters perceived it. "_Pas

mal--pas mal_. Not much temperament--afraid to uncover her shoulders.

It is not an actress; it is a woman. You are interested, Teddy?"

"No."

"Oh, _avec ca_. You are in love?"

"I met her last night for the first time."

"That's not an answer. Yes, you have a guilty look. You are a little

taken--she provokes you--these little dolls always do. I will give you

good advice; I will help you."

"How?" said Beecher, a bit confused.

"I will be very, very nice with you," said his companion gaily, her feet

dancing to the music. "A woman always wants what another woman wants,

particularly when she is a little actress and I am Emma Fornez. It's

very simple, but it never fails; only, I will not help you if you are

really in love, you understand?"

Beecher solemnly assured her that she need have no fear.

"Very well, then. Be sure to pay attention to Madame Fontaine too; she

likes you. We are the two women most distinguished here tonight--both

high, high above your little Charters. It will double the effect. Do

as I say; it'll be amusing."

Gunther joined them, protesting.

"I say, Madame Fornez, it's not fair. We'll have to get up a Whitecaps

party and kidnap Ted, if you don't stop."

"Oh, we understand each other perfectly," said Beecher, delighted to

perceive that Nan Charters was still following his progress. "Whenever

Emma wants to escape from some one, she remembers that she's crazy about

me. It is all arranged."

Emma Fornez burst out laughing and gave him a little pat on his shoulder

with the lorgnon.

"We are--chums, you say--_hein_, Teddy? Monsieur Gunthere is different.

I like to talk with him--seriously."

But at this moment, in response to a clamor, one of the negroes began

dancing a shuffle in a quickly formed circle. Emma Fornez rushed off,

with a cry of delight, deserting both young men.

"You've made a killing, Ted," said Gunther, laughing.

"Pooh! she'll forget my name tomorrow," said Beecher, who, however,

believed nothing of the sort. "Come on."

Mrs. Kildair was standing by the great Italian fireplace, her glance

playing incessantly through the crowd, nodding from time to time, but

without hearing the remarks of two or three older men who surrounded

her. So different was the magnetic animation of her whole attitude from

the ordinary feline languor of her pose, that Beecher noticed it at

once, an impression heightened by the flash of the eyes and the almost

electric warmth of her hand as she greeted him. Mrs. Kildair, who had

followed his entrance with Mrs. Craig Fontaine and Emma Fornez and

moreover was particularly pleased at his presenting young Gunther, was

unusually gracious.

Gunther, with his direct, almost obtrusive stare, studied her with

unusual curiosity, conversed a little, and departed, after receiving a

cordial invitation from her to call.

"What is the matter with you, Rita?" said Beecher immediately.

"Matter--how do you mean?"

"I have never seen you so excited."

"Really, do I seem so?" she said, waving to some one on the floor.

"Extraordinarily so."

"I am generally--dormant," she said, laughing. "Yes, I am excited

tonight."

"You are on the track of the ring--you have found it," he said

instantly, with a pang of disappointment.

"No, not that," she said, with a frown.

An idea came to him. He imagined that she too, like the good gambler he

felt her to be, was laughing before the irretrievable disaster of the

morrow.

"Look here, Rita," he said sympathetically, "you're not caught in the

stock market, are you?

"No, no, of course not." She saw the look on his face, and was touched

by it. "Ruined and dying game? No, no; I am excited, very much

excited, that's all. Will you ask me to dance, sir?"

"Are they dancing?"

"Of course. Hurry up!"

Some of the more ardent spirits, impatient for the crowd to thin out,

were whirling about, clearing an expanding circle by force of their

revolving attacks. In a moment they were moving among the dancers.

Mrs. Kildair danced remarkably well. In this lithe body, so pliant and

yet so inspired with the vertigo of the waltz, Beecher was again aware

of the strange excitement that seemed to animate her whole being, and

continued to ask himself the cause of such an unusual emotion. From

time to time, the light fingers on his arms contracted imperiously,

urging him to a wilder measure. He had a strange sensation of mystery

and flight, as though he were no longer dancing, but whirling around

with her in his arms, each striving, in the frantic flight, to conquer

the other.

The dance ended. The spectators burst into applause. Mrs. Kildair, half

opening her eyes, thanked him with a grateful smile. He walked away

with her on his arm, agitated and troubled. What all the brilliance of

Emma Fornez had not been able to accomplish, one touch of Rita Kildair

had effected.

"I've lots of things to ask you," he said hurriedly, remembering

McKenna's suggestions.

"No, no; not now--tomorrow," she said breathlessly, with the same

caressing, half-veiled look. She gave him her hand in dismissal.

He understood. The sensation which had come in the few moments of their

vertigo had been too extraordinary to be dimmed by a descent to

conversation.

He left her, as always, aware of the artist in her, that never failed in

the conception of a situation.

"If I fall in love, it won't be with Nan Charters," he said, following

Mrs. Kildair with his eyes.

Then, mindful of Emma Fornez's advice, he joined Mrs. Fontaine, staying

with her until she gave the signal to leave for those who had come to

watch.

With this departure, in which Mrs. Kildair joined, a certain element of

restraint disappeared. The unmistakable rising note of loosened tongues

freed from Anglo-Saxon restraint by the scientifically contrived punch,

began to mount above the rhythmic beat of the music, which itself seemed

suddenly possessed of a wilder abandon. At the roulette table the

players, coldly concentrated, continued in strained attitudes, oblivious

of all but the blinding green nap before them.

Toward two o'clock the thirty or forty who still remained formed a

circle, camping on the floor, Indian fashion, clamoring for songs and

vaudeville turns. Jack Lindabury and Bo Lynch gave their celebrated

take-off on grand opera. Elsie Ware, riotously acclaimed, accompanied

by an hilarious chorus, sang her famous successes, turning to and fro

coquetting with first one man and then another.

Emma Fornez, excited as a child, without waiting to be urged, ran to the

piano and struck the first riotous chords of the "Habanera" of _Carmen_.

Instantly there was a scramble for the sides of the long piano, and when

she looked up again it was into a score of comically adoring faces, each

striving to attract her attention. But Beecher, first to a position of

vantage, received the full concentration of the diva's glances. Flushed

with the peculiar fleeting intoxication of exuberant youth--the

knowledge of the evening's success with women others coveted--he leaned

far over the piano, resting his chin in his hands, gazing with a

provoking malice into the eyes of the singer, exaggerating the intensity

of his look, maliciously obvious of Nan Charters, whom he felt at his

side. Emma Fornez, lending herself to the maneuver, opened her wide,

languorous eyes, singing to him alone, with a little forward leaning of

her body:

"_L'amour est enfant de la Boheme,_

_Il n'a jamais connu de loi_

_Si tu m'aimes._"

The song ended in a furore. Mme. Fornez was overwhelmed with

spontaneous adulation, and Beecher, laughing and struggling, was choked

and carried away by the indignant suitors. Escaping, he came back,

happy and resolved on more mischief. He had always had a passion for

what is called fancy dancing, and in Europe had learned the dances of

the country. He proposed to Emma Fornez a Spanish dance, and the idea

was received with shouts of enthusiasm. Every one camped on the floor

again, while three or four of the men, converting their sombreros into

imaginary tambourines, shook them frantically in the air, led by Bo

Lynch, who had somehow procured a great tin tray.

"You dance--are you sure?" asked Emma Fornez, looking at his flushed

face with an anxious look; for some of the men, notably Lorraine and

Lynch, were in a visibly excited state.

"Very well," he said confidently.

"_Allons_, then!"

The dance he had chosen was one somewhat akin to the tarantella, a slow

movement gradually and irresistibly singing up into a barbaric frenzy at

the climax--one of those dances that are the epitome of primal coquetry,

of the savage fascinating allurements of the feline, provoking to the

dancer, doubly provoking to the spectator, bewildered by the sudden

antagonisms of the poses and the brusque yieldings. At the end,

according to Spanish custom, the dance ended in an embrace. Emma

Fornez, surprised to find so inspired a partner, transported by the

mood, ended laughingly with a kiss, her warm arms remaining languidly a

moment about the shoulders of the young man, whom she complimented with

expressions of surprise. Besieged at every side with cries for an

encore, they repeated the dance, freer in their revolving movements from

the intimacy of the first passage.

From time to time Beecher had managed to steal a glance in the direction

of Nan Charters. She was sitting straight and unrelaxing, her eyes

never leaving him, the lines of her mouth drawn a little tightly. When

Emma Fornez had embraced him for the second time, Beecher, relaxing,

perceived that Nan Charters turned her back and was conversing volubly,

her shoulders rising and falling with little rapid movements, while her

fan had the same nervous lashing that one sees in the uneasy panther.

He was delighted at his success, at the revenge he had inflicted, at the

superiority he had regained. The dances began again, but he did not

dance. He held himself near the entrance, surveying the scene

triumphantly. The experience was new to him; in the few years he had

passed since college, he had been really out of the world. This

game--the most fascinating of all the games of chance that can fascinate

the gambler in each human being--the game between man and woman, came to

him as a revelation, with a zest that was almost a discovery of his

youth.

All at once a feminine hand was laid on his arm and the voice of Nan

Charters said:

"Come outside--in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly."

[Illustration: "'Come outside--in the garden. I want to speak to you.

Come quietly'"]

Elated by a strange, almost cruel feeling of conquest, he followed her,

with a last look back at the studio, at the littered bar, where Bo Lynch

was still calling raucously for customers, at the silent intensity of

the gamblers, whom he occasionally perceived between the flitting

dresses of the dancers. In the middle of the floor Lorraine and

Plunkett, stumbling and unsteady, were solemnly waltzing in each other's

arms--the specter of the morning forgotten.

He closed the door softly and joined the young actress, who was waiting

for him at some distance.

"Can you take me home?" she asked directly. "Mr. Lorraine is in such a

condition that I do not wish to go with him."

"Certainly," he said, a feeling of protection replacing the first

victorious perception of the fire of jealousy he had awakened in her.

Gunther's automobile was waiting, and they entered it. She did not say

a word to him, and he, determined to force her to begin the

conversation, waited with a pleased enjoyment until three-quarters of

the journey had been accomplished. All at once she turned, and, taking

him by the lapels of the coat, brought him toward her as one scolds a

child.

"Are you so angry because I didn't see you this afternoon?" she said,

smiling.

The feminine defensive instinct of avoiding the issue by ambushing it

with subterfuges, is equaled only by that instinct for attack which

brushes aside all preliminaries and strikes directly. Beecher, taken

off his guard, was a prey to two contrary impulses. Two replies,

absolutely opposed and illogically joined, came to his lips. One

brutal, still charged with the savageness of the evening, to say:

"Angry? Not at all. Aren't you claiming a little too much?"

And the other, a warm, yielding desire to blurt out frankly:

"Yes, I was angry. I wanted to see you."

She waited. Her large eyes, seeming larger in the dim light of the

carriage, continued steadily on him. The first impulse dominated the

second, but was modified by it.

"Angry? What a curious idea!" he began, with a half laugh. "You were

so upset--"

She interrupted him, shaking her head.

"Why did you act the way you did tonight? Don't do things that are not

like you. That is not the way we began."

He was silent, not knowing what to answer. Presently she withdrew into

her corner, glanced out of the window, as if to assure herself that they

were near their destination, and, placing her hand over his, said

gently:

"You are very sympathetic to me. Keep it so."

For all that he said to himself that it was his favor with other women

that made him precious to her, he felt a certain yielding of the spirit.

He wondered if he could take her in his arms; but he restrained himself,

and closed his two hands over hers.

"Yes, we are very sympathetic," he said; but he did not say all he

meant.

"What a foolish boy you are," she said finally, looking up at him.

"Don't you know that if I say one word you will go wherever I want you

to?"

He was so taken by surprise at the audacity and confidence of her

remark, that he could not collect himself for an answer, outgeneraled by

the woman who had so calculated to a nicety her last words that the

arrival of the automobile left him without response.

He went home, repeating to himself what she had asserted, resisting a

wild desire to return to the Lindaburys' and forget there the disorder

in his soul; and, though he rebelled scornfully against her confident

assertion, the incessant repetition of it did leave an impression.

As he passed the great marble facade of the Atlantic Trust, an unusual

sight made him bend out of the window. In the chill gray of the coming

dawn, a thin line of depositors was waiting, some standing, others

huddled on campstools. At the sight the seriousness of life smote him,

and he returned home, the tremulous turns of the human gamble he had

played feverishly blended and confused with the dark realities of the

rising tragedy of speculation.

*CHAPTER X*

When, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, it

was to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. He

rolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in a

flash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard the

final phrase, and the click of the released receiver:

"Sell at once--throw them over."

Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the

other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:

"Morning."

"How late did you stay?" asked Beecher.

"Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charming

little repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."

Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour.

"Waiting for the opening?"

"Yes." His glance followed Beecher's with a sudden concentration, and,

taking up a matchbox, he struck a match and threw it away. "Waiting to

see if I can escape working another year."

Beecher, comprehending that sympathy would be distasteful, picked up the

morning papers. The scareheads were alive with the note of panic: a

dozen banks were threatened with runs; a rumor was abroad that the

Atlantic Trust and two other great institutions might close their doors

within the next twenty-four hours; an interview with Majendie protested

against the action of the Clearing-house, asserting the recklessness of

the move and the solvency of the Trust Company; a riot was feared on the

East Side, where the small Jewish depositors, always prey to alarms,

were in a state of frenzy; vague, guarded hints of further actions to be

expected by the Clearing-house against another prominent chain of banks,

and a report that John G. Slade was to tender his resignation, were

joined with rumors from the office of the State Examiner of Banks that

there might be grounds for the criminal prosecution of certain

officials.

The telephone rang. Lynch went to the receiver, arranging his pad

methodically on the table. Beecher stopped reading, listening to the

broken threads.

"All right, go ahead." ...

"How much?" ...

"Whew! Give me the Northern Pacific figures now." ...

"Yes--yes--I see." ...

"Something of a break, isn't it?" ...

"All right." ...

"No--that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day.

Thanks."

He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which marked

twelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.

Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and his

standards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonry

of men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one that

cannot be counterfeited.

"How did you come out?" he said carelessly.

"About as I expected. The market has gone wild."

Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in the

mirror, and took up his hat.

"Lunching at the club?"

"Not to-day."

"It'll be a cheerful funeral. So long."

After his departure Beecher studied the jotted figures on the pad. In

the twelve minutes of the opening, Lynch had lost a clear thirty-two

thousand dollars.

By the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he had answered the

telephone a dozen times, messages from men he knew, anxious to learn if

his intimacy with young Gunther had brought him any valuable

information; inquiries as to the effect on his personal fortunes, and

rumors of individual losses.

He himself remained undisturbed by the frenzy. His own fortune, thanks

to the wise provision of a hard-headed father, was safely invested in

solid properties, and the world of speculation had not entered his ken.

He returned to his newspapers, read everything bearing on the personal

fate of John G. Slade, which interested him extraordinarily since his

encounter with that abrupt and forceful personality, and, rising, asked

himself how he could kill the time until the hour of his luncheon with

Rita Kildair.

The irritation he had felt at the end of his ride with Nan Charters had

disappeared. Studying the evening calmly, he analyzed her words with a

clearer perception. He comprehended that, beyond all the cleverness of

her attitude, she had been veritably piqued by his indifference and his

absorption by Emma Fornez, who treated her as a little actress.

Considering the encounter thus, he smiled occasionally, congratulating

himself that the conversation had ended so abruptly--when a continuance

would have led him perhaps to say some of those sudden, illogical

remarks which are irresistibly drawn from a man by the provoking contact

of certain feminine personalities.

"She may say what she wants," he said, selecting a cigarette. "She was

caught by her own tricks." He took several steps, and grinned to

himself. "It's an amusing game, and a game that will be amusing to

play."

Despite this feeling of confidence and elation, he had an irresistible

desire to telephone her, to indulge himself in the pleasure of hearing

her voice again. He had resisted the impulse several times, convincing

himself of the tactical error; and yet, the more he argued against it,

the more the desire haunted him.

Ordinarily he spent an agreeable half-hour after breakfast, calling up

on the telephone those of the opposite sex with whom he was in the

relation of a good comrade. He enjoyed these morning snatches of

intimacy, with an enjoyment untouched with any seriousness. This

morning, as he took the telephone in hand, he thought first of Emma

Fornez, but as he had neglected to make his adieu to her on leaving with

Nan Charters, he considered a moment while he formulated an acceptable

apology.

The prima donna answered him from the languid idleness of her bed, where

she was resting in a state of complete exhaustion.

"I am ab-so-lutely _fini_," she said in an anguished tone. "It is

fright-ful. I shall never be able to sing--never!" Then she

remembered. "I am very angry with you--yes, yes,--very angry."

Beecher explained, with crocodile tears, how he had been forced to come

to the aid of a distressed and helpless female.

"Ta-ta-ta! Stuff and nonsense! You could have boxed her up in a

carriage and sent her home--yes, yes, you could. But you are in

love--you are weak--you wanted an excuse--she made a fool of you--she

twisted you around her finger!"

Beecher denied the charge with indignation.

"If you wanted to, you could have come back to me--yes, you could."

"But you had deserted me--I was furious."

The conversation continued ten minutes on these purely conventional

lines and ended with a promise to drop in that afternoon for tea.

He had hardly ended when Mrs. Fontaine called up with an invitation to

her box, for Mme. Fornez's debut in Carmen the following week.

Then he called up Miss Rivers, not because he particularly wished to

talk with her, for he had determined on her decapitation, so to speak,

but in order to appease somewhat the desire he had to telephone some one

else. In conversing over the telephone, he felt a revival of interest

and promised to try to drop in for a call that afternoon.

He rose, looking down at the telephone in a dissatisfied way, and,

turning his back, went in search of his hat.

"She'll expect me to telephone, of course," he thought; "besides, what

excuse could I give? I'm not going to play into her game--not by a long

shot. I know the kind--entirely too much brain-work to suit me. Oh,

yes, she'd like to annex me--because I've been attentive to Emma

Fornez--sure; but when it comes down to business. Mr. Charles Lorraine

has a hundred thousand a year and I have thirty. She knows that." He

laughed disdainfully and repeated, "You bet she knows that--well, so do

I."

He returned to the sitting-room and selected a cane, glancing out of the

corner of his eye at the accursed telephone.

"I won't," he said, taking three steps toward it and then turning

abruptly away.

At the moment when he stood wavering, it began to ring. He went to it

hastily. Miss Charters was calling him...

"How lucky!" he said purposely. "I was just going out. I heard you

from the hall."

"You know, I never realized until this morning what I had done," said

the voice at the other end. "I was so upset by Mr. Lorraine's condition

that I forgot you were there with Madame Fornez."

"Clever girl," he said to himself, smiling. Then aloud: "Oh, I

explained matters."

"I was afraid I'd got you into trouble."

"No, indeed. Madame Fornez is a good sort; she understood at once."

"I'm so glad. You've 'phoned her already then?"

"Yes."

He remembered McKenna's suggestion, but he did not wish to make the

demand direct.

"Something of a smash in Wall Street to-day," he said carelessly.

"You weren't caught, were you?" she said, with a note of quick sympathy

which he admired.

"No; I don't speculate."

"I was afraid you might have."

"By Jove," he said, "I hope you didn't lose anything."

"No, I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "I had some money

invested, but I suppose if I hold on that'll come up again."

"Not on margins?"

"No, indeed."

"Who's your broker?"

"Mr. Garraboy."

"Who?"

"Mr. Garraboy."

The news produced on him a strangely ominous effect. He forgot all the

parleying and the tactical planning of his campaign, overshadowed by a

sudden sense of sympathy.

"I want to talk to you about that," he said anxiously. "Have you much

in his hands?"

"Much for me--about twenty thousand."

"Are you going to be in this afternoon? Can I see you?"

"I wish you would."

Something in her voice struck him by its weakness.

"You are not worried, are you?" he said.

"A little."

"Why don't you call him up?"

"I've been trying to."

He was going to offer to telephone for her, when he remembered the

antagonism he had felt for the broker, and refrained until a fuller

knowledge. He reassured her, making light of her doubts, though feeling

an instinctive anxiety for himself. Then he called up McKenna; but the

detective was out, and, leaving word that he would try later, he went

for his morning ride.

A little before one o'clock he was in the softly lighted studio of Mrs.

Kildair, waiting for his hostess with the pleasurable anticipation of a

confidential tete-a-tete. On one thing he was thoroughly resolved--to

convince her of the seriousness of his purpose in offering his

assistance. As he paced slowly and irregularly about the room, his

mind, perplexed by the mystery of the disappearance of the ring,

instinctively considering the possibilities for concealment, he was

surprised to hear, behind the closed doors of the bedroom, the sound of

voices in agitated discussion. He stopped, perplexed, for in his walk

about the room he had arrived at a point in such close proximity that

the tones were easily distinguishable.

"But I have already made up my mind," cried a voice which he recognized

at once as Mrs. Bloodgood's.

Mrs. Kildair answered her, but in a lower tone--a note of warning and

remonstrance.

"Oh, what do I care for the world!" repeated the voice, on a higher

note. "The world is all against me. I have only one life--I want to

live some of it."

Beecher, ill at ease, realizing that he had stumbled on a situation

which he had no right to surprise, tip-toed away. Hardly had he seated

himself when the door opened brusquely, and Mrs. Bloodgood appeared,

saying:

"No, no; it is decided. I'm going. My only regret is that we waited so

long."

Two spots of red showed on her dark cheeks, while her head was carried

defiant, alive with sudden energy. Beecher was struck with the unwonted

brilliancy and youth which the emotion that possessed her had

communicated to her whole body. Mrs. Kildair followed her, with the

frown of one who disapproves, but who knows the futility of any

contradiction.

Beecher rose hastily, emerging from the shadow. The two women stopped,

surprised at his presence, considering him nervously. The few snatches

of conversation he had heard, coupled with what Gunther had revealed to

him of the infatuation of Mrs. Bloodgood and Majendie, made him divine

the intention of elopement they had been discussing. His sympathy was

touched by the distress of the young woman, and, advancing quickly, he

said, with a pretense of shame:

"By Jove, I must have been nodding! A thousand pardons."

"How long have you been here?" said Mrs. Kildair.

"About ten minutes," he said, rubbing his eyes and laughing. "Confound

that chair--it's infernally comfortable, after being up all night. You

made me jump."

Mrs. Bloodgood had regained her calm. She embraced Mrs. Kildair and

held out her hand to Beecher.

"Won't you let me see you to your carriage?" he said eagerly, with a

smile of such good will that she perceived that whatever he had

overheard, she had no need to fear.

"It's not necessary--but thank you," she said, giving him a grateful

smile.

He went to the door, opening it with a little exaggerated courtesy, and

returned thoughtfully to Mrs. Kildair, who was watching him fixedly.

"You overheard?" she said directly.

"A little."

"And what did you understand from it?"

"Why, frankly, knowing what I do, I should believe that Mrs. Bloodgood

had decided to run away," he answered slowly; "which means, of course,

one man. I am sorry. I could not help hearing."

Mrs. Kildair had seated herself on the Recamier sofa and was studying

him, undecided as to what she should say.

"You have heard too much, Teddy, not to know all," she said, reassured

by the directness of his glance. "Besides, in twenty-four hours it will

be in every paper in the country. I do not need to ask your promise to

keep secret what you have heard. She is leaving her home and going

openly away with Mr. Majendie--this very afternoon."

"Majendie running off?" said Beecher, astounded.

"Yes."

"Now--at such a time as this--when he is under fire? I don't believe

it!"

"I should not have believed it either," said Mrs. Kildair thoughtfully.

"I know his kind," declared Beecher warmly; "he would never commit such

a folly--never!"

"And yet, that is what is going to happen."

"That is terrible. Doesn't she realize that he lays himself open to

every charge? He'll be called a defaulter and an absconder--it is worse

than death!"

"She realizes nothing," said Mrs. Kildair in a solemn voice, "except

that she has hated one man and lived with him ten years, and that now,

when everything is against the man she adores, she will sacrifice

anything to be at his side."

"But the sacrifice he is making--"

"Her sacrifice is too great--she doesn't realize that," said Mrs.

Kildair, rising. "Poor Elise! Her life has been terrible. She is wild

with anxiety, with the thought of what Majendie may do. When one has

suffered as much as she has, one more sorrow will not stop her."

Beecher was silent, overcome by the vision of an emptiness which he

could divine only in a general way, having as yet little knowledge of

the silent tragedies that pass at our elbows. When Mrs. Kildair turned

again, it was with all her accustomed poise.

"We can do nothing," she said calmly. "Let us forget it. Luncheon is a

little late. We shall be three; I asked Mr. Slade to join us. By the

way, you were kind enough to offer me your help in the matter of my

ring. I shan't need it now, but thanks all the same."

"What do you mean?" he asked, surprised.

"My detectives assure me they are on the right track," she said

carelessly. "All I ask of you, as I have of every one, is to keep this

unfortunate occurrence to yourself."

Beecher had been on the point of informing her of his retaining McKenna,

confident of her approval. Ignorant as he was of Mrs. Kildair's dread

that Slade's ownership of the ring might come to light, with all the

consequent public misunderstanding, he was disagreeably impressed by her

announcement. He did not for one moment believe her statement that the

right clue had been found. All he understood was that, for some reason,

she desired to keep him out of the case, and this understanding

irritated him. And the introduction of Slade at what he had considered

his privileged hour annoyed him even more. His curiosity increased

twofold as he was forced to retain his information. Then he remembered

McKenna's hint, and said carelessly:

"By Jove, that reminds me--I want the address of your detective agency."

She raised her eyes very slowly, and her glance rested on his for a full

moment.

"Why do you ask that?" she said.

He repeated the story he had prepared of a friend's demand, mentioning

Gunther's name.

Mrs. Kildair rose as though reluctantly, motioning him to wait, and,

going to her room, returned after a long moment with an address on a

slip of paper.

"There, Teddy," she said, giving it to him. Her manner had completely

changed. She was again the Rita Kildair who treated him _en camarade_.

"You are disappointed in not working out an exciting mystery," she said,

laughing. "Do you know, Teddy, I am quite surprised at you."

"How so?" he said warily.

"I should have thought by this time you would have engaged half the

detectives in New York," she said, turning from him to arrange the

cushions at her back. "And here you have done nothing."

Beecher was not deceived by the innocence of the interrogation.

In the last days his wits had been trained by contact with different

feminine personalities. He understood that she wished to find out what

he had done and assumed at once an attitude of boyish candor.

"It's not my fault, Rita," he said contritely. "You put me off--you

remember."

"That's so," she said. She motioned to him with a little gesture of her

fingers and indicated a chair at her side. "Come here, you great boy,"

she said, smiling. "You are furious at me, aren't you?"

"Why?" he said, sitting near her, with a resolve to resist all her

curiosity.

"You like to be the confidant of pretty women, Teddy," she said,

laughing as he blushed. "To be on the inside--to know what others

can't. Well, you shan't be deprived."

He looked at her in surprise.

"What I told you is not true," she said candidly. "I have no clue, as

yet, and am quite in the dark. I give you permission to do all you can.

You see," she continued, holding out her hand with a charming smile, "I

give you my full confidence--confidence for confidence--_n'est ce pas_?"

Beecher made a rapid mental reservation and repeated her phrase,

expecting a direct examination, but her manner became thoughtful again

and she said pensively:

"Besides, you have stumbled on a confidence yourself, and if you are to

be trusted with that you should be trusted entirely." She looked at him

quietly for a moment, and then added: "As a proof of my trust, Teddy, I

am going to ask you to be my ally now. Mr. Slade will be here shortly.

I do not wish to be alone with him. Do not go until he is gone."

This request, implying as it did his own superior intimacy, delighted

Beecher. He felt half of his suspicions vanish as he answered wisely:

"I understand. He is quite daffy about you, isn't he?"

"Quite. But he has to be kept in place."

"Oh, of course."

"And now you are happy again," she said, tapping his arm with a little

friendly gesture and smiling inwardly at the satisfaction which began to

radiate from his face. "Teddy, you are a nice boy. I will teach you

what the world is; you shall be my confidant, and we will laugh

together; only, you must not be sentimental, you understand."

"Never," he said with vigorous assertion. Then his conscience began to

reprove him, and he blurted out: "I say, Rita, I haven't been quite

honest, but you rubbed me the wrong way. I really have been on the

job."

"Besides Gunther, whom else have you talked with?" she asked.

"McKenna, the detective; and he's dead keen on the case," he said

enthusiastically, not noticing what she had implied.

"Oh, McKenna!" she said, nodding appreciatively. "You have done well."

She sat up, suddenly serious, and, extending her hand, took from him the

address she had given him.

"Did McKenna tell you to find out my detective?" she said slowly.

Beecher comprehended all at once how he had played into her game, but,

with her glance on his, it was impossible to deny.

"Yes," he said; "he told me that he'd been on a dozen cases where the

detectives who had come in to make a search had gone partners with the

thief. He wanted to be certain there had been a real search."

This seemed to reassure her, for she nodded with a return of her

careless manner, as though comprehending the situation. Then, crumpling

in her hands the paper with the address, she allowed her body to regain

its former languid position and said:

"I should like to meet McKenna; you must bring him around. How is he

starting on the case?"

Before Beecher could answer, the bell rang and Slade's bulky figure

crowded the frame of the doorway. He entered, and the portieres, at his

passing, rolled back like two storm clouds.

Whether or not Mrs. Kildair had calculated the effect of the intimacy of

Beecher's position, Slade saw it at once as he noted savagely the

involuntary separating movement which each unconsciously performed, and,

perceiving it, exaggerated its importance. The look he gave the younger

man revealed to the amused woman how much he would have liked in

barbaric freedom to have seized him and crushed him in his powerful

arms.

"Sorry to be late," he said abruptly, glancing at the clock. "I've

taken the liberty to leave your telephone number, Mrs. Kildair, in case

something important turns up."

They passed immediately into the dining-room, Mrs. Kildair enjoying this

clash of opposite personalities. Slade was not a man of small talk,

disdaining the easy and ingratiating phrases with which other men

establish a congenial intimacy. For the first quarter of an hour he

withdrew from the conversation, and, being hungry, ate with relish.

Beecher, abetted by his hostess, taking a malicious pleasure in the

superiority he enjoyed, chatted of a hundred and one things which he

shared with his listener, incidents of the party at Lindabury's, gossip

of the world they knew, Emma Fornez and Holliday, Mrs. Fontaine and

Gunther. Then, naturally drawn to the one topic that charged the air

with the electricity of its drama, he related the uproar in the city,

the long lines of depositors before the banks, the incident of Bo Lynch

in the morning, and the effect on the men they knew. In this both he

and Mrs. Kildair had an ulterior motive--to make Slade talk: Mrs.

Kildair, for reasons of her own, Beecher alive to his dramatic closeness

to the one man about whose success or ruin all the storm of rumor and

gossip was raging.

"Stocks are still dropping," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing at Slade, who

appeared quite unconscious. "An enormous quantity of holdings have been

thrown on the market."

"How long do you think it will keep up?"

"That depends; a day, a week--Mr. Slade knows better than any one."

Slade looked up suddenly.

"What do they say about me?" he asked grimly.

"Every one expects the Associated Trust to be the next," said Beecher

frankly.

"Probably. I'll tell you one bit of news," he added quietly. "The

Clearing-house will refuse to clear for us this afternoon."

"But that means failure," said Mrs. Kildair, with a quick glance at him.

"We shall see."

"But the run has already started."

"Oh, yes; we have paid off five depositors already," he said, with a

smile that was almost imperceptible.

"Only five?"

"It takes a long time to verify some accounts. Then the law allows

discretion in payment--takes quite a while to count out five thousand in

half dollars." All at once he leaned forward heavily and began to

speak, contemplatively interested. "The real truth is the thing that is

never known. The newspapers never print the news. Sometimes it is

given to them in confidence, to make certain that they won't print it.

How much do you suppose will ever be known of the real causes of the

present crisis? Nothing. They may let the market go to the dogs for

three days, six days, a month, ruin thousands of victims, and the public

will never know that the whole thing can be stopped now, in twenty-four

hours, by ten men. And, when they get ready, ten men _will_ stop it.

Then there'll be columns of adulation--patriotic services, unselfish

devotion, and all that; and what will have happened--ten men will be in

pocket a few millions as the result of their sacrificing devotion. The

public must have a victim in order to be calmed, to be satisfied that

everything has been changed. Then a weak man, some unlucky lieutenant,

will be served up, and things will go on again, until one group of

millions is ready to attack another. How the public will howl! Majendie

has taken the gambler's risk; Majendie has failed. There's the

crime--failure; and yet, ninety per cent. of the fortunes today have

turned on the scale--up or down--win or lose. For every promoter that

wins, twenty fail with a little different turn of the luck.

"We're all criminals--only we don't steal directly. We get it done for

us. We want franchises for a great railroad system. We shut our

eyes--hire an agent--go out and get this, no strings, no

directions--show us only your results! Everything is in

irresponsibility. A million dollars can commit no crime. After all,

it's in the motive--a man who steals because he's hungry is a thief; a

corporation that bribes a legislature and steals franchises, to create a

great system of transportation, is performing a public service. It's

all in what you're after. There're two ways to look at every big man;

see the two periods--first, when he is trying to get together

money--power; and second, what he creates when he has it. Same in

politics--a man's better in office than running for it. Every man of

power wants to arrive, anything to arrive, but when he gets

there--then's the second period. The way to judge us is whether we want

money only, or money to create something big."

"And you?"

"I want sixty millions," said Slade abruptly. "Will I get it?" He

shrugged his shoulders, and taking a knife balanced it in seesaw on his

finger, letting it finally drop with an exclamation of impatience.

"That's the danger--the getting of it. I may have it in two years more

and then again--" He opened his hand as though flinging sand in the

air, and added: "In a week it may be over. _Rouge et noir_--one bad

turn at the beginning and Napoleon Bonaparte would have been shot as a

conspirator. Up to the present, I've been living the first

period--afterward I'll justify it; I'll build."

"In what way?" said Mrs. Kildair, who, while following his brutal

exposition with the tribute instinctive to force, was nevertheless aware

that this unusual revelation of himself had likewise a trifling

object--the over-awing of the younger rival.

"Railroads--a great system--an empire in itself," said Slade; and there

came in his eyes a flash of the enthusiast which surprised her. But,

unwilling to enlarge on this topic, he continued: "What I've said sounds

raw, doesn't it? So it is. If I do what I want, I justify myself.

There are only two classes of human beings--those like you two here, who

get through life with the most pleasure you can, who get through--pass

through; and then a few, a handful, who create something--an empire,

like Rhodes, invent a locomotive or a system of electric production, add

something to human history. What if they steal, or grind out the lives

of others? They're the only ones who count. And the public knows it--it

forgives everything to greatness; it's only petty crime it hates. Look

at the sympathy a murderer gets on trial--look at the respect a great

manipulator gets. Why? Because to murder and steal are natural human

instincts. A couple of thousand years ago, it was a praiseworthy act

for one ancestor, who coveted a hide or a cave that another ancestor

had, to go out and kill him. All animals steal by instinct. We are

only badly educated animals, and we admire in others what we don't dare

do ourselves. Only succeed--succeed! Ah, there is the whole of it!"

At this moment the telephone rang, and Slade rose and went to it with a

little more emotion than he usually showed.

"Is this the cause of his outburst?" thought Mrs. Kildair, while she and

Beecher instinctively remained silent.

At the end of a short moment, Slade returned. The two observers, who

glanced at him quickly, could not find the slightest clue of what had

transpired. Only he seemed more composed.

"Speaking of stealing, take the case of the ring," he said, relaxing in

a chair. "We know this--incredible as it may seem--that there were at

least two thieves in the company; as a matter of fact, there were many

more. My own opinion is that the crime was not an ordinary one--that

whoever took it the second time took it out of an uncontrollable spirit

of bravado, an overpowering impulse to do an almost impossible thing."

"By the way--" Beecher began, and then suddenly looked at Mrs. Kildair

interrogatively. Then, receiving permission, he continued: "You know

who returned that night?"

Slade nodded.

"Yourself, Mrs. Cheever, Garraboy, and Miss Charters."

"Miss Charters?" said Beecher, turning in amazement to Mrs. Kildair.

She nodded, with a little frown.

"As I told Mrs. Kildair," said Slade, not noticing that Beecher,

overwhelmed by this discovery, did not hear him, "I do not believe for a

moment that the thief would return. Any one who had the daring to seize

the ring the second time had the daring to carry off the ring; in fact,

had some such plan in mind. Whoever came back may have come back out of

sympathy, or with the idea that the ring was still in the studio--in

which case, we have a third manifestation of instinct."

They had passed into the studio again. Slade spoke with all his old

decision, the energy of action replacing the bitterness of his former

meditative mood. He glanced at the clock, and took his leave in a

quick, impersonal manner. Beecher, ignoring the looks Mrs. Kildair sent

him, departed with Slade, refusing an invitation to join him in the

automobile, and continuing on foot.

He was absolutely at a loss to account for Miss Charters' returning to

the studio after having gone to her apartment. If she had any

suggestion to offer, why had she not waited, or even requested him to

return with her? Why, in fact, could she not have waited until the

following day--instead of risking the journey at such an hour?

Full of disturbing surmises, he continued his walk until he reached the

great thoroughfare of Forty-second Street, where he turned eastward

toward the station, oblivious to the excitement in the street, the

break-neck arrival of the newspaper wagons and the sudden, shrill

scattering of urchins, extras in hand.

All at once, at the western corner of the station, he raised his eyes

instinctively. A coupe with trunks behind it disengaged itself from the

confusion of traffic and, turning, slowly passed him. Inside, he

recognized the dark, defiant eyes of Mrs. Enos Bloodgood.

In a moment he guessed the full significance of her presence: she had

come to meet Majendie, to burn all bridges behind her, in the supreme

sacrifice of everything for the possession of a happiness she had never

known.

The next instant he was gazing horror-stricken at the head-lines of an

extra that a newsboy flung in his face: