Mr. Garraboy has called and explained everything satisfactorily. I am
afraid I was needlessly alarmed last night and did him an injustice. As
he has shown me how advantageous it will be for me to transfer my
holdings to other stocks, now far below their market value, I have
decided not to lose the opportunity. Thank you just the same for your
interest in this matter. I shall be in at five this afternoon and will
explain to you more fully.
Cordially yours,
NAN CHARTERS.
The two watched him read to the end, fold the letter carefully, and put
it in his pocket.
"Well?" said Garraboy.
"Insist on the delivery, Ted," said Gunther militantly. "If Miss
Charters wants to return them again, that's her affair. The stocks are
yours."
He looked at his friend with a glance of warning which sought to convey
to him the distrust he could not openly phrase.
"If Mr. Beecher wishes to stand on technicalities," said Garraboy, in
his even, oily voice, "he can do so. He can make a very nice profit.
Which is it? I repeat, I can not give you much time."
"Miss Charters' letter is sufficient," said Beecher suddenly.
"Good-day."
The feeling of mortification and chagrin which her action had brought on
him dominated all other feelings. He went out in a rage, tearing the
letter into minute fragments. Without a word they reached the street
and entered the automobile.
"Last time I ever try to help a woman!" he said, between his teeth.
"What the deuce did you play into his game for?" said Gunther. "He's
bamboozled her. I believe the fellow is an out-and-out crook--he's got
a rotten bad eye. Why the deuce didn't you get the stocks?"
"She can take her own risks," said Beecher furiously. "It's her own
affair if she's going to blow hot and cold. By Jove, Bruce, I never met
any one who could make me so mad clear through and through."
He stopped, biting his lips, and Gunther with a shy glance stored away
for future comment the impression he received.
"What's the use of taking them seriously?" he said, with a shrug of the
shoulders. "Amuse yourself, but don't let them absorb you. Suppose we
take a turn at the Curb and see what's doing."
With the opening of the market, all the giant sides of Wall Street
seemed suddenly animated with the fury of a disturbed ant-hill. Every
one was rushing in and out, carrying with them the pollution of disaster
and alarm. Eddie Fontaine and Steve Plunkett hurried past them with
quick nods. At the curb market the brokers were shrieking and flinging
their frantic signals in the air. They entered the Stock Exchange,
nodding to the doorkeeper, who knew Gunther, and reached the balcony,
their ears suddenly smitten with the confused uproar from below. They
stood there a few minutes, marveling at that Inferno of speculation and
embattled greed flung before them in all the nakedness of man's terror;
and then left, oppressed by the too frank exhibition of their mortal
counterparts.
"What's doing?" asked Gunther as they returned.
The doorkeeper, with a shrug of his shoulders, flung down his thumb--the
gesture of the Roman circus.
"You like that?" said Beecher, when once more they were in the
automobile and the din and oppression of cell-like monstrosities had
receded.
"I do," Gunther replied, locking and unlocking his broad hands.
"Horrible!"
"That's only one side of it--speculation," said Gunther warmly; "but
even that is impressive. Look beyond those little mobs we saw, get the
feeling of the whole country, the vast nation, rising in anger--flinging
over hundreds of thousands of holdings--sweeping down the little
gamblers with the tremendous waves of its alarm. Beyond that the whole
vibrating industry of the nation is here, within a quarter of a
mile--the great projects of development, the wars of millions, the
future of immense territories to the West and the South. There's a big
side to it--a real side--that gets me. I've a mind to walk down now and
face the old governor and tell him I'm ready."
"Why don't you?" said Beecher. He himself had felt the restlessness of
indecision and enforced idleness. He gave a laugh. "You know, Bruce,
I'm beginning to feel the same way. Either I've got to get into the
current somewhere, or I'm going to pack off for Africa some fine day."
"By the way, Tilton's up at the club. He's here for a few days, getting
ready for a lion hunt or something."
"Tilton?" exclaimed Beecher joyfully. "By Jove, I must get hold of him.
I'd go in a minute!"
He believed what he said. The whirl of emotions into which he had
lately been plunged--revealing to him as it had all the mercenary,
clutching side of the city--had left him disturbed, rebellious, longing
to be away from the mass of men in general, and of women in particular,
the brilliant, keen, and calculating women of the city with whom he had
been thrown. Impatient and disillusionized, without realizing the true
cause, he repeated:
"By Jove, I'd go in a minute!"
In the afternoon he went to call on Miss Charters. After having declared
twenty times that he would not go near her, he suddenly remembered, at
the end of a wearied discussion between his conscience and his
inclination, that his check for twenty thousand dollars was to be
reclaimed and, at once seizing such a satisfactory reason, he abandoned
the attitude of embattled dignity which he had logically built up.
"That's true; I must get the check," he said, and he set out.
But as he neared his destination and began to rehearse all the grave
causes for offense that he held against her, he was surprised at the
slender stock of ammunition he held.
"Why, it was perfectly natural," he thought, struck by the idea--having
considered her reasons for the first time. "If Garraboy called and
explained everything to her satisfaction, why shouldn't she change her
mind? Besides, there is nothing against Garraboy--nothing definite.
After all, I may have been unjust to him."
Very sheepish, he felt his irritation slipping away as he yielded to the
eager desire of once more entering her presence.
"What the deuce was I so wild about?" he asked himself, amazed, as he
entered the elevator.
But all at once he remembered that she had allowed him to receive the
news at the hands of a person intensely disagreeable to him.
"Why didn't she telephone me? That's the whole point."
And, all his irritation restored by this one outstanding fact, he
entered the apartment with the dignity of a justly offended person.
She was seated by the fire in an easy-chair, and she did not rise as he
entered. She was bending eagerly forward, an open manuscript in her
hand, and, without turning, she made a little sign to him to be seated
until she should have finished.
"Wonderful!" she cried at last, dropping the play in her lap. "It is
wonderful!" she repeated, her whole body vibrating with the enthusiasm
of her mood. "Wonderful--astonishing--what a scene!" And, tapping the
manuscript with a gesture of decision, she exclaimed: "I will play that
part--it will be an enormous sensation!"
Her mind still obsessed by the thought of the newly discovered
masterpiece, she turned toward Beecher, who was seated like a ramrod on
the edge of his chair.
"A marvelous play! Really, that Mr. Hargrave is a coming man."
Forgetting her previous estimate, she rushed on: "Isn't it strange--I
always knew he would do it, from the very first! What is extraordinary
is the subtlety of it--how he twines two or three emotions together in
the same scene. What a glorious chance for an actress! I must telephone
the office."
As she rose, a slip of paper which she had been using as a marker
fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, recognized it, and handed it
to him.
"Oh, yes, here's your check!" she said. "I put it there so as not to
forget it. Thanks very much. I'll explain in a minute. I must
telephone Stigler; I'm all excited!"
Beecher, more annoyed by this revelation of her professional life than
by the rub to his vanity, took the check and pocketed it--not having
pronounced a word since his arrival.
She considered him carefully from the corner of her eye as she took up
the telephone; but her personal emotion was too buoyant for trivial
interruptions.
Stigler, her manager, was out, and she put down the receiver with a jar
of impatience. She looked at Beecher again, and, perceiving that there
was an explanation due, sought at once to shift the responsibility.
"Do you know, really, you were ridiculously alarmed last night," she
said, a spirit of opposition in her voice. "I don't know what made you
so panicky."
"Of course," he said sarcastically, "I realize now that I should never
have stirred you up, when everything was so calm. It's strange that I
did not explain to you the natural reasons for Mr. Garraboy's not
calling you up--but then, I usually lose my head at such times."
"You are angry!" she said.
"What a strange idea! On the contrary, it was a charming experience to
enter Mr. Garraboy's office and be so delightfully reassured that
everything was so prosperous with him."
She did not like irony, or know how to combat it, so she frowned and
said:
"I telephoned you."
"Why should you do that? You might have deprived me of the pleasure of
meeting your charming friend, Mr. Garraboy."
"I telephoned. You were not in."
"When?"
"Last night. Four times."
He was mollified by this, but tried not to show it.
"And this morning?"
"But I never get up before ten," she cried, aghast.
"Your explanations are crushingly convincing," he said, with a bow and a
smile.
She watched him with an uneasy look, totally unconscious of any sense of
obligation, accustomed as she was to have her requests for service
regarded as favors. The reaction from their last interview had left her
in a coldly antagonistic state, determined to pluck in the bud this
progress toward intimacy which had so threatened her scheme of life.
Now, seeing him collected and ironical, she was instinctively alarmed at
the distance which he, not she, had placed between them.
"My dear Teddy," she began, in a more confidential tone.
"Teddy?" he said, smiling.
He was perfectly good-natured, and as she felt that he was not
irritated, but amusing himself at her tricks which he had divined, she
was uneasy under this ironical examination. She felt that he had
escaped her; and, disturbed by this thought, she looked at him, seeing
all at once his quality. As he had made not the slightest reference to
the very apparent obligation which he had been willing to undergo for
her, she felt his social superiority and his reticence of good breeding.
Besides, other women--brilliant women--had been attracted by him: Mrs.
Craig Fontaine, Mrs. Kildair, and, above all, Emma Fornez. But another
mood had possession of her, the mood of the artist transformed by the
joy of personal sensation. She wished to keep him, but at the moment
she was irritated that such a little thing should come to interfere with
the joy of the imagined future triumph.
"Don't be horrid, Teddy," she said impatiently, and, wishing to appease
him quickly, that she might talk to him of the play, she continued: "The
fact is, Mr. Garraboy has done everything he could for me. He sold my
stocks a week ago, foreseeing this panic, and saved me several thousand
dollars. He offered to give me his check for twenty-two thousand five
hundred dollars, or to reinvest it for me when the time came in the
enormous bargains that can be picked up now. What was I to do?"
"You're quite right, and I made a great mistake to mislead you so," he
answered, with great seriousness.
"It wasn't your fault," she said abruptly.
"Wasn't it?" he said, opening his eyes with a show of surprise.
She comprehended that she would have to surrender, and, changing her
tone to one of gentleness, she said:
"It was a great thing for you to do what you did, Teddy--I shall never
forget it."
"Nonsense," he said, persisting in misunderstanding her. "I often get
up early--that was nothing at all."
"You are not at all the way you were last time," she said reproachfully,
forgetting that that was just what she wished to avoid.
But at this moment the telephone rang. Stigler, her manager, was
calling. Immediately she forgot their misunderstanding, carried away by
the enthusiasm of the moment. Beecher, with a clear vision, followed
her, noticing in her voice, as she sought to cajole the manager, the
same caressing pleading which she had employed a moment before with him.
"Now I really see her," he thought, with a liberation of his spirit.
"Emma was entirely wrong. She's not a woman--she always an actress."
"I'll send you the play right away," she was saying. "Mr. Hargrave is
coming. I'll have him take it to the hotel. But you must read it
tonight. Promise! Oh, yes, lots of comedy--delicious! Heart interest
and big scenes--yes, sensational. Just the part for Fannestock. I must
have him for the part! You'll see him in every line! Now, Mr. Stigler,
please read it tonight!"
"Ah, there's Fannestock too," said Beecher grimly to himself.
She rose from telephoning, joyous and excited.
"Oh, if Stigler will only see it! It's a great part--a great part!
There's a wonderful scene at the close of the third act, between the two
women and the father, that will bring down the house."
Miss Tilbury came in to announce that Mr. Hargrave was calling. An
expression of delight lit up the features of the actress. But all at
once she turned anxiously to Beecher, who had risen stiffly.
"By Jove, I've overstayed my time," he said readily, glancing at the
clock.
She was grateful, and yet dissatisfied that he had suggested what she
wished, and, recalling his new spirit of independence, she said
anxiously, with a compensating smile:
"Teddy, call me up in the morning--this is so important."
In the hallway he stepped aside while Hargrave, a frail, oldish-young
man, entered, with his famished, doubting glance.
"Oh, it is wonderful--wonderful!" cried the actress, seizing both his
hands. "I am still thrilled. Wonderful---wonderful!"
"You liked it?" said Hargrave timidly. At her words, he saw heaven open
before his eyes in a confused vision of frantic audiences, applauding
critics, checks for thousands for royalty, all confused by rolling
automobiles, magnificent bouquets and languishing feminine eyes.
"Like it!" continued Nan Charters, retaining hold of one hand to draw
him into the salon. "It is marvelous! How could you know all this so
young!"
Beecher, in the excitement, quietly made his escape. In the elevator,
to the surprise of the wondering bell-boy, he was seized with a mad
laughter, which continued to convulse him as he rolled into the street.
"Heaven be praised!" he exclaimed. "Cured--cured, by Jove! I wouldn't
have missed it for worlds!"
On turning the corner of his club, he ran into Becker, a club
acquaintance whom he tolerantly disliked.
"Becker, old boy," he said, seizing his arm and flourishing his cane in
the direction of the club, "what can I buy you? Come on--_en avant_!"
"What the deuce has got in you?" said that correct youth.
"Joy, laughter, everything! I'm happy as a Croton water-bug on a hot
marble slab!"
At the bar, he gathered every one in sight, slapping them on their
shoulders. His comrades looked at him with envy and awe, believing that
he had profited by a tip to make a killing in the market. Their own
enjoyment was little enough. The market, outdoing the day before, had
plunged like a wild steer into the maelstrom of panic. A billion
dollars had receded, scattered, evaporated in the mad day. The disaster
had reached the whole country; every bank was threatened. The United
States Treasury had been implored to come to the assistance of the
country. Gunther, Fontaine, Marx, Haggerty, were in hourly conference;
while before the swelling hurricane of fright, every paper was imploring
its readers to stand firm.
*CHAPTER XVI*
The next day Beecher did not consider for a moment telephoning to Nan
Charters, despite her last request. He felt that it was a chapter
closed in his life--one of those innumerable false paths down which one
plunges, only the quicker to return. His own serenity did not even
surprise him. He went off for the morning to play rackets with Bruce
Gunther, and lunched at the club with Tilton, who urged him to join his
hunt, an invitation which he discussed with enthusiasm.
The news from the stock market was the same--ten point losses in the
early trading. Banks all over the country had suspended payments for a
week in order to weather the storm. The panic had ceased to be one of
speculative concern only. Every one was anxiously asking if a permanent
blow had not been dealt to the industries of the country. Many freely
prophesied that, if the downward rush were not checked within three
days, it would take the country ten years to restore its shattered
prosperity. There was a rumor that the big men of the Street had made up
a fund, reaching to many millions, which would be brought on the morrow
to the support of the market. The run on the Associated Trust still
continued, checked though it was by delay and technicalities. Yet the
fall of Slade was hourly predicted.
Beecher lingered after luncheon, played a hundred points at billiards
and won, an hour's bridge and won again. Then he went off in high
spirits to call on Emma Fornez, an appointment arranged over the
telephone.
"So, you bad boy, you and your little Charters have quarreled," said the
prima donna, greeting him with an accusing smile, though in her voice
was the pitch of the nervous excitement which her coming debut that
night had communicated.
"Not in the least," he said, a little surprised at the insinuation.
"Ta-ta-ta! Enough of your stuff and nonsense," she said, with a shrug
of her shoulders. "You are too big a simpleton--a little woman like
that will always get the best of you."
"But there is no quarrel, and I am not in the least interested."
"Oh, _avec ca_--keep away--better keep away! You will burn your fingers.
Just the kind of a little doll that is dangerous. Women like that are
like half colors between one thing and the other--very dangerous! A
young girl--_jeune fille_--would bore you now, and an old campaigner
like Emma Fornez would amuse you; but a little thing like that is too
puzzling for you. I see just how it is," she continued, placing her
hands on her hips and bobbing her head energetically, while Beecher,
very much pleased to be so lectured, listened with a mocking look.
"Yes, yes, I know very well! She gets you--how do you say?--going and
coming. When she is an actress you say she is different from the
rest--what a child! And when she is playing the child, you say what a
difference--she is such an artist! You laugh--see!"
Beecher broke out laughing at this characterization which came so near
the truth.
"What I have said is very good--very good," repeated Emma Fornez,
pleased. "It's all studied, very carefully studied out, but it takes
with young simpletons, big geese, good-looking boys--don't I know?
_Est-ce-que j'en ai joue de ces tours la_? Come, now, what did you fight
about?"
Beecher had an inclination to take her into his confidence; but he
resisted the impulse, and to turn the conversation said artfully:
"By Jove, you look stunning! You won't have to sing a note."
She was in a filmy peignoir, and, as his glance showed an amused
admiration, she said, with a look of apology which she did not feel at
all, gathering the peignoir closer with a perfectly simulated modesty:
"It's very bad--my receiving you like this. I am going through my
costumes. They are dreams. Wait, you shall see--you wish to see them?
Good!" All at once she stopped and, seizing his arm, cried: "Teddy, I
am in a cold fright--I shiver all over whenever I think of it. New York
audiences are terrible. It will be a big, big failure, won't it?"
"There, I'll give you my lucky piece," he said, patting her shoulder as
he would a child's.
"Will you!" she cried, delighted; and; running into the bedroom, she
called back: "I will show you the costume for the second act first. You
will fall down and adore me. Keep me talking, Teddy--I shall go into
hysterics. Oh, I am so frightened!"
She tried her voice, singing a scale, inquiring anxiously, her head
peering around the door: "That sounds bad, _hein_?"
"Marvelous!" said Beecher, who did not know one note from another.
Reassured, she entered radiantly, took two or three steps forward, and,
lifting the castanets on her fingers, flung herself into the pose of
Carmen exulting in the return of her lover.
"Carmen, Teddy," she cried, with a toss of her head. "Carmen is
different from all other roles. To succeed in Carmen, one must be a
Carmen one's self--_enfant de la Boheme_. You like this? Wait--wait a
moment."
Back in her bedroom, she continued, pausing from time to time to shriek
at her maid: "Teddy, you do me so much good--you take my mind off....
Victorine, _tu m'assassine_! ... Teddy, they will think me beautiful,
_hein_? You will stay--you will talk to me until I go?"
"Wish I could," said Beecher, to whom this peep behind the scenes was
novel. "The deuce is, I'm dining with Mrs. Fontaine--going in her box."
"And Charters--she is going too?"
"I don't know."
"What--you don't know?" she said, emerging, a shawl of shaded luminous
greens flung over the shoulder of a russet taffeta. She seized him by
the chin with the savage gesture of the Bohemian. "You lie to me! You
love her--and you know!" Then, slipping on the sofa beside him, half
playful, half feline, she pleaded: "Tell me, Teddy--tell me just to
distract me. Be a nice boy--you see how nervous I am--please!"
Beecher did not resist. He recounted lightly, making little of the few
passages at arms between him and Nan Charters, ending with a droll
reproduction of his laughing exit, cured and disillusionized.
"Ah, my poor Teddy!" said Emma Fornez, shaking her head. "Everything
you say proves what I feared."
"What?"
"You are in love; you are beyond hope!
"What, after I've told you this?"
"Exactly. She asked you to telephone, you didn't. Why? Because you
are in love--you are afraid."
"Emma, I will tell you the truth," he said, with an excusing shrug.
"Aha!"
"I was attracted--"
"Good!"
"But I saw what an idiot I would be."
"Very good!"
"I am completely cured, and if I didn't telephone, it is--"
"Because you are in love," said Emma promptly.
"Nonsense!"
"You will see her tomorrow; if not, day after tomorrow. And the longer
you stay away, the worse for you."
The arrival of Spinetti, the conductor, to run over a last few points,
broke in upon this interesting discussion. Beecher departed, after a
promise to come behind after the second act with a budget of news. He
returned to his rooms, undisturbed by the charges of Emma Fornez.
"I haven't thought of her the whole day," he said contentedly. "If I
didn't telephone, it's because--well, because--what's the use? I have
other things more interesting to do."
In his apartment he found McKenna waiting for him, in company with
Gunther, who was already dressed for dinner at Mrs. Fontaine's.
"Hello, McKenna," he said, surprised. "What's up?"
The two had been discussing energetically, and the little difficult
hesitation told him that he himself had been the subject of
conversation.
"I'm called off on an important case," said McKenna. "Thought I'd
better have an understanding with you first."
"What understanding?" he said. His eye was attracted by the heaped-up
mail on a side table, and he moved over to examine it, with a curiosity,
utterly illogical, to see if Miss Charters had written him.
"Mr. Beecher, I have a request to make of you," said McKenna quickly.
"What's that?"
"Don't open any letters or answer the telephone until I am gone."
"Why, yes; but--" He cut off with a look of interrogation.
"Pump it into him, Mac," said Gunther, throwing himself back and puffing
forth great volumes of smoke.
"The truth is, Mr. Beecher," said McKenna, smiling, "Mrs. Kildair played
us both to the queen's fashion."
"What was I to do?" said Beecher warmly. "Whom does the ring belong to,
anyway? Is there any reason I should do what she doesn't want me to?"
"No--no," said McKenna slowly.
"Could I have refused a direct demand from her like that? And what
reason could I give if I had?"
"You couldn't," said McKenna, eying the end of his cigar. "She did the
job neatly. I admire that woman--don't know when I've met one of that
sex who's caught my fancy so."
"I suppose you're sick of the case and want to get out," said Beecher,
believing he had divined the errand. "Don't know as I blame you."
"No, I don't want to quit," said McKenna slowly, while Gunther smiled to
himself. "I should say, rather, there are things in this case that make
me particularly interested--interested for my own curiosity to go a
little deeper. Only, I want to be sure we understand things the same
way. You don't understand from anything Mrs. Kildair said, do you, that
I am prevented from going on working on my own hook?"
"Why, no; of course not," said Beecher, reflecting. "I understand two
things: one, that Mrs. Kildair wishes to keep in confidence what she
said to you, which I should say was the explanation of certain facts
connected with her having the ring."
"Second?" said McKenna.
"Second, that she believes the ring will be returned, and until she is
sure it is she doesn't wish to give us certain suspicions or knowledge
that she has."
"First rate--just right," said McKenna, rising quickly, showing
satisfaction in the instant alertness of his movements. "That's what I
understand; we understand each other." As he spoke, the telephone rang.
He made a quick gesture of opposition as Beecher started, saying: "Not
now, sir; I'd rather you wouldn't answer--not just now."
Beecher looked at Gunther, who nodded and said:
"McKenna's got a good reason. You'll understand later."
"Now, Mr. Beecher, I've just one thing to say before I go," said
McKenna, while the insistent bell continued its querulous summons. "I'd
prefer you wouldn't mention to any one that you saw me. At any rate, as
Mrs. Kildair evidently isn't anxious for quick results, there's nothing
to be done now. Perhaps by tomorrow there may be a different turn to the
case."
"What do you mean?" said Beecher. "Why don't you tell me what you
know?"
"You forget, Mr. Beecher; you yourself have stopped me there," said
McKenna, with a slightly malicious smile. "However, there's going to be
a little meeting tonight that may have a whole lot to do with the
fortunes of a good many people; and when it's over it may, or may not,
throw a new light on this case."
"They're going to put Slade through the same initiation they gave
Majendie," said Gunther, at a look from Beecher. "There's a meeting of
the big fellows at the governor's tonight--a sort of
sheep-shearing--though Slade's not much of a lamb."
"And his wool grows close to the hide," said McKenna, with one of his
rare laughs. "However, I can tell you this much: whatever happens I
don't believe there'll be any exit by the bullet route--not if I know
John G. Slade. Now, sir, I've got to disappear for a while on my own
troubles."
"Where can I get you?" asked Beecher.
"You can't get me," said McKenna, with one of his sudden contractions of
the eyelids. "That's the whole point--not till I get you. I'm off, and
you don't know where," he added, offering his hand. "Maybe two days;
maybe a week."
"I don't understand," said Beecher, with a puzzled expression.
"I do," said Gunther, pulling his sleeve.
"Now, there are two little points may interest you gentlemen as expert
deducers," said McKenna, with his hat on his head. "One is, I've found
out who those detectives were that night--they're crooks. Second--and
don't forget this--I share Mrs. Kildair's opinion that the ring is going
to be returned."
"Then you know who took it!" exclaimed Beecher, while Gunther looked up
suddenly.
"I don't know a single thing," said McKenna, "but I'm getting to the
suspicious stage. So long."
The telephone had stopped. Beecher, left open-mouthed by the exit of
McKenna, turned to Gunther, who had resumed his easy lounge.
"What the deuce is going on, Bruce? What's all this mystery?"
"Look over your mail," said Gunther irrelevantly.
Beecher obeyed the suggestion. At the end of a moment he exclaimed:
"Hello! Why, here's a note from Mrs. Kildair--sent by messenger,
evidently."
"Read it."
Beecher glanced at it hurriedly.