I am very much ashamed at what happened yesterday. Please forgive my
ill-humor and some day, when you have a spare hour, do come to see me.
Very cordially your friend,
NAN CHARTERS.
This note was the first which Beecher read on awakening the next
morning. He had slept by fits and starts, troubled by the memory of his
last interview with the young actress. The sudden unchecked tempest of
jealousy and anger which had revealed to him the dramatic intensity of
the woman had made a more haunting impression on his imagination than
all her premeditated appeals.
"If after all she does love me? How tremendous it would be," he had
said to himself a dozen times, turning restlessly, in the half stupor of
waking sleep.
He lived over again the scene--only this time it seemed to him that when
she had flung the clock from her in a passion, he had laughed joyfully
and caught her struggling in his arms, exulting in this rage which
burned so close to him. His first impulse on reading her note was to
telephone her immediately, but he resisted this movement, saying to
himself that that would be surrendering all his advantage.
"I'll call up later," he thought with a smile; "that will be much
better."
He went eagerly down to McKenna's office, wondering what surprise was in
store. Gunther and McKenna were already in the latter's private office,
as he entered, and with the first look he took at the detective's
smiling countenance, he perceived that he must be on the track of
something significant.
"We were discussing Mrs. Kildair's engagement," said Gunther. "McKenna
agrees with me that it will expedite matters wonderfully."
"How did Slade manage it?" said Beecher at once.
The detective, without answering, went to his desk and picked up a
square of cardboard on which he had pasted two clippings from the
newspapers, one the announcement signed by Gunther, Sr., Marx and
Fontaine, giving notice of their support of the Associated Trust, and
the other the bare announcement of the prospective marriage of John G.
Slade and Mrs. Rita Kildair.
"I am going to preserve this and hang it up over my mantelpiece," he
said, looking at it thoughtfully, "and when I have an idle hour, I'll
stretch out, smoke up and study it. A couple of million people must
have seen that--and that's all they'll ever know."
"And you?"
"I can only--deduce," he said, a twinkle in his eye. He glanced at the
clock and said hurriedly: "Now we must get down to business. I am
expecting some one in half an hour who ought to particularly interest
you."
"You know who took the ring!" said Beecher instantly.
"I know several things," said McKenna briskly; "but everything in place.
I promised you gentlemen, as you are interested in those things, a
little history of the party that was at Mrs. Kildair's that night. It's
nothing as literary style goes--just facts. Here it is. I'll skip the
personal descriptions."
He took up a bundle of notes, seated himself on the corner of the flat
desk, and began to read:
"Cheever, Stanley: Age 48; married; old New York family; left a fortune
estimated at $425,000, at the death of his father, Ganet Cheever, when
he was twenty-eight. Lived ten years abroad, principally London;
inveterate gambler; lost heavily at Monte Carlo--sum estimated at
$125,000; later became involved in a gambling scandal in England, but it
was hushed up by his payment of a large sum to cover notes given.
Continued to lose heavily at St. Petersburg, Baden and Paris; began
borrowing large sums, meeting obligations with difficulty. Declared
bankruptcy in Colorado, where he had gone to promote a mine; his
statements contested by creditors who brought suit; contest settled out
of court by payment by his relatives to avoid a family scandal. Returned
to New York and engaged himself as an exploiter of well-known wine
merchants. Married three years ago Lydia Borgen, daughter of a large
importing grocer, who brought him $100,000. Lives at rate of $20,000 a
year. Only known occupation gambling; said to have won fifty-five
thousand dollars in three nights' play from Kane Wentworth and Thomas
Haggerty, Jr.,--protested but paid. Method of play has occasioned
numerous reports to his discredit. Accused operating a system of
private signals with his wife, by Mrs. Elmer Jardine after scene at
card-table; brought suit for libel against her and received $12,000
damages out of court to compromise it. Is not received in home of
father-in-law. Cut off by mother's will. Frequently quarrels with his
wife over the attentions of other men. Known to have applied
unsuccessfully at several banks within the last month to raise loans.
Heavily speculated on long side of recent market, purchasing large block
of stocks, margined, on morning after theft of ring, and said to be
heavily involved. Sought aid of wife's relatives day before yesterday;
refused.
"Cheever, Mrs. Lydia: Born Lydia Borgen, daughter Harris Borgen, German
immigrant, who married Lydia Foley, waitress in Pearl Street restaurant.
Father made fortune in grocery business, establishing with brother in
South America a large importing office dealing in cocoa, coffee, and
fruit. At death of uncle, Lydia became heir to $100,000. Father said
to be worth three quarters of a million, but estranged from daughter,
whose marriage he opposed. As a young girl Lydia, rebellious and wild,
constantly involved in escapades, notably with an actor, James Rocker,
with whom she attempted to elope and go on the stage. Kept under strict
surveillance, but at age of seventeen ran off with Charles Bourgoyne,
young English groom at Waltby's riding academy. Pursued and arrested
just as about to be married in New Jersey. Bourgoyne arrested for
abduction but later paid to leave country. Married at nineteen to
Stanley Cheever, through mediation of mother and a Mrs. Dorgan,
notorious marriage broker. Has become tool of husband in schemes of
raising money while leading a separate existence. Keeps private bank
account unknown to husband. Very extravagant in personal expenses which
cannot be accounted for on known income. From beginning of married life
has been conspicuous for her relations with other men, generally wealthy
bachelors, who have subsequently lost money at cards: names best known,
Edward Fontaine, Reginald Forrest, Thomas Haggerty, Jr. At present seen
frequently with R. G. Mapleson of firm of Sontag & Co.--"
"Mapleson!" said the two young men in a breath.
"I know what you mean," said McKenna, raising his hand. "Wait till I
get through"; and he continued to read in his matter-of-fact,
unemotional voice these pages of hard, glaring facts that left his
hearers straining forward to catch every word:
"At present deeply involved in affair with E. V. Garraboy. Seems to
have been introduced to the broker at desire of husband, to obtain
through this channel information which his sister, Mrs. Enos Bloodgood,
may have acquired from B. L. Majendie of financial affairs in general
and particularly Atlantic Trust. Acquaintance developed into violent
passion for Garraboy by Mrs. Cheever; has met him frequently of late,
twice having been followed to his apartments. Of late, scenes with
husband have been increasing in violence, coupled with mutual
threats--believe rupture possible.
"_Item_: Bills against Mrs. Cheever known to be outstanding include
$13,800 to Sontag & Co., for jewels; $1,200 to Madame Cortin for hats,
etc.; $8,300 to Friegel Bros., robes.
"_Item_: The $100,000 she inherited, stands in her own name, but is
believed to be now reduced to $75,000. Morning after theft of ring,
sold short through Garraboy, her broker, 5,000 shares Union Pacific.
For further details, see Garraboy.
"Charming little domestic circle, eh?" said McKenna, laying down the
sheet. "Now for another:
"Bloodgood, Enos R.: Owner New York _Daily Star_; large holder of real
estate in lower New York; director Metropolitan Opera; brought up, at
death of his parents, by his grandfather, Joseph Bloodgood, president of
the Northwestern Railroad, as his prospective heir. At age of 20,
despite threats of his guardian, left college and married Charlotte
Granby, daughter of his tutor. Promptly disinherited. Went to work as a
clerk in Brooklyn drygoods store, living on twenty-five dollars a week,
refusing all overtures from grandfather, who offered to forgive him on
condition of separation from his wife, allowing her $20,000. Refused
and lived in that condition for five years until her death, brought on
by privations. Reconciled with grandfather and sent abroad for a
journey through Europe. Two years later became violently infatuated
with a Spanish singer of the Cafe Chantants and went with her on a trip
to South America, again defying his guardian. At the end of a year,
affair ended by a secret payment made by his grandfather to the woman to
procure her desertion. Followed her and engaged in duel with her
companion, from whom he received serious wounds. After recovery,
returned to Paris, where he again became entangled in violent
infatuations. On point of marrying an Austrian countess of doubtful
history, fell ill with pneumonia and almost died. Returned to New York
and became reconciled with grandfather. Seemed to turn over new leaf;
entered journalism and made good record for steadiness and conservatism,
leading exemplary life. Grandfather, in his will, however, contrary to
expectations, cut him off with $20,000. Two months later, married Mrs.
Georgiana Wakeman, fifteen years his senior, fortune estimated at ten
millions, widow of former owner of N. Y. _Star_, which then passed under
his control. Next ten years remarkable for his strict application to
business and the dissoluteness of his private life. Mixed up in several
promoting schemes with various success. At death of second wife,
received bulk of fortune. Remained widower three years, greatly
increasing fortune at period of Trust consolidations. Married third
wife, Elise Garraboy, noted Southern beauty, no fortune. Union unhappy
after first months; returned to his old habits. Three months ago forced
to pay $15,000 to prevent blackmailing suit on part of a Miss Edna Rusk,
chorus girl. Plunged heavily on short side of late market in a pool
formed to bear market; reputed to have made immense gains.
"_Item_: Has been in confidential relations with Miss Maud Lille for
some time. Visited her early morning, after theft of ring."
"That's queer," said Gunther, startled at this final detail. "Did
Bloodgood do anything in the market that day?"
"Sold right and left," said McKenna, exchanging papers.
Beecher, more impressionable than his companion, said nothing, overcome
by the bare recital of this brutal, materialistic life that once had
been young and stirred to unbelievable sacrifice.
"Bloodgood, Mrs. Enos: Born Elise Garraboy; sister of Edward Garraboy;
old Southern family, New Orleans; father Colonel Marston Garraboy; died
when children were little. Mother married Boyd Hallowel, Englishman,
third son Lord Carmody, came to live in New York. Hallowel died ten
years later, leaving her with small income but social connections.
Elise educated at convent; made debut in society at age of eighteen;
great beauty; numerous suitors; engaged in second season to Enos
Bloodgood; engagement broken; married a year later. Story current,
forced into it to save mother from bankruptcy. Left husband twice in
first two years, but persuaded to return by mother. Met Bernard L.
Majendie eight months ago at Palm Beach. Infatuation no secret;
understood that two weeks before panic had placed her interests in hands
of lawyers, who procured evidence for divorce; action halted
temporarily. Night of party at Mrs. Kildair's, trunks packed for
journey, tickets purchased at Grand Central to Montreal. Day after,
made no investments in Wall Street. Following day, left home with
trunks and returned shortly after suicide. Violent scenes with husband.
Shut herself up in room for hours. That night went to home of Majendie,
company with--"
Suddenly McKenna stopped at a violent movement of surprise from Beecher,
and said quickly, "--a woman and a young man. Said to be totally
without funds; husband reputed to allow her only $120 a month
pocket-money. That's all."
Gunther had been quick to see the agitation of his companion but, since
he comprehended that whatever the part he had played Beecher wished to
keep it in confidence, he pretended to have understood nothing.
"Then there is no trace of Mrs. Bloodgood's having gone into the
market?" he said.
"None," replied McKenna. "There are other details, but they come better
under head of the brother."
He shuffled the remaining sheets and then, as though divining the unease
of Beecher, he said in a matter-of-fact tone:
"Here's the history of Miss Nan Charters; but as it gives us nothing
important we don't know, I'll leave it out. Particularly as we're short
of time. However, I'll say this--there is no record of any stock
transactions except that which we know of already. The next is Miss
Maud Lille, a curious character, too."
Beecher drew a long breath and relaxed in his chair, grateful to McKenna
for his consideration.
"Lille, Maud," said the detective, reading. "Real name Margaret Case;
daughter Rev. Hiram Case and Fanny Saunders, Zanesville, Ohio; left home
at age of sixteen; studied one year to be trained nurse; left hospital
and studied stenography; later joined traveling circus, business
department; became press agent. Stranded in northern Arizona; earned
living by writing for local newspapers under name Jane Anderson; went to
San Francisco and from there to Honolulu, supporting herself by her
writings, occasionally taking regular position as stenographer. In
Hawaii met and married an eastern adventurer known under name of Edward
Bracken; returned with him to San Francisco, where couple engaged in
mining speculations. Husband pursued for fraud and fled; wife arrested
but released. Went to Chicago after securing divorce and changed name
to Maud Lille. Sent to Cripple Creek by Chicago _World_ and made a hit
by her graphic accounts of labor conditions. Married Patrick O'Fallon,
wealthy mine owner. Went with him for trip in Europe but apparently
dissatisfied with life left him and returned to newspaper work,
establishing herself in New York. Not divorced. Under own name author
of several successful novels; prefers Bohemian existence of journalist
evidently, reporting prize-fights, political conventions, murder trials,
etc. Attached to staff of New York _Star_ and apparently much in
confidence of owner. Lately much interested in stock market. On morning
after theft met E. V. Garraboy at Levere's restaurant, near home, before
breakfast; returned to her apartment and saw Enos Bloodgood two hours
later. Reported sold short 500 shares Union Pacific."
"By Jove," exclaimed Beecher as Gunther rose excitedly to his feet,
"you've got it!"
"Maud Lille took it first and transferred it to Garraboy," said Gunther,
then he stopped, puzzled; "but Bloodgood--that's incredible!"
"Hold in your horses," said McKenna, shaking his head with silent
laughter, delighted, in fact, that they had fallen into his trap.
"There's one more little history to read." He hesitated and then said:
"Now, I don't want to play up to a little tin god on wheels, though
that's easy enough. I'll say this, that a good deal of the information
I am reading you I have had in hand. The gentleman whose bright little
history I am going to read you, I have had my eyes on for some time.
That'll develop.
"Garraboy, Edward V.: Sent to military training school; expelled; went
up north, boarding-school; expelled; tutored for college and went to
Harvard; ran up debts to extent of over a thousand dollars in two
months, signing promissory notes. Paid by stepfather, who withdrew him
at the request of college authorities; cut off by family and sent to
Chicago with four hundred dollars to enter business house. Instead,
speculated in wheat market and said to have made a little money. Went
to Denver with small capital and posed as son of wealthy parents. Made
acquaintance of a family called Sanderson and shortly became engaged to
daughter, heiress to considerable fortune. Engagement broken as result
of investigations. Left Denver, leaving behind a number of debts and
bad checks. Next, heard of in southern California, working in mine; got
in shooting affray over daughter of Mexican and went into British
Columbia. Used many names. Spent a year in small stock companies
playing little roles; made a lucky gamble in silver mine and went to San
Francisco, living high. Went to Seattle; became engaged to a widow of
large real estate manipulator; persuaded her to invest her money in land
exploitation scheme in southern California which proved failure. Ran
away from Seattle and went to Hawaii to sell imitation jewelry under
name of Edward--"
"Bracken!" exclaimed the two young men in one breath.
"Exactly."
"Married to Maud Lille!" cried Gunther, the first to recover his
astonishment. "Why, the little toad! How the deuce did these women
fall for him?"
"Oh, that's a question by itself, Mr. Gunther," said McKenna, smiling.
"It's a good deal in studying what you're dealing with, and Garraboy
watched them pretty close. Let me finish.
"Came to San Francisco, as you know; fled to escape pursuit; changing
name, shipped as clerk on a merchantman from New Orleans. Next known of
him, returned from the Far East under own name with apparently a certain
amount of money. On hearing marriage of his sister, came to New York
and established himself in Wall Street, largely through the aid of
Bloodgood, over whose head evidently has held some threat. Met Maud
Lille and probably came to some understanding with her; has paid her
money from time to time. Encouraged sister's infatuation for Majendie,
whom sought to enlist in scheme for rice production in South; failed.
Made money rapidly until three months ago, when several ventures failed
and became involved. Secured personal loan of $10,000 from Majendie
without knowledge of sister. Has lived at rate of $40,000 a year,
running several establishments; said to have given $15,000 worth of
jewelry to Mlle. Clo. D'Aresco, the dancer, on her last visit here.
Made immense short sales in recent market and was on verge of failure
when panic saved him. Has profited by infatuation of Mrs. Cheever to
borrow large sums in last week. On day after theft sold steadily all
day; under suspicions by his own clients and on verge of arrest, when
drop in stocks turned tide in his favor. Reputed to have covered his
losses and made $100,000 in last three days."
"You were on his track then!" exclaimed Beecher, suddenly enlightened.
"I was and I am," said McKenna; "and in less than twenty-four hours I'll
shake down that frisky gentleman for about forty-five thousand dollars
that he has been speculating with. Four days ago I couldn't have
collected forty-five cents. That's why I held off."
"Good Lord!" said Beecher, suddenly remembering. "I say, McKenna, Miss
Charters' money is tied up with him. You don't suppose--by Jove, I hope
nothing's wrong!"
"You give me the amount," said McKenna with a click of his teeth. "I'll
get it. He knows, I guess, by this time what a pretty little story it
would make in the morning papers. He won't resist--not he!"
"Look here," said Beecher excitedly, putting his hand to his pocketbook.
"By Jove, that's lucky. I've still got that order. I can telephone her
now--"
"Telephone nothing," said McKenna, reaching out his hand. "I don't need
that order, except as a reference. Just keep it quiet. The young lady
won't thank you less for your saving her without her knowledge, will
she?"
"No," said Beecher, flurried. "Here's the order. When'll you get at
Garraboy?"
"In about ten minutes," said McKenna, reaching over for a fresh cigar.
"Here?"
"Right here."
"And the ring?" asked Gunther quickly.
"What do you think?" said McKenna, his little eyes snapping through the
blaze of the match as he lighted his cigar.
"I think it lies between Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy," said
Gunther; "either woman took it and either passed it to Garraboy at the
table--"
"Well?" said McKenna, as Gunther hesitated.
"Or Garraboy took it first and passed it to one of them."
"Why?"
"For fear that he or she had been seen taking it the first time--to
cover up the tracks. Whoever may have seen the ring taken would believe
the original thief had restored it and kept quiet."
"That's ingenious, and I must say it may prove to have some bearing,"
said McKenna. "It's likewise possible. But you gentlemen have missed
the whole point of what I've been reading you."
"In what way?"
"There's not one bit of evidence who took the ring," said McKenna, with
a gesture at the recording sheets. "It shows who might have taken
it--that's true. Now, what it shows is this--what was working in every
one's mind the night of that party. You remember that it was on the
night before Majendie's failure, and that the whole question of the
panic hung on whether he was going to pull through or not. Now, of
every one who was there, with the exception of Miss Charters, Mrs.
Bloodgood and Mr. Beecher here, every one was in Wall Street up to their
necks, and if they knew what had happened to Majendie they could call
the turn. Now, what happened? Bloodgood was getting his information
from Maud Lille, who got it from Garraboy, who easy enough could get it
from his sister, not out of treachery, but unconsciously, you may be
sure. Well, all these three got the straight tip. That's what the
meeting next morning was about. Bloodgood never took the ring; that
would be ridiculous; and Maud Lille, whatever her record for drifting,
is not a crook. So those meetings were on the question of speculation,
pure and simple.
"Now, Mrs. Cheever got the news straight and Mr. Cheever didn't, though
he depended on his wife working Garraboy. Cheever bought stocks and was
caught. That likewise shows there may be some interesting developments
in that charming little family, particularly when he finds out that Mrs.
Cheever sold and won. Now, what have we to go on? Cheever's a
crook--but if he took it, he did it alone.
"Garraboy's a crook and, following Mr. Gunther's theory, he could have
taken it alone or working with Mrs. Cheever. If there was any
collusion, it was there. Gentlemen, I am only discussing
possibilities."
"If the ring was taken to raise money to gamble in Wall Street, then it
lies between Cheever and Garraboy," said Gunther.
"Say it this way: if Mrs. Cheever or Miss Lille took it, Garraboy would
probably know--"
"And Slade?" said Beecher.
"If Slade took it, we're losing our time. Aren't we?" said McKenna.
"McKenna, do you know?" said Gunther suddenly.
"Unless I am very much mistaken, I'll know in twenty-four hours," said
McKenna, "I know this--who has the ring and when he had it, and this
evening, about 5:30 in the afternoon, I ought to know from the gentleman
in question, who pawned it--unless I learn sooner."
"Unless Garraboy confesses," said Beecher.
"Gentlemen," said McKenna, answering with a nod an assistant who opened
the door at this moment, "I'm not given to boasting, but I'll risk
this." He went to the desk, wrote a name on a card, sealed it in an
envelope and handed it to Beecher. "That's the name of the person who
took the ring. Keep it until it is found. That sounds like Sherlock
Holmes, but there's one reason why I feel like being a little stagey;
and I don't mind admitting to you that I got to it by deduction--honest
deduction, though!"
"Why've you Garraboy here, then?" said Beecher, while the letter in his
pocket seemed to radiate heat like an ember.
"Do you want to know?--you'll be surprised," said McKenna, going to the
desk again. "Well, it's to convince myself that Garraboy had nothing to
do with it."
"What!" exclaimed the two.
McKenna made them a signal to be silent and, taking up the loose sheets
of the different records, started to place them in the drawer; but all
at once he stopped, selected one, the record of the broker himself, and
laid it face up on the table. The next moment the door opened and
Garraboy came warily into the room.
*CHAPTER XXI*
At the sight of Beecher and Gunther, Garraboy stopped short, evidently
nonplused.
"I was told to come in," he said, lifting his eyebrows.
"Quite right," said McKenna briskly, raising his voice a trifle. From
the moment of the broker's entrance his eyes fastened on Garraboy, never
leaving him. "Come right in."
"I'm interrupting--" said Garraboy carefully, conscious of this set
gaze.
"Not in the least."
"I thought our business was confidential, McKenna," he said, without
having moved from the position he had taken on entering. "I fail to
see--" he stopped and looked again at the two young men.
"Oh, Mr. Beecher and Gunther," said McKenna affably; "suppose we call
them attorneys for one of your clients."
"Miss Charters?"
"You're a good guesser, Mr. Garraboy."
The broker drew in his upper lip and, coming slowly forward, said:
"The presence of these gentlemen is exceedingly distasteful to me."
"You're not in a position to object, Mr. Garraboy."
Garraboy turned his back and walked slowly back and forth, evidently in
distressed conjecture, occasionally raising his head to shoot a glance
at the three, half in rage, half in fear.
All at once he stopped by the desk as though his mind had come to a
certain decision, and, bearing heavily on it, said:
"I do not know that I care, under the circumstances, to enter into any
discussion. You, Mr. McKenna, represent my client, Mrs. Alva White;
your claim against me is for forty-five thousand eight hundred and
forty-six dollars." He drew out his pocketbook. "I have here a check
made to your order." A second time he plunged his hand into his pocket
and brought out a check-book. "I was not notified that Miss Charters'
was also under discussion. However, I will settle that at once. To
whose order, please?"
McKenna, without answering, indicated himself with a jerk of his finger.
Garraboy, seating himself at the desk, took up a pen and carefully
filled in the check, blotted it and handed the two drafts to McKenna,
who took them, endorsed them and, ringing, handed them to an assistant:
"Present these at once. Telephone me as soon as they are honored."
Garraboy carefully blotted the check-book in turn, replaced it in his
pocket, and was thrusting back his chair from the desk when McKenna,
turning on him sharply, said:
"Garraboy, you stole that ring of Mrs. Kildair's."
The broker, startled, jerked up his head.
"So that's the meaning of all this!" he said angrily.
"Answer my question!"
But this time Garraboy, without wincing, rose suddenly to his feet.
"McKenna, I have nothing more to say to you," he said, scowling, "on
this or any other question. Your claims are satisfied. I recognize no
further right of you to insult me."
"Don't move, Mr. Garraboy," said McKenna softly; "we've a lot of
business still to talk over."
"Are you trying to blackmail me?" said Garraboy furiously, folding his
arms.
"Garraboy, I've got the goods on you and there may be a paper or two in
my pocket you wouldn't care to have served," said McKenna, the pupils of
his eyes seeming to dwindle to a point as the whites showed under a
well-simulated show of anger. "First place, you're going to sit here
until I get a telephone those checks are cashed. Second, and this may
surprise you, you're going to stick right by me--today and tonight,
until you make up your mind whether you'll answer me or answer a court
of justice. Third, before we get through here, I want your name at the
bottom of a little document I've drawn up for you."
"What do you mean?" said Garraboy, but with a note of apprehension in
his voice.
"A plain, honest recital of what you've been doing with other folks'
property these last two months--"
"You said--" fairly screamed the broker.
"I said if you settled my claims I wouldn't prosecute--true, and I
won't. But just the same you're getting out of business here in New
York, and I'm going to hold a paper that'll keep you out."
"Never!" exclaimed Garraboy in desperation. "Every cent I owe will be
settled in twenty-four hours. I'll close up every account--I'll agree
to that--but I'll not be blackmailed into this. You haven't a charge
against me that'll stand in any court in this country--"
"What about that ring?" said McKenna. "You were trying all over town to
raise fifteen thousand dollars that day. Garraboy, you stole that ring,
pawned it, and raised the money to hold off your loans."
"That's a lie!" he said, clenching his fists. "I got it--"
"Where?"
"None of your business."
"Where did you get the money to pay your interest and to put up the new
margins you did?"
"I was acting for others."
"What others?"
Garraboy opened his mouth to reply and then suddenly stopped.
McKenna said immediately:
"No, you won't say what others, because if you do claim you sold for
others, here before witnesses, you know you'll restore a good deal more
money than you figured out to disgorge. Oh, you're clever all right.
Answer me--did you steal that ring?"
"I did not," said Garraboy suddenly; "and I don't know anything more
about it than Beecher here--in fact, considerably less." He looked over
with a sneer on his lips and then quickly and firmly exclaimed:
"McKenna, my mind's made up. I'm going out that door--now. If you
attempt to prevent me, I'll hold Mr. Beecher and Mr. Gunther here as
witnesses that you kept me here by force. And I'll have you up on--"
All at once he seemed to choke on a word as his eyes, following the
movement of the fist that struck the table, came suddenly in contact
with the upturned sheet entitled:
"GARRABOY, EDWARD V."
The sight seemed to paralyze every muscle of his body. He sat down
abruptly, drawing the document under his eye.
"Take your time, Bracken, read it over carefully," said McKenna in a
soothing voice. He retired to the fireplace and relaxed into the easy
chair awaiting the moment.
Garraboy read hastily, fairly galloping through the pages. Then he
stiffened in his chair, frowned and read carefully through it all again,
considering each phrase.
At the last, the three who watched him saw him push the paper from him,
lock his hands in front of him and stare at McKenna. The correct,
insolent man of the world had faded; instead, before them, bare to the
bone, was the rascal, the desperate, clever adventurer. Suddenly making
a quick resolve, he said in a tone that surprised them for its absence
of emotion:
"Give me the paper I'm to sign."
McKenna jumped up and going to a shelf took down an affidavit.
"It is always a pleasure to deal with profession," he said genially,
placing the document on the table. "Oh, read it first."
Garraboy skimmed through it hastily, nodding. He took up his pen and
paused.
"It's understood that the contents will never be made public, directly
or indirectly, so long as I keep out of the United States?"
"Understood."
"Your word of honor on it as a gentleman, McKenna?"
"My word."
"And yours, too, Mr. Beecher, Mr. Gunther?"
Each repeated the promise in turn.
Garraboy signed the confession and handed it to McKenna.
"What now?"
"You will, of course, wind up your business immediately."
"I will telephone for my clerk to bring my books here at once for your
inspection. I will draw the necessary checks and have them deposited to
the credit of my clients this afternoon. One of your men can personally
assure himself that everything is right. Will that satisfy you?"
"Couldn't have proposed anything more practical," said McKenna, nodding.
"What next?"
"Clean up that matter of the ring."
Garraboy rose impatiently,
"I haven't got the ring."
"I don't believe you."
"Are you going to keep me under surveillance?"
"I am."
"Until when?"
"Until the ring is returned."
"McKenna," said Garraboy desperately, "I think I've satisfied you. I'm
not standing on technicalities. You've got me cold. I know it. Now,
I'll tell you just how I stand. When everything is paid up, I stand
pretty nearly $200,000 to the good. I'm going to get out--go abroad and
stay there, and I want to catch the first boat out. If I had that ring,
I'd throw it over, quick. That's straight goods."
"Garraboy, did you steal that ring?" said McKenna again.
"I did not." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the
perspiration which stood on his forehead.
"Did you ever see before the detective, John Ryan, whom Mrs. Kildair
called in?"
Garraboy hesitated.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Employed him?"
"Yes."
"Many times?"
"Several."
"And you recommended him to Mrs. Kildair?"
"Yes."
"So you knew whom she would call in?"
"No, I didn't think of that."
"Garraboy, didn't you take the ring knowing that Ryan would be called in
and that he would never make a search of you?"
"I did not."
"Do you know who took it?"
"No."
"That's sufficient," said McKenna, apparently satisfied.
"What are you going to do?" asked Garraboy nervously.
"Keep you on a rope until the ring turns up.
"I want to get away," said Garraboy weakly.
"I know that."
The broker remained quiet a moment, turning a pencil with his moist
fingers.
"Will you answer one question?" he said at last.
"What?"
"Does Mrs. Kildair know--are you acting for her?"
"Mrs. Kildair does not know what I'm doing," said McKenna quietly.
Garraboy rose with what seemed a little relief, a movement that McKenna
was quick to note.
"Well, I've made up my mind to tell you what I know," he said, after a
few nervous steps.
"Good."
"I haven't got the ring," he said carefully.
"Did you take it?"
"I did not take it," said Garraboy, looking steadily in McKenna's eyes.
"But you know?"
"Yes, in a way I know," he said firmly. "A woman took it."
"How do you know?"
Garraboy did not answer immediately. He seemed reluctant to continue,
frowning and moving restlessly from foot to foot. Finally he blurted
out:
"I don't know who took it first, but this is what happened--the God's
truth. When Mrs. Kildair put out the lights and counted sixty-one, I
heard the ring on the table." He hesitated a moment and said hurriedly:
"I made up my mind to give them all a shock. I did not intend to keep
the ring; I swear it. I put out my hand to take it--and I touched
another hand--the hand of a woman."
"Who took it?"
"Yes."
"Was that woman Mrs. Cheever, or Miss Lille?" said McKenna quickly.
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No."
"You have no idea?"
"No."
"No suspicion?"
"No."
"You were told nothing afterward?"
"Nothing."
"Garraboy, it's just possible you're not lying," said McKenna with a
frown; "though I'm not sure by a long shot. However, I'll know the
truth before the sun goes down."
"How?" said Garraboy, looking up.
"I neglected to tell you," said McKenna, watching him, "that I know whom
the ring was pawned with, and this evening the gentleman himself will
tell me who pawned it. The time I keep you depends a good deal on what
he says."
"Then, this evening I will be free," said Garraboy joyfully, with such
evident confidence that both young men were struck by it and McKenna, a
little disturbed in his theory, continued staring at the face of
Garraboy, which was illumined with a slight, malicious smile.
*CHAPTER XXII*
Half an hour later Gunther and Beecher, leaving McKenna's office with a
promise to return that evening, went up town. In Beecher's pocket was a
check on McKenna representing the amount of Miss Charters' account.
Garraboy remained in the custody of the detective.
"Well, what do you think of it?" said Gunther.
"I think Garraboy lied," said Beecher.
"Oh, about the reason he tried to take the ring--yes, naturally. He
could make a plausible reason for that--you'd hardly expect him to say
in so many words that he was a thief, if he really didn't get the ring,
as he says."
"I think he cooked up the lie right there," said Beecher obstinately.
"I don't believe a word of it."
"I don't know--I sort of think he told the truth."
"Do you think any woman would have the nerve to go on after she had felt
a hand on hers and knew that some one had a clue, not absolutely
definite but almost so?"
"But, Ted, if any one denounced her, wouldn't he have to acknowledge the
fact of his own motive? That would be enough to shut any one up."
"I think Garraboy lied," persisted Beecher. "I think he had a part in
the theft and at least I am sure he knows all about it."
"Listen to reason," said Gunther warmly. "If Garraboy signed a
confession like McKenna handed him, he wouldn't stop at returning a
ring--particularly when he knows that McKenna will keep hold of him till
the affair is closed up. No, no; Garraboy says he's cleared
$200,000--you may be sure he's got considerably more. He's satisfied.
He wants to get away from here quick. McKenna's not the only one on his
track, you may be sure of that. No, it doesn't stand to reason he'd
balk at a little matter like the ring."
Beecher was silent, digesting the argument.
"There may be one explanation," he said at length. "You noticed that the
fellow was particularly anxious to know if Mrs. Kildair was behind us?"
"Yes, I noticed all that."
"Now McKenna thinks, and I do too, that Mrs. Kildair all along has known
who took the ring and has only been held up before this from prosecuting
on account of a possible scandal."
"But, that's over now--nothing can be said--it was an engagement ring,
of course."
"Exactly; and that's the reason why I'm going to make this guess--that
Garraboy, knowing the game was up, returned the ring this morning."
"By George!"
"And that's the reason he told the lie he did--knowing that everything
will blow over in twenty-four hours."
"Ted, by the Lord Harry, I believe you've hit it!" said Gunther
excitedly. "I say--"
"What?"
"Let's go up to your rooms--there may be a letter from Mrs. Kildair."
Full of eagerness they went to Beecher's rooms--only to return
empty-handed and disappointed. Then they hurried to the club and
searched the letter-boxes without success.
Disappointed and impatient they went in to a late lunch.
"What are you going to do about that check of Miss Charters'?" said
Gunther in an aggressive tone.
"Take it round to her," said Beecher, looking at him out of the corner
of his eye.
"Mail it."
"Why?"
"Gratitude and a pretty woman are a dangerous combination," said Gunther
gruffly; "especially for something soft like you."
"You damned, impertinent cuss," said Beecher acridly.
"Fact. Better let me call a messenger boy and send it around."
But in the pleased state of mind in which he was, Beecher had not the
slightest intention of surrendering the delightful opportunity which the
visit promised. Likewise, he was indignant at hearing from Gunther the
same implications which amused him from the lips of a fascinating woman
like Emma Fornez.
"You've got a fine idea of me," he answered hotly.
"I have."
"According to you, I oughtn't to be allowed to roam the streets without
a keeper."
"Exactly expressed."
"Don't alarm yourself," said Beecher in a lofty, superior tone, and,
believing every word, he added, "I'm quite able to take care of myself.
I know how to amuse myself--and I know it is amusing myself, thank you.
You think I don't know anything about women--well, I know better than
some people how to keep my head straight."
"So you're going around?" said Gunther with a grin.
"I am."
"I thought you said you had never met any one who could make you so
angry?"
"Come and get me at five o'clock," said Beecher, with a trifling wave of
his hand.
"I begin to have my doubts," said Gunther slowly, with the air of one
steeling himself against a great calamity.
Beecher had no such anticipation as he went lightly out of the club and
took his way up the Avenue. For the last day he had thought much more of
the possible feelings of Nan Charters toward his own receptive person
than of analyzing the impregnability of his own position. He had not
telephoned, desiring to effect a little surprise. But as he neared his
destination he remembered that she might possibly be out.
"In that case I'll leave a little note--just a line with the check--as
though it were a casual affair," he said to himself.
But Miss Charters was in. An automobile was at the curb which he
thought he recognized.
Miss Charters herself answered the door, detaining him a moment in the
anteroom.
"I am so glad you came," she said in a low voice, but one in which it
was impossible to mistake the pleasure. "I wanted you to know that. A
friend of yours is here--but he won't stay long," she added softly, with
that gentle appeal in her voice against which he knew no defense.
"You'll stay--I want you to."
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Mr. Lorraine." And as she saw the instant stiffening that went through
him, she said quickly, with that subtle, merciless flattery of which
only women have the command, "Shall I send him away--if you wish?"
"No."
The two men greeted each other boisterously, but underneath their
heartiness was a sudden sense of invaded territory.
"Is he interested?" thought Lorraine, with an uneasy glance. "And why
did she go out into the hall?"
"What's his right here? Was he here to lunch, I wonder?" thought
Beecher, and for the first time he felt something hot surging inside of
himself.
Each with an extra show of cordiality began to talk, addressing their
remarks to the other. Only Lorraine, whose tenancy was thus threatened,
continued to prolong his stay, anxiously watching the effect on the
woman. At the end of half an hour, he no longer doubted, she was only
waiting for him to go, uneasy and resentful at his delay.
He rose, heavy of heart, and shook hands with Beecher, whom he would
have liked to throttle, and nodding to Miss Charters, went toward the
hall, hoping that she would follow him. But women in love match the
wordless surrender and tenderness they show to the man to whom they
yield with an equal cruelty toward those whose misfortune is to have
loved them. She did not move, waiting impatiently until she heard the
tardy click of the door. Then she went to him directly, standing quite
close, looking up at him like a penitent schoolgirl.
"I thought he'd never go," she said impatiently, and then with an
uneasy, searching look in her eyes, she said contritely: "Do you think I
am very terrible?"
He smiled and shook his head, but without profiting by the opportunity
her attitude invited.
"You were engaged to Charlie once, weren't you?" he said, trying to give
the question an accent of natural curiosity.
"No, never."
"Almost?"
She shook her head impatiently at the introduction of this topic.
"People said so."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"But he is in love with you," he said positively.
What she did not like was the quiet, inconsequential way he spoke, for
in her own mood she did not detect the jealousy underneath.
"Please don't let us talk of Mr. Lorraine," she said quickly. "I have
never been engaged to Mr. Lorraine and never could; first, because I
don't intend to marry, and, second, because if I did, Mr. Lorraine could
never appeal to me."
She broke off and going to the telephone said to him over her shoulder:
"You're not in a hurry?"
"No."
"Good--then we need not be interrupted."
She called the office and left word that she would not be at home.
Then, rising, she came slowly back, very subdued, still alarmed at the
undisturbed friendship in his look.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come to see such a little virago," she said
softly.
"I came to see you on a matter of business," he said, without thinking
of his words.
Her face fell.
"Oh, indeed."
He drew out his pocketbook and took out the check.
"Mr. Garraboy is leaving very suddenly for Europe," he said, turning
over the bit of paper. "He has decided to wind up his affairs. He
wished me to give you this check in settlement of your account," with
him.
She stood quite still, her arms behind her back, but her eyes
dangerously brilliant.
"If it's only on business you came," she said, breathing deep, "you can
keep your check."
"But--"
"Is it only on business you go to see other women?"
He extended the check, and the jealousy Lorraine's presence had brought
him made him seek to hurt her a little more.
"Don't be unreasonable," he said.
"If you don't answer," she said, stamping her foot, "I will tear it into
pieces!"
A quick, impulsive joy went through him at this revealing anger.
"I came because I wanted to see you," he said with a provoking delight
in his eyes. "This is of no importance."
She took the check, still looking at him, became calmer, smiled, and
then with a determined bob of her head, went to place it on her
writing-desk. All at once she turned quickly:
"But this is signed McKenna!"
"That's a detail."
"Your friend McKenna, the detective? Then you forced this out of him?"
"It wasn't very hard."
She let the check flutter from her fingers to the desk, thoughtfully
considering it, divining slowly what it meant.
"I am unreasonable," she said quietly, returning and holding out her
hand. "Thank you. Why did you bother--after the way I acted?"
"Well, just because," he answered, looking down into her eyes.
"So, Garraboy is a defaulter," she said slowly.
"I cannot tell you any more."
All at once a thought came to her and an anxious frown passed over her
forehead.
"None of this is your money?" she said quickly.
"No."
"On your honor?"
"Yes."
"It is a great thing you have done for me," she said solemnly. "I am
very grateful."
"Nonsense," he said lightly. "It was no trouble. I would have done it
for any one."
They were near the great dormer-windows, high above the threaded smoke
and gray roofs of the city, now blending into fuzzy masses with the
closing of the day.
"Well, now that your business is over," she said, but with a new
lightness, "I suppose you must be going?"
"What do you want me to say?" he said, smiling with a growing feeling of
well-being.
"Why did you come?" she repeated maliciously, and, half-laughing,
half-determined, she took the lapel of his coat in a gesture which, in
her fingers, was almost a caress. She stood looking up at him, so
happy, so brimming with the satisfaction of having him back, of
regaining what she had feared to lose, that he could not resist the
desire in her eyes.
"Because I like you," he said.
"Despite my tantrums and my moods?"
"On account of them."
"And would you have done what you did--for any one?"
"Come to think of it--no."
She was not content. She would rather that he had answered more
sentimentally. She felt that he was stronger than she was, more
controlled.
"Are you interested in Emma Fornez?" she said, looking away from him.
"Oh,--interested."
"You like her?"
"Yes, very much."
"I shouldn't like to have you talked about."
He did not answer.
"What have I done that displeases you, Teddy?" she said all at once.
But before he could answer, the room behind them dropped suddenly back
into darkness.
"The light's gone out," she said, startled, her hand on his arm.
"The current's cut--that's all," he answered.
"I'll light a lamp."
"No. It's good here. Wait. It'll only be a moment."
They remained in the dark, turning their glances out of the window,
suddenly conscious of the panorama of the evening, the stir of departing
multitudes, the end of labor and the evening of rest.
"How plainly you can see," he said. "That's Brooklyn Bridge, isn't it?"
"Yes."
At the east three giant spans stood out across the unreal gray view that
had neither banks nor green approaches, that cut its way like an
invading flood through the cities. Innumerable, cottony puffs of steam,
busy, hurrying, restless, rose from unseen hulls across the fading
silhouettes of tangled spans. High to the south from a cyclopean tower a
single ball of fire was shining. Below, in the long, straight avenues,
the city was putting on its necklaces of brilliants; and from the black
dotted masses that must be there somewhere in the growing obscurity,
rushing home over the backs of the waters, high above housetops or deep
through the bowels of the city, a great sigh seemed to rise with the
sudden freshening of the twilight breeze, and the two human beings who
looked down, as God looks down on this spectacle of a moving world,
found nothing to express the sudden melancholy that troubled them,
awakening vague desires, stirring them with the feeling of their own
littleness.
"Come," she said, turning away the first, and, lingering, looking back,
placed a hand on his arm, repeating, "Come."
He did not reply, looking beyond, deeply penetrated by all this humanity
that each moment receded farther from them, isolating them, lifting them
above the world into the loneliness of the skies. Her hand remained on
his arm unconsciously, but this weight so soft but yet so imperious
recalled him to himself. He thought no longer of what lay without. He
looked at her. She was trembling. He too felt the subtle, disturbing
restlessness of this dark that closed in about them, shutting out the
peopled world--this mood of the day that exerts over human beings such a
compelling desire.
She turned and looked at him. He could not see her face distinctly,
only the eyes--that seemed incapable of seeing all but this. Then
abruptly, brusquely, by the same mutual impulse, they were in each
other's arms, straining to each other, their lips irresistibly closed
over each other, feeling themselves more and more wrapped around by this
soft darkness that had cast them up, enfolding their loneliness in the
great protective instinct of human love.
The room flared up brilliantly. She recovered herself the first,
drawing herself out of his arms, covering her face with fingers that
still throbbed with the agony of their embrace.
They could not look at each other, bewildered by the suddenness of what
had happened. She went past him hurriedly to the fireplace, sitting
down. He followed irresolutely, feeling his feet unsteady beneath him,
all the intellectual forces within him submerged, drunk, overthrown by
the sudden, delirious awakening of his senses, suddenly aroused by this
revelation of woman.
"What have we done? What was it?" she said breathlessly, without facing
him. "We are crazy, Teddy,--crazy!"
He came heavily to the other end of the fireplace, leaning on the
mantel, looking down at the woman who was no longer an indefinite
mystery of silks and colors, but a moving, living body that had stirred
in his arms.
"Teddy, we are crazy," she repeated. "What possessed us?"
"It is you who are crazy now," he said abruptly. "What is the use of
arguing? Those things are beyond us. It is over--it is settled. We
had nothing to do with it."
"No, no," she cried vigorously, jumping up. "It is not right. It isn't
fair to you. We were swept off our feet."
"Thank Heaven, yes."
"But it's impossible, it's crazy--it's senseless. I don't want to
marry, I don't want to fall in love. I want to be free--I must be
free--I know that--you know that. So what then?"
"What's the use of arguing? It's been settled for us."
"But it isn't settled. I lost my head--you lost your head. We didn't
know what we were doing. Marriage is impossible, absurd. I'm not a
woman to marry--you would be unhappy--don't you see how ridiculous it
is? I think only of myself--my career--"
"What's all that amount to--you love me and I love you. It's always
been so--we've been fools and I didn't know it."
"But I don't know it," she cried; but at the same breath she knew that
it was so. But this knowledge only roused in her the spirit to combat,
to remit, to put away from her the threatening obstacle.
"Nonsense. Why didn't you let me go? You wouldn't; you brought me
back; you couldn't help it--and I came. I would have come if you had
called me. I've said all that you say myself--what good did it do me?
Here I am!"
"Well, then--yes, we may love each other," she said desperately. "I
don't know. I cannot reason it out--it may be so, perhaps--but even
then? Teddy, it can't go on. Don't you see how wicked it would be--how
wrong? Your wife can't be on the stage, and I can't give it up. It's
everything--it's been my whole life. We must be strong--we must stop
it. It's absurd--it's wrong."
She came to him, seized with the two contrary impulses: an instinctive
revolt, a desire to force him from her life, and something just as
instinctive and irresistible that drew her back to him; and at the
moment she said the most firmly, "No, no, it's absurd, it's wrong," she
put out her hand and caught her fingers in his coat collar, just behind
his ear, under the masses of his hair.
He caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her; she continued to
protest but, without resisting, her head dropped on his shoulder, her
eyes closed, her lips breathlessly open.
All at once from the hall came the sound of a key in the latch. They
disengaged themselves hurriedly, arranging their disordered hair,
standing ridiculously apart.
From the antechamber came the voice of Miss Tilbury, the chaperon,
discreetly remaining without:
"Nan, dear, Mr. Hargrave is below. He has come for his manuscript."
"But I'm not at home," she said in a muffled voice.
"You ought to send it down to him, really."
"Mr. Beecher is here--aren't you coming in?"
"In a moment."
The steps died out going to the back. Beecher, who had looked at the
clock, uttered an exclamation. She came to him quickly, with the motions
of the alert feline, and seizing his wrist said quickly:
"Listen, Teddy, I will not hold you to what has happened. We are out of
our senses, you and I. We are crazy--crazy. You must not see me for a
while--two days at least--until we know what we are doing. Go, now,
please--"
Then, suddenly remembering that the same Hargrave had been the innocent
cause of a little pain to him, she went quickly to the table and took up
the offending play, and with that fine instinct of a woman to give even
the smallest revenge to the man she loves, said:
"Take this. Give it to Hargrave yourself. Say I cannot see him."
"I shall see you tomorrow."
"No, no; but telephone tonight."
She listened a moment, her ear toward the hall like a child, and then
sprang into his arms, and this time it seemed to him that it was she,
not he, who dominated the embrace.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
At half-past five, Beecher, his brain in a whirl, arrived breathlessly
at the office of McKenna. As luck would have it, only Gunther and the
detective were there.
"My friend is a little late," said McKenna, with a quick, jerky glance
at the clock.
"Where's Garraboy?"
"Twirling his thumbs in another room," said Gunther, laughing. "In a
cussing bad humor, too."
For the second time, McKenna glanced nervously at the clock. Beecher
was struck with the mood of restlessness that obsessed him. He passed
aimlessly from desk to window and back again, apparently oblivious to
their presence, immersed in some calculation that left its outward mark
in a deep furrow between the eyebrows, while the cigar between his lips
had gone out unperceived.
"Mr. Beecher," he said suddenly, stopping short, "I'm not sure but what
I've gone off on a ridiculous tangent--it may be--it may be. Have you
still got that envelope I gave you?"
"Yes, in my pocket--here," said Beecher, surprised, laying his hand on
his coat.
"It was a ridiculous thing for me to do," said McKenna quickly. He made
a movement of his hand as though to take it, but repressed it, saying:
"All I ask is, don't open it until I ask you." Then, still ruffled, he
turned away, saying to himself: "Guessing--humph! I'd fire a man for
doing that."
The telephone rang with a message from the outer office and a moment
later, to the amazement of both young men, Mapleson, of the firm of
Sontag & Company, came in smiling and businesslike.
"How are you, McKenna?" he said affably, shaking hands. "Sorry to keep
you waiting. What can I do for you?"
He was a slender, dark young man of forty-two or three, very graceful,
pleasant in voice and fluent in manner, with a sure instinct for
ingratiating himself where it best could serve.
"How do you do, Mr. Beecher," he said on being introduced. "I am very
glad to know you, Mr. Gunther. I have the pleasure of knowing your
father slightly. The country owes him a great debt for what he's done
in this panic. Well, is there any mystery I can clear up for you?"
He accepted a chair, crossed his legs easily, brought out a gold
cigarette-case, offered it with a wave and smiled at their declinations.
"Why, yes, Mr. Mapleson, you can give us a little information," said
McKenna.
"Anything I can do for you, McKenna, glad to do it," said Mapleson.
"You may remember a ring that was sold by your firm a few months ago to
Mr. John G. Slade," said McKenna directly; "a single ruby, valued, I
believe, around thirty thousand dollars."
Mapleson did not avert his eyes from the glance of the detective, yet
without a movement of his body an instant change came in his manner. He
drew in a puff of smoke, let it out, nodded carefully and said:
"Yes, known as the Bogota ruby. I remember perfectly."
"I understand that that ring was brought back within the last ten days
and pledged for a considerable amount."
"Indeed?" said Mapleson. He flung away the half smoked cigarette, and
busied himself with selecting another. "Well, what do you want to
know?"
"I want to know the name of the person--man or woman--who pledged it."
Mapleson changed his mind, shut the cigarette-case with a snap, clasped
his hands in front of him, thumbs up and pressed against his teeth.
"Can you tell me a little more?" he said at last.
"No, I cannot," McKenna said frankly.
The eyes of the jeweler wandered from the detective and settled on the
face of Beecher. The look made the young man flush. It was as though
the smiling, affable confidant of feminine mysteries and intrigues was
asking himself what part in all this he were playing.
"Can you tell me for whom you are acting, Mr. Beecher?" he said
suddenly.
McKenna made a gesture of warning, interrupting:
"I'm sorry--we cannot."
"Have you a warrant?" continued Mapleson seriously. "In other words, is
this a friendly meeting, or a legal procedure?"
"There is no warrant as yet. It is a case we particularly desire to
keep out of court," said McKenna.
"It is very embarrassing," said Mapleson frankly, "very. I don't know
quite how to act. Of course, McKenna, considering your relations with
our firm, I should always be glad to assist you in any way--you
understand that. The present case is different. The ring was not
pledged with Sontag & Company, but with me personally. It is a personal
matter and a very delicate one."
"I understand that," said McKenna, frowning. "And yet I must inform you
that I shall probably have to proceed in the usual manner."
"Of course, if I'm brought into court on a summons," said Mapleson
thoughtfully, "that is different. If I am faced by the fact that a theft
has taken place, I can do nothing else but aid the law."
"But now--"
"At present? No, McKenna, I cannot give you the name of the person that
pledged the ring with me. The case seems very complex to me--much more
than you may believe; and as nothing is legally charged I prefer to keep
my relations confidential."
"Mr. Mapleson, can you answer this?"
"What?"
"Is your refusal because you believe the intention of the person who
pledged it is to restore it to its owner?"
Mapleson turned the question over a long time, whistling softly to
himself. Finally he said:
"I don't know. I know nothing."
"Can you tell me the amount you advanced on the ring?"
"Yes; I think I can tell you that," he said, after a moment's thought.
"I advanced twenty-eight thousand dollars."
"Twenty-eight?" said McKenna, lifting his eyebrows. "Twenty-eight on a
ring worth only thirty thousand?"
"It was not a business transaction--entirely," said Mapleson stiffly.
"Then Sontag & Company knew nothing about it?"
"No."
"Was the ring pledged the day before Majendie committed suicide?"
"Yes."
"In the morning?"
"Early in the morning."
"One final question. The ring is still in your possession?"
"No."
"It is not in your possession?" said McKenna, with a sudden clearing of
his forehead. "Mr. Mapleson, you are answering this because you feel
bound--"
"Not at all," said Mapleson quickly. "The ring was redeemed this
morning. I know nothing more about it."
The speculations which were occasioned by this disclosure were suddenly
interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come!" said McKenna sharply.
An assistant entered the room with two letters. McKenna looked at the
first and nodded, and then seeing the address on the second looked up
quickly, saying:
"How did this come--this letter for Mr. Beecher?"
"It was sent down from his apartment, I believe, sir. Mr. Beecher's man
brought it, I think."
"Very well."
McKenna dismissed him with a gesture, but instead of opening his letter
thrust both of them into his pocket.
"That's all, Mr. Mapleson," he said with incisiveness. "I'm sorry to
have troubled you. It's quite possible, as you perhaps believe, this
case will be settled out of court."
"Let's hope so," said Mapleson non-committally. "I'm always at your
service, you know. It's I who should apologize. Mr. Gunther, remember
me to your father. Mr. Beecher, I hope to meet you soon again."
He shook hands warmly with Beecher, as though the young man had acquired
a new value in his eyes, and went out.
The moment the door had shut, McKenna had the two letters out of his
pocket.
"Two letters from the same lady," he said, tossing one to Beecher.
"Both messages the same, too, I'll bet. Of course!"
He laughed and extended the letter to Gunther, who read: