He became perfectly collected, clear in mind and instinctive in action,
with the decision he had felt in the last charges of a wounded elephant.
If Mrs. Bloodgood were here, it was because she expected to meet
Majendie; because she was ignorant of the tragedy that had taken place.
Retracing his steps, he arrived at the carriage the moment Mrs.
Bloodgood's hand had thrown open the door.
"Excuse me," he said, with an authority which instantly impressed the
woman by its ominous seriousness. "Something terrible has happened. I
must speak to you." Then, turning to the coachman, without being
overheard, he gave him Mrs. Kildair's address, saying: "Drive there
quickly. Five dollars to you if you get me there in ten minutes."
Then he opened the door and joined the woman who, drawn back in the
corner like an animal at bay, already trembling with what she did not
know, awaited him.
*CHAPTER XI*
For an interval, while the coachman, spurred on by the prospect of
reward, tore through the short streets, Beecher continued looking into
Mrs. Bloodgood's eyes--eyes that were aghast with mute, terrified
interrogations which she did not dare to phrase.
Suddenly she perceived the extra which he had bought. She extended her
hand, looking at it fearfully.
"Give it to me," she said.
He hesitated, and in the moment of irresolution she seized it. A cry of
pain, a low cry torn from the soul, made him stiffen in his seat,
steeling himself against the expected. But no further sound came. When
he turned, she was sitting transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the
newspaper which seemed glued to her fingers. Alarmed at the rigidity of
her emotion, he leaned over and disengaged the paper from her
unresisting fingers. The action seemed abruptly to revive her. She
gave another cry, and tore the newspaper from him with such energy that
a great, ill-shaped fragment remained in her clutch.
"No, no, not that--no, no!" she cried, frantically seeking to decipher
the bare six lines that recorded the tragedy. All at once she flung the
sheet from her, turning to read the truth in his face.
"Ah, it is true!" she cried, and her hand, as though holding him guilty
of the fact, violently pushed him from her.
"Mrs. Bloodgood--" Beecher began hesitatingly, frightened at the
paroxysm that shook her body.
But the emotion was still of horror, without as yet the realization of
the finality that had come. She felt that Majendie was in danger--in
terrible danger; that she must get to him, somehow, some way, and fling
herself in front of that awful something that threatened him, ward off,
in some way prevent, the thing that was coming. She seized the arm of
the terrified young man, imploring him, still dry-eyed:
"Take me to him--at once--no--I must--take me--Bernard--oh!"
She fell back exhausted, faint.
"Be calm; please be calm," he repeated, helpless before the utter
disorder of her suffering.
All at once the annihilation of self into which she had fallen was
succeeded by a quick paroxysm of energy. She bounded upright on the
seat, seizing his arm so that the nails hurt him.
"I will go to him!" she cried. "You shall not stop me. He may be only
wounded. The report is false--must be false. I will go to him!"
"The very thing that you must not do--that you can not do," he said
firmly; and then, seized with an inspiration, he added: "Listen--listen
to me, Mrs. Bloodgood, I am taking you to Rita's; if you must go to him,
go with her. Two women can go; one would cause a great scandal. You
can not put that on him--you must think of him now. We are going to
Rita's--Rita's!" he added, putting his lips to her ears to make her hear
him.
He put his hand on her shoulder and forced her gently back. She held
her clasped hands rigidly strained between her knees, staring out beyond
the confines of the carriage.
"He is not dead," she said in a whisper; "he is wounded."
"As soon as we get to Rita's," he continued reassuringly, "I will
telephone. I'll find out everything."
"Wounded," she repeated, nodding--without hearing him.
"If he is, we three can go--it will seem quite natural," he said
hastily, eying nervously her dry, uncomprehending grief, fearing the
coming outburst of realization.
"Almost there," he said, looking out of the window. "Hold on to
yourself. Be game. There are always a few persons below."
She did not answer, but her lips curled slightly in contempt, and she
put her hand spasmodically to her throat.
"You're right, the whole thing may be false--a wild rumor," he said
quickly, talking to her as to a child. "A fake story--who knows? See,
there are no details. Here we are. A little courage! Go right into the
elevator."
He signaled the driver to wait, and followed her hastily into the
elevator, standing between her bowed figure and the boy.
Mrs. Kildair was in the studio, pacing the floor; and at the first
glance each saw that she knew the report, and that it was true. Mrs.
Bloodgood crumpled on the floor, without consciousness.
"My smelling-salts are on my bureau," said Mrs. Kildair quickly. "Lift
her on the sofa first, and then get them."
"Is it true?" he said, raising the slender, lifeless body.
"Yes."
"Dead?"
"Yes."
"When did it happen?"
"At two o'clock."
"She wishes to go to him," he said warningly. "The carriage is below.
She has her trunks. She was to have met him at the station. What shall
I do?"
"She must be gotten back to her house as soon as possible," said Mrs.
Kildair with energy. "The trunks must return at once. Everything hangs
on a hair; I know Bloodgood." She cast a glance at the still inanimate
body and added: "Wait. Spirits of ammonia will be better. I'll get
it."
Mrs. Bloodgood returned to consciousness slowly, looking from one to the
other with a dazed, pleading look.
"Then it is so," she said at last.
The two looked at her without being able to answer. Suddenly she
bounded up erect, her fists striking her forehead.
"It is I who have done it!" she cried, and for the second time fell back
lifeless on the floor.
"Go down now; send the trunks back," said Mrs. Kildair to Beecher.
"Tell him to do it as quickly as possible--no, tell him nothing. Go
quickly."
When Beecher returned, Mrs. Bloodgood was on her feet again, passing
from spot to spot ceaselessly, one hand clutching a handkerchief to
press back the sobs that shook her from time to time, the other
stretched out in front of her, beating a mechanical time to the one
phrase which she repeated again and again:
"I've done it--I've done it--I've done it!"
Mrs. Kildair, leaning by the piano, knowing that each period must have
its expression, awaited the right moment. Beecher, at a sign from her,
slipped quietly into a chair.
"Yes, it's I--it's I--I!" said the indistinguishable voice.
"You have done nothing," said Mrs. Kildair solemnly. "It is fate."
"No, no. Only I am to blame," she answered, stopping short, each word
coming slowly through the torrents of tears.
Mrs. Kildair passed quietly to her side.
"You are not to blame, dear," she said; "don't think that."
"Oh, you don't know," she said, suddenly acquiring a terrible calm that
froze the young man. "At what time did he--did it happen?"
"At two."
"I knew it! Ten minutes before, he telephoned me; he said--oh, what do
I know?--said a thousand things but the one in his mind. Asked me if I
still was resolved to go."
"But then, Elise--"
"You don't understand! It was I who insisted on his going--I--I! I
told him, if he would not go, I would come openly to his house--I would
not be separated from him. Oh, my God! I didn't know--I didn't!"
She abandoned herself to her transports once more, flinging herself on
her knees and praying, as an uncomprehending child prays:
"O God, don't let it be true--please don't let it be so!"
Beecher covered his eyes suddenly with his hands. Mrs. Kildair allowed
her for a moment to tire herself in supplication and anguish. Then she
went to her, grasping her shoulder.
"Elise."
Mrs. Bloodgood stopped, rose, and went to the window, where she stood
swaying.
"I'm going to him," she said, pressing her knuckles against her temples.
"Get hold of yourself," said Mrs. Kildair, avoiding the error of
opposition.
For a long moment neither spoke, while Mrs. Bloodgood, passing to and
fro, struggled to fight down the sobs that were choking her. At last
she stopped, facing Mrs. Kildair.
"I am going to him," she said.
The other woman, with a look of great compassion, shook her head in a
slow negation, looking full at her.
"But he said I could!" she cried, stretching out her hands toward
Beecher.
"You can't."
"But he said so--he promised."
"No; it is impossible."
"I _will_ go!"
"There are twenty reporters waiting for just that," Said Mrs. Kildair.
Then, raising her voice, she said impressively: "Elise, there is
something you must do--something ten times more terrible."
"What?"
"Return home--and at once."
"Never!" The cry burst from her as her whole body was shaken with
indignation. "Never in the world--never again!"
"Listen," said Mrs. Kildair, seizing her arm, and Beecher was struck
with the savageness of her energy. "Things are no longer the same. You
are alone--absolutely alone. Do you understand what that means--without
a cent--alone?"
"What do I care?"
"Not now; but in a week, in a month-- You think you know the greatest
suffering in the world; you don't--the greatest is poverty. Whatever
has happened, you are Mrs. Enos Bloodgood. Only yourself can destroy
that. One life is ended in you. You have loved. That will never come
again--not the same. Life is long and terrible."
"What, you can suggest such a thing?" said Mrs. Bloodgood, raising her
head indignantly. "Such an infamy?"
"Yes--because I know. The world is not an equal one. A woman can not
fight as a man can. A year from now, when you can suffer no further, do
you want to wake up in a dingy boarding-house, cut off from all you have
lived in? For a great love--perhaps--but to be alone? No, no! Elise,
you will do as I say because I can see better than you. You are Mrs.
Enos Bloodgood--you have everything that a million women covet. It is
your life; you will go back."
"Ah, how can you say that to me now?" said Mrs. Bloodgood, pressing her
handkerchief to her eyes.
"Because the world is different from the world of this morning--because
everything is different, Elise. There are no longer the reasons that
existed. You are alone against the world. You know your husband--one
public word or action, and he will cast you off like an old shoe."
"How can I go back?" she said, sitting down, half subdued. "How can I
get the strength? I don't know yet what has happened. I can't realize
it--oh, if I had only had my way! If he had only let me leave a
month--two months ago. If I'd only been firm; if we had gone that
night--that night we were here--when I begged him to. If he had only
loved me more than his honor, as I loved him. If only I--"
"Elise," said the quiet voice of Mrs. Kildair.
The young woman checked herself, breaking off and moving again; but
almost immediately broke out again:
"And now you want me to go back to _him_. Oh, if you knew how I hate
him, how I loathe him--what that life means--how cruel he can be, how he
can make me suffer by a word or a look--how he enjoys--"
"Elise, Elise!"
"I can't go, Rita, I can't! Don't ask me to go now. Let me stay a
while here, just tonight, where I can weep," she cried.
"No, no. It must be now--soon. You have left your home with your
trunks--he knows it. If you return--you return because you are
worried--the panic--on his account."
"Ah, what a lie!"
"Elise," said Mrs. Kildair, coming forward again and arresting the
other's arm, "listen. You are not what I am. You are not strong--you
are weak. You are a woman of the world, worldly, loving worldly things,
who for a moment has been transformed by a great passion. The whole
earth has no such passion any longer. Do you understand? Something is
gone--your youth is ended. Keep tight hold of the little that is left.
Come, be strong. Dissimulate as you have before. Come."
"Not now," said Mrs. Bloodgood, terrified.
"Yes, now. If possible, you must be back before he returns."
And Beecher, from his chair where he had watched, forgotten by both
women, saw Mrs. Kildair, who not for a moment had deviated from the
vital issue, draw the unresisting woman by the very force of her energy
into the bedroom, from which shortly they emerged again.
"I am ready," said Mrs. Bloodgood in a voice that was scarcely
distinguishable. She had thrown over her head a thick veil, behind
which her features were only dimly visible.
"Telephone for a carriage," said Mrs. Kildair.
"I have done so," said Beecher, who had availed himself of the interval.
"But the trunks?" said Mrs. Bloodgood, turning helplessly.
"They went back long ago."
"Ah!" She took a few weak steps and turned. "But I shall see him?"
"I give you my word."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
Mrs. Bloodgood made a little sign of acquiescence, and passed out of the
door. The carriage was waiting. Beecher silently handed her into it,
feeling the sudden heaviness on his arm. They rolled away. She did not
lift her veil, and he could not guess what look was on her face. Twice
she made him change their course, in order to put off the final dreaded
moment.
"You have been kind," she said at last. "I owe you much. Thank you.
Now I will go back."
"Don't speak of thanks at such a time," he said hastily. "If I can help
you in any way, any time--"
"I know." All at once, forgetting his presence, she burst out: "Oh, how
I loved him! I would have done anything for him--anything! I can't
believe it. It doesn't seem possible!"
"Be careful, Mrs. Bloodgood," he said, alarmed. "Be careful--please."
"You need have no fear," she said slowly. "All that is over." But,
still obsessed, she seized his arm. "Only I want you to know that I
loved him so that nothing made any difference. Any one can know it. I
would have gone--"
"I know it," he said quickly, taking her hand to quiet her.
"Oh, yes, I loved him--the only real thing in my life!" she repeated,
sinking back.
Ahead he saw the great Italian facade of the Bloodgood residence, where
twenty servants awaited the call of this shadow at his side, whose
invitation could make a social reputation. Then his quick eye, as they
neared the steps, perceived the squat, stolid figure of Mr. Enos
Bloodgood at the door.
"He is just come out--your husband," he said hurriedly, with a sudden
new sensation of dread. And he repeated, a little excitement in his
voice, fearing she did not understand the danger: "Be careful; he is
there--your husband."
"Yes, I saw him."
She took the veil from her hat, and, folding it, handed it to him, her
face set in hardness and contempt.
"You might say Mrs. Kildair had invited--"
"I know what to say," she said, checking him, and a smile incongruous at
the moment gave the last touch of tragedy to the imagination of her
companion. "Open the door."
He gazed at her, struck with the strange, dual personality in the frail,
proud body--the abandon of the woman who loved and the calm of the woman
who hated. She who a moment before had cared nothing for what she
revealed to him in the unrestraint of her sorrow, did not hesitate now a
moment, face to face with the peril of such a confrontation.
"Open the door," she repeated sharply.
Recalled to his senses, he sprang out and gave her his hand,
accompanying her to the chiseled marble steps, where he left her, with a
lift of his hat to the husband above who awaited her with a quiet,
cynical enjoyment.
"I thought, my dear, you had gone off for a jolly little jaunt," said
Mr. Bloodgood, without variation in the provoking evenness of his voice.
She came up the steps to his level, and acknowledged his presence with
an inclination of her head.
"I intended to," she said, in the same ceremonious tone. "But I was so
alarmed at the news from Wall Street that I did not wish to leave you at
such a time."
"Indeed? I am quite touched," he answered, with perfect solemnity.
"You are always so thoughtful, my dear."
She entered. He followed her as though shutting off all retreat, and
the gorgeous flunky who had run out disappeared, too. To Beecher, with
all the anguish of the scene at Rita Kildair's still vivid in his mind,
it was as though he had seen a living woman enter her appointed tomb.
"Where shall I drive, sir?" said the driver.
"Anywhere!" he cried furiously.
But at the end of five minutes he emerged from the stupor into which he
had been plunged, the somber horror rolling away like scudding
storm-clouds. A new emotion--the inevitable personal application--broke
over him like a ray of light.
"To be loved like that--" he thought suddenly, with a feeling of envy.
"Terrible, terrible--and yet how marvelous!"
He gave directions to drive to Nan Charters' with a new curiosity in his
soul--the inevitable personal emotion that, strangely enough, even
against his will, dominated all the somber melancholy which this reverse
of a glittering medal had brought him.
*CHAPTER XII*
He had completely forgotten, in the press of dramatic events, the
disturbing fact of Nan Charters' return the night of the theft. He
remembered it suddenly, as one remembers sorrow after a profound sleep.
But the recalling of it affected him differently. The revelation of
Mrs. Bloodgood's hidden life had left him in a dangerous and vulnerable
mood--a mood of quickened compassion and outgoing sympathy. He was
still determined to force a direct answer from Miss Charters, but
already he had formed that answer in his heart, as he for the hour felt
no longer the selfish combat of vanity, but the need of charity and
gentleness.
In one of the profound moods which color the visible world, he stood at
the window of the little sitting-room, awaiting her arrival, looking out
on the serried flight of unutterably commonplace roofs, gray and drab
with the gray of the turning day. And it seemed to him that this
twilight was different from other twilights, heavily weighted down with
more of the sadness of inexplicable lives. One tragedy seemed to invoke
a thousand tragedies, in the cramped immobility of these inscrutable
windows which had not yet begun to warm with the flicker of human cheer.
He saw only the brutal struggle to live, and felt only the mystery of
suffering, which was still a thing apart from his life. Standing
reverently thus, he asked himself two questions which, sooner or later,
each man of heart and sensibility puts to himself in the awakening to
conscious existence:
"Why do they go on?"
"What is my justification?"
And in his heart, still young and stirred to sympathy, he felt the
beginning of a revolt at what he had been, at his inability to find a
satisfying answer to that second question. He no longer awaited the
interview in the spirit of strife, but with a sudden feeling of
impulsive friendliness which, had he been an older man, might have
alarmed him with its dangers. The profound melancholy of youth, violent
because unconquered and strange, had him still in its grip when, all at
once, he felt an emotion of well-being and returning comfort.
She came into the room and without formal greeting gave him her hand
with a welcome in her eyes, as though their friendship were of such
strong duration that formalities were out of place.
"Draw the curtains," she said, going to the electric lamp on the table,
which woke like a golden sun from the shadows. "It's cozier. Shall we
light the fire? Yes, it's more cheery."
"Let me," he said hastily.
"Quite unnecessary."
He watched her sudden stooping movement, that brought the loose,
intricate tea-gown about her agile body, outlining the limbs, which had
the quick animal grace that is peculiar to the unconquered maiden. Her
pose, strong and alive with power and self-reliance, recalled to him
sharply the sense of opposition. He was annoyed that she should have
done so naturally what he should have done, feeling in her too much
self-reliance.
She rose, looking down with a childish delight at the sudden burst and
roar of the flame. Then she turned, studying his face. The artist in
her made her quickly aware of the remnants of the emotion which had
stirred him.
"What is it?" she said, with the gentleness that was tantalizing to him.
"You have a strange look."
"Yes," he answered; "I have been behind the scenes."
"What do you mean?"
"I have been with Mrs. Bloodgood all the afternoon--found her at the
station as she was leaving."
"Mrs. Bloodgood was running away," she said, puzzled, but with a fear in
her eyes that did not escape him.
"What--you did not know!" he exclaimed. "Majendie killed himself this
afternoon at two o'clock."
"Majendie--Mrs. Bloodgood!"
She looked at him a moment with a face struck with horror, and then fell
back into a chair, seized with the suddenness of the climax.
"I beg your pardon; I thought you knew," he blurted out.
"No, no--nothing. Tell me--tell me all," she said; and he saw that back
of her alarm was a significance to her that heightened the effect of the
tragedy.
He told her first the bare details of the suicide as he knew them; and
then, in response to her hurried questions, began to retell the
afternoon. He spoke impulsively, almost as an echo of the drama he had
witnessed. Occasionally she stopped him with a more detailed question.
Moved out of his self-consciousness, he described, more eloquently than
he knew, the conflict between the two women at Mrs. Kildair's, and the
emotions which had suddenly brought him wide-eyed to the spectacle of
the black, turbulent river of despair.
"I can't forget it--it haunts me now," he said, when he had ended with
Mrs. Bloodgood's return into the home of her husband. "It makes me see
something in life I didn't understand--that I am just beginning to see."
He looked at her. Her face was wet with tears. All at once, astonished,
he recalled what he had told.
"What have I done?" he cried, aghast. "I had no right to repeat it. I
didn't realize what I was saying!"
"Don't fear," she said, shuddering, and she extended her hands to the
fire, as though the recital had frozen her body. "Poor woman--poor,
lonely woman!"
He sat down near her, close to the fire, and, stretching out his hand,
touched her arm.
"Listen, Nan," he said, so profoundly that she could not mistake the
emotion. "It has made a great difference in me. It may be a mood--it
may pass; but I hope it won't. It makes me dissatisfied. Look here--I
don't want to go on as we have, thrusting and parrying. I don't want it
to be just a game. The real feeling in me toward a woman is
different--it's one of chivalry, I know. Let's drop all artifices.
Let's be honest with each other--good friends, or something else, as it
may come."
She considered the depths of the fire a moment, and turned, looking at
him dreamily, feeling how much older she was in the knowledge of the
doubts of the world than the young, impulsive nature that looked out at
her from such honest eyes.
"Will you?" he asked, as she looked away again.
She shook her head, in doubt as to an answer; but the good in her
stirred by the good in him expressed itself in the quick pressure of
thanks which her hand conveyed to him.
"I am not the least in love," he said quickly. "What I say I say
because--oh, I don't know! I'm dissatisfied with myself. This thing has
gotten below my skin. Life's too rotten. I want you to believe in
me--in my strength. You are sympathetic--_multa sympatica_. I don't
know; I hate to think of your fighting alone such a rotten hard fight."
She nodded slowly, understanding perhaps better than he his thought, yet
half won to his appeal already.
She took his hand in both of hers, pressing it in emphasis from time to
time, not looking at him, staring at something that formed before her
eyes.
"No one has ever spoken to me just like this," she said gently. "One
thing I would never want to happen, Teddy--I would never want to hurt
you! That is why I hesitate--why I am afraid. You are only a great big
boy. You won't understand me. I am very selfish--very worldly."
"You are nothing of the sort," he said furiously, withdrawing his hand.
"You may think so, but I know you better."
She turned, amused; but her smile left her as she looked into his eyes.
To her surprise, a feeling of unease came to her; she felt a new
longing--to be for a moment quite childlike and helpless.
"Don't blunder into anything, Teddy," she answered, shaking her head,
herself a little disturbed. "With some men I would not care. With
you--yes, it would make me feel like a criminal to hurt you."
He understood that she was warning him of the futility of expecting to
find in her a woman. But if she had calculated, which she had not, on
any move surer to arouse him, she could have found no better expedient.
The impossibility implied, coupled with the impulsive generosity in her
voice, made her a thousand times more desirable. He rose brusquely,
and, standing with his back to the fire, looked down at the dramatic
face, which the flames lighted with the flare of footlights.
"There are certain things that we must understand together," he said
with authority, obeying the instinct which told him that to succeed he
must take the upper hand.
Her eyebrows came together in a straight flight.
"I have not hesitated to trust in you--you must in me. Tell me. You
have reason to suspect that Mrs. Bloodgood took the ring--at least, the
first time?"
[Illustration: "'I have not hesitated to trust in you--you must in me'"]
She shook her head, but without anger.
"Don't you understand," he said quickly, "that I must know why you acted
as you did?"
Still her only answer was a deep-taken breath.
"I swear to you, if Mrs. Bloodgood did take it," he said, "I would not
condemn her. On the contrary, I would pity her."
"Why should Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, do such a thing?" she said
quietly.
"Because, from what I know, Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, as the
wife of Enos Bloodgood, has not as much money in her pocket as you or
I." He stopped. "She took it to have some means of escape, didn't
she?"
"No, she did not take it," she answered, but in a tone that brought no
conviction.
"You see, I know that you returned to Mrs. Kildair's that night," he
said, irritated.
"How did you know?" she said quickly.
"Mrs. Kildair told me--no, that's not true; some one else did."
"Mrs. Kildair herself called me on the telephone and asked me to come,"
she said slowly.
"And questioned you?"
"Yes."
"As to what you had seen?" he said, with a great feeling of relief that
should have warned him of his true interest.
"Yes."
"What did you answer?"
She rose and approached him, looking at him with only friendliness.
"If the ring is not restored in two weeks," she said, "then I will tell
you what you wish to know."
"You think that, if Mrs. Bloodgood took it, she will now have no use for
it," he persisted, seizing the idea.
"I know nothing at all," she answered, emphasizing the "know." "This
promise must satisfy you. I only have a suspicion, and I don't want to
do an injustice to another--remember that. I have never said it was
Mrs. Bloodgood I suspected. Now I want to talk to you about my own
affairs."
He was covered with contrition that he should have forgotten her
difficulties.
"Good heavens!" he said hastily. "What have I been thinking of? Please
don't think I don't care; I've been in such a whirl--"
She checked him with a gesture and a smile, motioning him to sit down
again.
"Have you had any word?"
She shook her head.
"Of course, it's a terrible day on the Street," he hastened to reply.
"Everything's up in the air--they're like a lot of lunatics. Garraboy
hasn't had time to think. That oughtn't to alarm you."
"But I left word at his office for him to telephone me, and it is now,"
she said, glancing at the clock, "an hour and a half since the close."
"There are probably a hundred inquiries of the same sort awaiting him,"
he said to reassure her. "What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know--and yet I am a little anxious. Suppose he has used my
stocks? Such things happen every day."
"The best thing is to find out at once how Garraboy stands--if he's been
caught in the drop or not. Then we can take our measures."
"How'll you do that?"
"Call up Bruce Gunther and get him on the trail. May I telephone?"
"Do so."
"He's probably at the club now," he said, taking up the receiver and
giving a number. "Yes, he's in. That's lucky. I'll get him in a
moment." Then he added irritably: "How the deuce did you ever come to
deal with Garraboy?"
"Why, I've known him ever since I came to New York. I wanted to invest
some money--I didn't know any one else; and then, he was very--friendly;
wanted to make some money for me. That's how it was."
"Hello," said Beecher. "Is that you, Bruce? It's I--Ted."
"Where the deuce have you been?" said the voice at the other end. "I've
been trying to get you all over town."
"You have?"
"You bet I have; McKenna's turned up a real clue--wants to see you at
once. Pick me up here at the club, will you?"
"All right. But say, Bruce, I want you to do something for me. Find
out all you can about Garraboy--you know, the fellow we spoke about. Has
he been on the wrong side of the market or not? Understand? It's
important."
"I'll do it. Anything else?"
"Yes. A friend of mine has some stocks with him, about twenty thousand
worth--you see the situation--and she's a little bit worried. Can't get
any satisfaction."
"Wants 'em back?"
"Yes. What's the best way to do?"
"Um! Get a transfer to you and call for them tomorrow."
"Of course; see you later."
He put down the telephone and turned gaily to his companion, who was
waiting with anxiety.
"That's all right. Bruce will get the information and I'll telephone
you this evening. Now, the best way to operate is this." He took out
his check-book and wrote a check for twenty thousand dollars to her
name. "I'll buy those stocks. Here's my check; give me an
acknowledgment for the shares, with an order on Garraboy to deliver."
She looked at him doubtfully, holding the check gingerly in her fingers.
"What's the matter?" he said. "If there's any little difference one way
or the other, we can arrange that later."
"Supposing Garraboy has failed and sold my stocks?"
"He hasn't."
"But if he has?"
"That's my risk," he started to say, but checked himself. "Why, of
course, then it's off. This is just to give me the power to get them
away at once. A man can do what a woman can't."
She was grateful to him for his perception of delicacy.
"On that basis, yes," she said. Then she stopped and looked at him with
a whimsical but favoring smile. "As it is, Teddy, what do you know of
me to take even this chance?"
The opening was too direct. She saw it at once, and, to forestall his
answer, said more lightly:
"It is a great service. Tell me what to write."
As she was drawing up the paper under his directions, a placid,
emotionless woman of forty entered from the rear.
"That Mr. Hargrave is here, Nan dear," she said. "You gave him an
appointment, you know."
"Mrs. Tilbury, my companion," said Miss Charters. "Very well; in a
moment."
Mrs. Tilbury passed patiently out to deliver the message. Beecher was
delighted with the correctness and cold respectability of such a
chaperon.
"Mr. Hargrave is a young dramatist," said Miss Charters, finishing the
document. "He's coming to read some masterpiece to me. He wrote a
one-act piece three years ago that was very clever, and now, of course,
I can't risk refusing to hear him--he might have a work of genius at
last. This is my fourth trial." She put the paper from her
impatiently. "I'm sorry."
He was displeased also at this sudden recall of the other life in her,
the world of the theater, which crowded the walls with its signed
photographs.
"I'll telephone as soon as I know," he said, dissembling his irritation.
She went to the door with him, annoyed also at the interruption.
"I'm coming tomorrow," he said, and he held out his hand with a little
defiance.
She did not resent the assumption of right, still introspectively
puzzled at the new moods into which she had fallen. And, still pensive,
she said:
"Come."
Below, in the anteroom, he sent a look of antagonism and scorn at a
young man, a little extravagantly dressed, who carried a portfolio under
his arm with a sense, too, of irritation and pride.
*CHAPTER XIII*
When he had gone into the brisk air of the street, his mental vision
returned with the crispness of the night. He was astonished at what he
had said and done.
"But I am not in love--not in the least," he repeated. "Then what was
it?"
He was quite perplexed at perceiving the astonishing difference her
presence and her absence made in his attitude. He repeated to himself
quite seriously with a little wonder that, if he were in danger of
falling in love, he would be a prey to that disturbing emotion now,
absent as well as present.
"I am perfectly calm," he said, flourishing his cane. "Not in the least
excited. It's very queer."
All the same, he returned to the interview, and recalled the incidents
without illusion. He comprehended now what he had not comprehended
then, the full significance of his offer of friendship--in fact, that it
was not an approach to friendship but to something very different, and
the relations which had now been established between them were those of
confidence and intimacy that lay on the borderline of great emotions.
"It's very odd," he said, "I wish to be honest and open with her, and
yet I said what I don't feel--suggested what I have not the least
thought of. I'll be hanged if I understand it, unless she has the power
to make me believe in emotions that don't exist,--Emma Fornez was right,
she is the type that provokes you. I must be very careful."
But one thing he did not perceive--that the city no longer oppressed him
with its bleak struggle and serried poverty, that he swung lightly over
the crisp pavements, breathing the alert and joyous air, that in him the
joy of living awakened, as the myriad lights awoke the city of the
night, the city rising from the fatigue of labor with its avid zest for
pleasure and excitement.
"What is the clue McKenna's got hold of?" he thought eagerly, as the
massive, cheery windows of the club came into view across the stirring,
care-fleeing homeward rush of the Avenue.
The moment he entered the crowded anteroom, the tragic day returned with
redoubled gloom. The death of Majendie oppressed every voice--nothing
else was discussed. He found himself caught up in the crowd at the bar,
listening with a strange sense of irony to those who touched in
haphazard the event which he knew so profoundly. The wildest rumors
were current. Majendie had shot himself after the discovery of an
enormous shortage in the funds of the Atlantic Trust. The Atlantic
Trust had been looted, the effect on Wall Street had been to confirm the
wildest rumors, the market would plunge down to-morrow, the awful loss
of the day would be surpassed; it was the panic of '93 over again. The
inevitable mysterious informant in the crowd arrived with a new rumor:
Majendie had tried to escape, had been prevented by detectives, who had
been shadowing him for days, and had then gone in and shot himself just
as the warrant for his arrest arrived. Another gave this version;
Majendie had not shot himself, he had been murdered.
Every one exclaimed at this.
"That's the story in the Associated Press offices," continued the
informant obstinately. "A man whose whole fortune was locked up in the
Atlantic--a small depositor--got into the house on some pretext, and
shot him--crazy, of course. It's not been verified, but that's the
story."
"Tell you what I heard," said another, in a low voice, to a group that
eddied about him. "It's true he was shot, but he wasn't shot in his own
home. He was shot last night in his box at the opera by a man who is as
well known as old Fontaine. The old story, of course, trespassing in
married quarters. The whole thing was kept dark--got him out of the box
after the crowd went out, and took him home, where he died at midnight.
Heard the names in the case, but pledged not to repeat them."
Each rumor received a momentary credence, in the excitement of the
moment. Some one defending the personal friend, insisted on melancholia
and despondency, citing the example of an uncle who had taken his life
after the disgrace of his son. No one spoke the name of Mrs. Bloodgood,
waiting the moment of confidences _a trois_. In the stupefaction of the
moment, even the personal losses, which had been tremendous, were
momentarily forgotten. Gradually inquiries began to be made as to the
extent of the panic. Then at once a division was apparent. There was
already the party of the shorts, eager and vociferous, staking their
last chance of recouping on a still wider spread of the devastating
drop, which they now as ardently desired as though a thousand homes
would not suffer for every point acquired.
Beecher separated himself from these enthusiasts of failure, and passed
into the front room, where he was signaled by Gunther, who was in one of
the numerous small groups. He found a chair and joined the party, in
which were Fontaine, Lynch, and Steve Plunkett. The conversation, which
was controversial, continued without interruption.
"Don't be an ass, Ed," said Lynch, with irritation; "nothing can stop
the market."
"The Atlantic Trust is as solvent as Gunther & Co.," insisted Fontaine,
with a nervous, emphatic gesture. "Every depositor will be paid in
full."
"It'll be in the hands of a receiver before the week's over--bet you
five to three."
"Possibly; but then--"
"Moreover, what of the public? What's the public going to do when it
hears Majendie's committed suicide? What'll it think? It'll think the
whole blamed institution is rotten to the core--looted!"
"Sure," said Plunkett, and he added savagely, his glance lost in the
distance: "Damn it, if I'd known the news an hour earlier, I could have
made fifty thousand."
"Why, look at the situation," continued Bo Lynch, excited by his own
images. "The Clearing-house closed against the Associated Trust and all
its allies; runs on banks all over the country; Slade forced to the
wall, out of it in a couple of days, perhaps--God knows, another
suicide, maybe; two failures up into the hundreds of
millions--everything in the country thrown on the market! Look at the
sales to-day; they'll be doubled to-morrow. Nothing can hold out against
it. The country'll go crazy! I tell you, '93 was nothing to it."
Gunther rose.
"What do you think, Bruce?" said Plunkett anxiously.
"Don't know a thing about it," said Gunther brusquely. "Neither does
Eddie or Bo. If you want to gamble, gamble."
He nodded to Beecher, and they moved out together.
"Let's cut out of this den of lunatics," he said. "My machine's here;
supposing we run down to McKenna's and get him off for a quiet chop.
I've already telephoned."
"He's got some news?"
"Yes, but I don't know what it is. Jump in."
"What about Garraboy?"
"Rumor is, he's in heavy. McKenna's looking that up, too."
"I say, Bruce, what do you really think about the situation?" said
Beecher, forced to contain his curiosity. "Are we going to the
bow-wows?"
"If you ask what I _think_," said Gunther meditatively, "I think it's
the devil to pay. Far as I can see, a lot depends on John G. Slade.
There's no doubt there's a crowd after his scalp."
"Will they get it?"
"Looks so; but he's got nine lives, they say."
"Where the deuce are we going?" said Beecher, suddenly aware of the
swift flight through the now deserted regions of the lower city.
"Down to McKenna's offices."
"As late as this?"
"Guess these days keep him pretty busy."
"Didn't he say anything about his clue?"
"Said he'd traced the history of the stone."
They soon came to a stop in one of the blocks on Broadway within a
stone's throw of old Trinity, and, descending, entered a dingy
four-story building pinched in among the skyscrapers. At the second
flight of worm-eaten stairs, Gunther pushed open a smoky glass door and
entered a short antechamber inclosed in sanded glass with sliding
pigeon-holes for observation. Their arrival being expected, they were
immediately shown down a contracted hallway studded with doors, to an
open room, comfortably furnished, with a fire burning in the grate.
"Join you in a moment, gentlemen," said McKenna, nodding around the door
of the adjoining room.
Gunther unceremoniously helped himself at the open box of cigars.
"Ted," he said enthusiastically, "why the deuce do the novelists concoct
their absurdly stalking detectives, who deduce everything at a glance,
with their impossible logical processes? Don't they see the real thing
is so much bigger? It's not the fake individual mind that's wonderful;
it's the system--this system. A great agency like this is simply an
expression of society itself--organized order against unorganized
disorder. It's an unending struggle, and the odds are all on one side.
By George, what impresses me is the completeness with which society has
organized itself--made use of all inventions, telephone, telegraph, the
photograph, the press, everything turned on the criminal to run him
down. For a hundred detectives employed here, there are a thousand
allies, in every trade, in every depot, in every port, along every line
of travel. When you think of the agencies that McKenna can stir up by a
word, then you begin to realize the significance of the detective in the
structure of society."
McKenna, who had heard the last words, entered, vitally alert and
physically excited by the joy of unusual labor.
"Now I'm with you," he said, appropriating an easy-chair. "Let's see
where we'll begin. Oh, Mr. Beecher, you wanted certain information
about that broker Garraboy, didn't you?"
"What have you found out?" said Beecher, with a conscious eagerness that
struck both hearers.
"It just so happened I had a line on your man from another direction,"
said McKenna. "Well, he's hit the market right. What would have
happened if this panic hadn't come just right, is another question--a
rather interesting question. However, Garraboy's known to have been
heavy on the short side, and, from all reports, stands to make a
killing."
"Then Miss Charters' stocks are all right?"
"They're all right--yes--now," said McKenna carefully; "but my advice is
to get hold of them--P.D.Q. Mr. Garraboy is somewhat of a gambler. Now,
here's a bit of history about a certain ruby that will interest you," he
continued, drawing out a memorandum. In his manner was a little amused
self-satisfaction, as one who relished the mystification of the
outsiders. "In the first place, your ruby ring is not worth fifteen
thousand."
"No?" said Beecher in amazement.
"It's worth considerably more," said the detective, with a grin. "Its
last sale was at the price of thirty-two thousand dollars."
"What!" said both young men in chorus.
"Just that."
"But then, why should Mrs. Kildair value it at fifteen?" exclaimed
Beecher.
"That's rather an interesting point," said McKenna, "and we'll touch on
that later. The stone is as well known in the trade as John L. Sullivan
to you and me. It was first sold in New Amsterdam in the year 1852 to a
firm of Parisian jewelers. From them it was bought for a well-known,
rather frisky lady called La Panthere by a Count d'Ussac, who ruined
himself. La Panthere was killed later by a South American lover and her
effects sold at auction. The ruby was bought by the firm of Gaspard
Freres, and set in a necklace which was sold to the Princess de
Grandliev. At the fall of the Second Empire, the necklace was broken up
and this particular stone went over to England, where it was set in a
ring and sold to a young dandy, the Earl of Westmorley, who was killed
steeplechasing. A woman named Clara Hauk, an adventuress, had the ring
in her possession, and successfully defeated the efforts of the family
to regain it. She got into bad water in the '80's and sold it to a
South African, who carried it off to the Transvaal with him. It
reappeared in the offices of Gaspard Freres in 1891 on the finger of a
young Austrian woman who sold it for twenty-two thousand dollars and
disappeared without giving her name. An Italian, the Marchese di
Rubino, bought it for a wedding present to his daughter, who kept it
until 1900, when she pledged it to pay the gambling debts of her
husband. It was then brought to this country by the wife of a Western
rancher, who sold it five years later to Sontag & Co. The last sale
known was just two months ago."
"Two months?" said Beecher, craning forward.
"The price, as I said, was thirty-two thousand, and the purchaser was a
certain gentleman very much before the public now--John G. Slade."
This announcement was so entirely unexpected that it left the two young
men staring at each other, absolutely incapable of speech.
"But then," said Gunther, the first to recover, "the ring was given her
by Slade!"
"At a cost of thirty-two thousand," said the detective in a quick,
businesslike tone.
"You are sure?"
"As positive as any one can be. There are only three other rings--"
"That's why she wanted to keep it quiet!" exclaimed Beecher, rousing
himself from his stupor. The whole machination of Mrs. Kildair became
comprehensible to him on the instant. "Now I see!"
"Precisely," said McKenna. "Of course there is a chance that Slade did
not give her the ring; that I'll know tomorrow."
"How?"
"Make an inquiry--for a supposed purchaser, of course; find out if the
ring is still at Slade's."
"It's useless," said Beecher firmly. "I know that McKenna's right.
This explains everything," he continued, turning to the detective.
"That's why she acted so strangely "--he checked himself. "I saw Mrs.
Kildair--took lunch with her--to-day--"
"Did you find out whom she employed?" said McKenna quietly.
Beecher opened his lips to answer in the affirmative, and stopped
abruptly. For the first time, he realized that Mrs. Kildair had taken
back the address. He rose nervously, frowning at the stupidity he would
be forced to disclose.
"By Jove, I am an ass!" he said, dropping his glance; and he related the
scene in which Mrs. Kildair had first given him the address and then
taken it away.
"It's not important, Mr. Beecher," said the detective pensively, his
mind working behind the recital. "She didn't give you the right
address."
"How do you know?" said Beecher, turning.
"Because she recovered the paper as soon as she found out you were
employing me," he answered; but his mind was still out of the room. He
took out a pencil and began tapping his memorandum with quick, nervous
jots. "Her mind worked pretty quick," he said.
"Why do you want to know her detectives?" asked Gunther.
"You see, the case is complicated," said McKenna, rousing himself. "I
won't go into her relations with Slade just now, but it's quite evident
to any one they were such that Mrs. Kildair prefers to lose the ring
rather than to have it discovered how it came to her. See?"
"I see," said Gunther.
Beecher, silent, was turning over in his mind all the incidents of
Slade's and Mrs. Kildair's conduct, striving to reach some explanation
but the natural one that forced itself on him.
"That's why," continued McKenna, "I'd like to know, first, if the
detectives are straight--can be depended upon; second, if they were told
to make a search; and, third, if they were told not to find the ring."
"But why not?"
"Because, Mr. Gunther, whoever took that ring the second time didn't
take it on impulse or without a plan; whoever took it probably--I don't
say certainly--knew enough of its history to know that Slade gave it to
Mrs. Kildair, and reckoned on the fact that she would not dare to make
it public. See?"
The corners of his eyes contracted suddenly, as though through the
movement of propelling forward the quick, decisive glance.
"Then you think," said Beecher slowly, "that she is--"
"Look here, Mr. Beecher," said the detective quickly, "there is one
thing no human being can ever say offhand; what says the Bible--the way
of a man with a maid--well, make that woman in general. You don't know,
and I don't know, what the situation is right there, and we may never
know. All the same, we're now started on solid ground; it may lead to
something, and it may not, but what I want to know before we get much
further is who and how many there that night knew or guessed Slade gave
her the ring."
"Of course," said Gunther. "But how--"
"By patience and by running down every alley till we find it is an
alley," said McKenna. "That's one thing to keep in mind, and let's put
it this way. Was there any one there that night who had to have money
quick, and who knew that the fact of Slade's giving the ring would tie
Mrs. Kildair's hands? Now, if that condition existed, we're on a strong
motive."
"You don't consider that the only lead," said Beecher, convinced as he
was of the probability of Mr. Majendie's participation.
"Lord, no. Here's one other point to work on, Mr. Beecher. What's the
situation today between Slade and Mrs. Kildair? Has there been any
quarrel--say within the last ten days?"
"I don't think so; and yet--" Beecher stopped, remembering Mrs.
Kildair's curious request for him to outstay the promoter. "What if
there was?"
"Slade's a remarkable character," said McKenna, smiling. "Just how
remarkable a few people will learn shortly. If he had quarreled or
she's been trying to trick him--just like him to take the ring the
second time."
"By George!" said Gunther. "Why not?"
"That's only something to be kept in the background," said McKenna,
rising.
He turned to Beecher, considering him profoundly.
"Sorry you told Mrs. Kildair I was on the case," he said.
Beecher blushed at the memory of the way in which he had been brought to
disclose the information, and the confusion all at once revealed to the
detective the probable means she had taken.
At this moment the door opened and a voice called him.
"Telephone, sir--personal."
When the detective had left, Beecher and Gunther looked at each other in
amazement in which a curious doubt was beginning to form.
"Why the deuce should Slade give her the ring, Ted?" said Gunther
abruptly.
"I don't know," Beecher answered, perplexed. "I know what you
think--that's natural; but I don't believe it. She's deeper than
that--that is, I think so."
But he ended perplexed, contracting his eyebrows, nervously jerking at a
button on his coat.
McKenna reentered, and on his face was a smile of anticipation and
mischief.
"Some one called me up just then," he said shortly; "some one I've been
expecting to call me up. Guess who?"
"Slade," said Gunther, startled.
"Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher.
"Mrs. Kildair is right," said McKenna. "I'm going up to see her
tonight." And he added meditatively, "It ought to be quite an
interesting little chat."
*CHAPTER XIV*
At eight o'clock promptly McKenna presented himself at the door of Mrs.
Kildair's apartment. Kiki, with his velvet glide, ushered him into the
studio. The electric chandeliers were dull; only the great standing
lamp was lit, throwing a foggy luster about the room, massing enormous
dark silhouettes and spaces in the corners.
"Is it a precaution?" he thought grimly, considering this serviceable
obscurity.
He felt a sudden heightened sense of curiosity and defiance, a feeling
that had been growing within him ever since the discovery of Slade's
connection with the ring, and the brief, disjointed details of Beecher's
interview. Every profession develops, back of its elaborate technique,
a sudden quality of instinct which exists as the almost mechanical and
unguided operation of the disciplined mind. McKenna had no sooner
entered the room than he perceived the woman with a quick defensive "on
guard" of all his faculties.
He stopped in the center of the room, like a pointer flushing his game,
and in the second's rapid inhalation he completely changed his scheme of
attack. He felt at once that he had to do not alone with--what he
expected--a woman of unusual physical attraction, clever, with the
defensive intuition of one who has evaded the scrutiny of society; but
with a woman of mental grasp and decision. He felt it everywhere: in
the remarkable adjustment of the square room which broke it up into half
a dozen separate groups, distinctive and sure as though so many separate
selves; in the harmony of color and proportion, which he felt without
analysis; in the seduction of the Recamier couch with its eastern
drapery of blue and gold; in the friendly comfort of the grouped chairs
by the baronial fireplace; in the correct intimacy of the reading-table
at one end and the formality of the grouped chairs by the piano. All
these notes were to him notes of the hand that had arranged them, as he
felt in the struggling muscles of the bared marble torsos, wrestling on
the mantel, and the lithe, virile body of the discus-thrower on the
table, the virility and aggressiveness of the woman. This perception
awoke his defiance as though one personality had been substituted for
another.
"What does she want with me?" he thought. "Is she daring enough to tell
me all, or is she worried at what I may know?"
While he was still in the midst of his reflections, Mrs. Kildair
entered. She was in street costume: a tailor-made dress of dark blue,
edged with black braid, the stiffness and sobriety relieved by a full
fichu at her throat. The red flight of a feather crossed the
Gainsborough hat.
"How do you do?" she said, nodding to him, a crisp, businesslike
abruptness in her voice. "A little more light would be better. Thanks.
The button is by the door."
Prepared as he had been to be surprised, he had not expected this
businesslike manifestation. He went to the wall, following her
directions, and threw on the lights.
"Only the side lights," she said. "That's it. Shall we sit here?"
She took her position by the reading-table in a great high-backed
upholstered arm-chair. Obeying her gesture, he drew up his chair to a
position opposite. In the varied experiences of thirty years, he had
come into contact with women of all walks of life. Without the
psychological analysis of subtleties of the lawyer and the novelist, he
had an unerring instinct for the crux of character. "Is she good or is
she bad?" was the question that, in ninety cases out of a hundred, he
put to himself at the turning-point of his campaigns. For the first
time, despite his previous prejudice, he was in doubt for an answer, but
he recognized in her at once the stamp of that superior brood which
raises some men to fame and fortune where others by one trait of
conscience or weakness end in a disgraceful failure.
"I have wanted to meet you for a long time, Mr. McKenna," she said
directly, but without the accompanying smile of feminine flattery. "Mr.
Slade has told me much about you."
"Slade?" he said, with a quick simulation of surprise, while admiring
the abruptness, amazing in a woman, with which she had launched her
attack.
"You realize, of course, Mr. McKenna," she continued quietly, without
giving him time to deny her first implication, "that Mr. Beecher, in
engaging you, has, quite without his knowledge, brought on a situation
that is very embarrassing to me."
"Good!" thought the detective. "She has made up her mind to tell the
whole story." Aloud he said, without change of expression: "In what
way, Mrs. Kildair?"
"A situation exists which makes it extremely difficult for me to recover
my ring without disclosing to the public matters in my own private life
that at present are liable to great misconstruction."
She spoke professionally, without variation in her voice, as a doctor
speaking with dispassionate directness. McKenna did not answer,
resolving by his silence to force her to talk.
"A week," she continued without pause, though her eyes remained without
wavering on his, "--ten days at the most--may completely change this
position. I won't conceal from you that I am extremely sorry that you
have been brought into the case." McKenna could not control an
expression of surprise. "But, now that you are in it, I shall be forced
to give you a confidence against my inclination."
"But--" began the detective.
"One moment," she said, interrupting him. "Before I give you this
confidence I wish to ask one question."
"Mrs. Kildair, I must remind you," said McKenna warily, "that I am
engaged in the interests of Mr. Beecher, and can do nothing without his
permission."
"Are you representing any one besides Mr. Beecher?" she said, ignoring
his objection.
"What do you mean?" he said carefully, to gain time.
"Are you, in this particular case, representing Mr. Slade?" she said
directly.
"I have never said that I was employed by him, Mrs. Kildair," he said
slowly, comprehending now the full purpose of her opening question.
"Mr. Slade has told me himself of your work in connection with the Gray
Fox Mines, the Farmers' and Travelers' Bank, and the more personal
affair of your recovery of his letters from a Miss Minna Weston. You
see, I am informed."
"I have worked for Mr. Slade," said McKenna.
"And are you doing so now?" she asked sharply.
"I never refer to my clients, Mrs. Kildair," he said stiffly.
"I desire to put this matter entirely in your hands--without reserve,"
she said quickly. "All I ask from you is a promise that,
notwithstanding your relations with him past or present, nothing I say
to you shall be repeated to Mr. Slade, or to any one else."
"Mrs. Kildair," said McKenna, every faculty joyfully grateful for the
contest of wits he felt impending, "I must remind you that my employer
is Mr. Beecher, and that I can promise nothing that will keep him from
doing anything he desires.
"Mr. Beecher is acting for me," she said calmly. "Very well; your
position is correct. I will put it this way. Subject to Mr. Beecher's
approval, will you give me your word that you will repeat nothing of
what I may tell you?"
"If Mr. Beecher is willing, I am," said McKenna obstinately. "That's my
word."
"Now I can speak to you freely," said Mrs. Kildair.
"I have not promised yet," broke in McKenna.
"I will take the risk," she said, brushing aside the obstacle with an
impatient gesture.
"I remain entirely free to communicate anything to Mr. Beecher,"
interposed the detective instantly.
"You do not understand," she said, without irritation. "Mr. Beecher, in
retaining you, did so to assist me, and only after he had secured my
permission. Now I desire, in order to arrive at quicker results and to
be free to give you my full confidence, to transfer that authority
direct to me. In other words, Mr. McKenna, I wish to retain you myself
and for myself only."
"That, Mrs. Kildair, depends entirely on Mr. Beecher," repeated the
detective.
"But if he acquiesces, will you act in my interests only?"
McKenna was about to interpose another evasion, when he reflected that
he would have time to acquaint Beecher with what had happened and to
advise him either to accept or to refuse.
"Very well," he replied cautiously, feeling instinctively that some trap
was being prepared without yet perceiving what it could be. "I will
leave it that way."
"Good," she said, with a little nod of her head. "Now, what have you
done?"
"I can not answer that, Mrs. Kildair," he said, smiling; "not under my
present arrangement."
"You have, of course, discovered that the ring belongs to Mr. Slade?"
Quite unconsciously, she had adopted his own tactics, the tactics of the
inquisitor, who hurls the vital question at the suspect, and then seeks
the answer in the almost imperceptible response in the eyes.
"Yes, I know that," said McKenna, who felt that the surprise he had
experienced at having the tables thus turned on him had revealed the
truth to the questioner. "That is, I know the ring did belong to Mr.
Slade."
"Have you informed Mr. Beecher of the fact?"
"It has just come to my knowledge," said McKenna; "I shall, naturally,
inform him."
Mrs. Kildair looked at him a moment with an appearance of reflection.
"The question was quite unnecessary," she said. "Of course, you have
told him, and you have every right to deny it." Then she continued with
more decision: "This is exactly my danger--you see, I won't mince words.
It is a situation which constantly occurs, and which is inexplicable
except by one construction in the eyes of society. Now--"
"I warn you," again objected the detective.
"I do not propose to explain my relations with Mr. Slade," continued
Mrs. Kildair coldly. "They are such that a great deal depends on the
events of the next few days. At present it is enough that I can not
explain my possession of the ring in any way that can satisfy
publicity."
"Mr. Slade did not give you the ring?" said McKenna, in slow
progression.
She carefully considered the question.
"Mr. Slade sent me the ring with an offer of marriage," said Mrs.
Kildair evenly, with an appearance of great frankness. "The ring
arrived on the night of the party, and I committed the imprudence of
wearing it. If its source now becomes known, I must appear before the
world either as Mr. Slade's mistress or as his fiancee; and at present I
have not made up my mind whether I shall marry him."
The directness of this avowal left McKenna immersed in thought. He
looked at her, unaware of the fixity of his stare; and, inclined as
always to skepticism, he asked himself if back of all the outer gilt of
this proud, determined woman, there were not a stalking shadow of
insistent poverty, whether the game she was playing with Slade were not
a greater drama than that in which he was engaged; whether, in fact, it
lay not on a turn of the balance whether the world should know her as
the wife or that very alternative which she had dreaded in the exposure
of the ownership of the ring?
"What does she really want of Slade?" he said to himself, staring so
profoundly beyond the set gaze of the woman that, for the first time,
she moved with a little annoyance.
"Mr. McKenna!" she said sharply.
"I beg your pardon," he said, stiffening abruptly.
"You perceive now the delicacy of my position," she said; "and why I
desire to have you completely in my interests."
"I do," he answered, but still clinging to the saving rope of defiance.
"I only regret that you told me this before Mr. Beecher's--"
"Now ask me any questions you wish," she said, interrupting him
impatiently.
"I don't feel at liberty to do so, Mrs. Kildair," he said warily,
convinced that her whole motive was to find out the extent of his
knowledge. "I prefer to know first where I stand."
"Very well," she said. "Let us talk of other things, then." Her manner
changed to one of a lighter, inconsequential curiosity. "There is one
point in the frightful happenings of the day I should like to know."
"What, madam?" said McKenna, whose instinct warned him to adopt a tone
of artless attention.
"Majendie was followed by detectives, was he not?"
"That is the report."
"And he was on the point of leaving when he perceived that he would be
followed?"
"That is what I have been told."
"And, believing that he was about to be arrested, he returned to the
house and shot himself."
"That's the story."
"As a matter of fact, wasn't he mistaken?"
"In what way?" said McKenna, steeling himself under an appearance of
surprise.
"Were not the detectives your own men--placed by you at Mr. Slade's
orders to acquaint him with every move of Mr. Majendie?" persisted Mrs.
Kildair.
"That would make a good Sunday thriller," said McKenna, laughing
boisterously.
"That is my guess," she said, drawing back as though satisfied. "I am
certain that Majendie committed suicide through the blunder of believing
he was threatened with arrest."
"My dear Mrs. Kildair," said the detective, rising, "I see that what you
want to know is, am I for or against Mr. Slade. If I'm not in his
employ you think I'm retained by his enemies. Well, I don't intend to
give you any information."
She made no answer, but, rising in turn, glanced at the clock.
"Since you are here," she said carelessly, "you may as well look over
the ground." And, without waiting, she went to the door. "This is my
bedroom. The ring was placed here."
He had hardly made his quick professional scrutiny when there came a
ring at the door, and at a sign from Mrs. Kildair they returned to the
studio.
"What now?" thought McKenna, who remembered her glance at the clock.
"Slade or who?"
To his surprise, it was Beecher who entered. Mrs. Kildair went directly
to him, a smile of confidence and welcome on her face, holding out an
eager hand, and by the elation of her movements, the detective
comprehended how she had played him.
"Teddy," she said directly, "I have a favor to ask you, and I trust you
so completely that I know I need not explain it further. Mr. McKenna
and I have had a very complete understanding. I wish him to represent
me entirely. I do not mean that you should not continue to work on the
case," she added quickly, as she felt instinctively the gesture of
warning McKenna made behind her back. "All I wish you to tell him is
that anything I may have told him or will tell him shall be considered
confidential until the time I am able to tell you myself. I must throw
myself on your chivalry and protection as the fine gentleman I have seen
you to be," she added, looking at him with a moistening of the eyes in
which there was respect and a more tender emotion.
McKenna, though perceiving how completely she had prepared the isolation
of the confidence he had just heard, did not again signal his objection,
perhaps divining the futility of opposing such an appeal.
Beecher bowed in assent.
"Certainly, Rita," he said, with a pride that brought a smile of
amusement to McKenna's lips. "I wish McKenna to do everything he can for
you and in exactly the way you wish."
"Thank you," she said, with a little pressure of his hand. Then
turning, she added: "This I will say to you both. I have my reasons for
believing that the ring will be returned within ten days; if it isn't
then I shall have more to disclose."
"Returned?" said Beecher, struck by the similarity of her prophecy and
that of Nan Charters.
"Exactly. Until then, I believe all that is necessary is to wait for
developments." She turned toward the detective, who waited like a
statue. "Mr. McKenna, I know you are a busy man. I won't keep you. Mr.
Beecher has come to assist me on a very painful errand, one on which I
would trust no other man that I know in New York." She held out her
hand. "I do not often make mistakes in men, or I should not have told
you what I did. Good-night; I shall call you soon."
McKenna bowed, experiencing, despite his resentment at her mastery of
the evening, a feeling of respect and deference.
"Beecher is a kitten in her hands," he said to himself as he entered the
street. "She played me as she wanted to. One thing's certain. She
wants to employ me to keep me from doing anything. Evidently her own
game is more important than the ring--or is there blackmail mixed up in
this? I have it! Mrs. Kildair knows the thief, but is afraid to act
until--until certain things straighten out between her and Mr. John G.
Slade."
"And now, Teddy," said Mrs. Kildair, as soon as the door had closed
behind the detective, "you know what I want of you. I have arranged
everything. My carriage is waiting."
Half an hour later, Mrs. Bloodgood joined them, heavily veiled. They
drove to the house next to that of Majendie, and, at a word from Mrs.
Kildair, Beecher remained below on guard in the flickering obscurity of
the street. The two women went hurriedly up the steps of Majendie's
home, where the door was opened for them by some one who had been
awaiting their arrival.
For a full half-hour Beecher, prey to a profound melancholy, continued
his aimless, mechanical pacing, his head raised, glancing past the
jagged black silhouettes of the house-tops at the reddened clouds of the
unreal night, which brought him not a clear vision of immense and
purifying spaces but the heavy reflection of the illuminated, surging
streets.
"What will my life be?" he thought, conjuring up the future. "Calm and
commonplace? Or shall I ever be linked to some such tragedy--torn to
pieces, all in a day--wrecked!"
The door opened and two shadows passed down the steps. He returned
hastily, saw them into the carriage, and stood with uncovered head, a
lump in his throat, as they drove on. Then he went directly to his
rooms, and, exhausted by the emotions of the day, fell heavily into a
sleep that was almost a stupor.
*CHAPTER XV*
The next morning he was awakened by Gunther's abrupt hand.
"Up, up, you sluggard!"
He jumped out hastily and found it was almost half-past eight.
"Nice time to sleep," said Gunther sarcastically. "Have you forgotten a
little visit we're to make to that sweet person, Mr. Garraboy? You've
got just twenty-two minutes to beautify yourself and fill the inner
being."
"If we're to see your charming friend, Mr. Garraboy," said Gunther half
an hour later, as they were speeding for the congested, stirring, lower
city, "we've got to nip our man before the opening of the Stock
Exchange. Now let's hear what happened at Mrs. Kildair's last night."
The events in which Mrs. Bloodgood was concerned were sealed in
confidence; but Beecher felt at liberty to recount to his friend the
bare details of McKenna's visit as he had known them.
"What the deuce is behind it all?" said Gunther, puzzled. "I got
McKenna on the wire and that's all he would tell me. What's the reason
she wants to bottle up everything? What's her mix-up with Slade?
Depend upon it, Ted, that woman knows more than we do--or why should she
expect the ring to be returned? She's got a reason for that."
"If it's returned," said Beecher, "it's Mrs. Bloodgood who took it."
"Never! No woman ever got that ring out of the apartment--not alone;
not a Mrs. Bloodgood, or a Nan Charters, or a Mrs. Cheever, or--"
Suddenly he reflected. "Ted, there's one person I'd like to meet."
"Miss Lille?"
"Yes. Supposing we look her up a little more."
"I've thought quite a lot about her," said Beecher musingly; and,
remembering all at once her self-possession on the night of the theft,
he added: "There's nothing weak about her certainly; still, I can't see
the motive."
They had left behind them the free, unbounded sky, boring their way
through the towering sides of the sky-scraping district, where buildings
rose in regular, comb-like structures, with their thousands of human
cells tenanted by human bees. Entering a street where the obstructed
sun never shone, they were swept on by the feverish rush of
fellow-beings and shot up sixteen stories to their destination. The
office-boy in the antechamber took their cards with the condescension
which only an office-boy between the ages of twelve and sixteen can
feel, and disappeared within.
"The old screw'll keep us waiting half an hour, said Gunther, who
disliked all delays.
"Bet he's trying to figure out what we're here for?" said Beecher, who
admitted to himself a delicious satisfaction at the prospective
humiliation of the man he cordially disliked.
The next moment Garraboy himself appeared at the rail, dapper, dried up,
and severe.
"How do you do?" he said sharply, but without inviting them in. "What
can I do for you? It's a very busy day for me."
"I assure you I don't intend to take any more time than I am compelled
to," said Beecher stiffly, with an accent that gave another meaning to
the phrase. He plunged his hand into his pocket. "I have an order for
you."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," said Garraboy, with a malicious drawing up of
his lips. "You can save yourself the trouble."
"What do you mean?" asked Beecher, greatly surprised.
"You have an order on me to deliver certain stocks I hold for Miss
Charters?"
"I have."
"Well, Miss Charters has changed her mind," said Garraboy, letting his
glance rest on Beecher with the vacant, impudent stare of which he was
master.
"You have seen Miss Charters?" said Beecher, growing very angry.
"I have; and when I explained to her that she had been unduly excited by
some one who evidently is not aware that there are laws in civilized
countries adequate to deal with those who attack the reputations or
interests--"
"Sir!" exclaimed Beecher, moving so quickly toward the rail that
Garraboy hastily retreated.
"When Miss Charters learned that, and likewise that she had parted with
stocks worth considerably over twenty thousand dollars, she changed her
mind very quickly."
"Mr. Garraboy," said Gunther abruptly, "all this is not to the point.
We have a formal order on you for certain stocks. Ted, present it."
"True, I forgot," said Garraboy, and produced from his coat a letter,
which he looked over with nonchalant delay and finally handed to
Beecher. "I presume you are acting from altruistic motives and are not
standing on technicalities. Here is a little note which Miss Charters
requested me to give you."
"That has nothing to do with it," said Gunther at once, for the
personality of the broker aroused the pugnacious side of him. "Your
transaction has been closed. Get your stocks."
Beecher, frowning, unable to conceal the vexation that this unexpected
check brought him, opened the letter. The address by its formality
completed his irritation: