A CUP OF CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD’S.
“It is Miss Hathaway!”
“Why, Mr. Ashley!”
“Then I am not quite forgotten,” smiles Jack, as he takes the little
black-gloved hand.
“Forgotten? Ah, no, indeed. I was only startled to meet one familiar
face amid this never-ending procession of strangers. But this, I
presume, is your native heath, Mr. Ashley? How do you carry the memory
of so many faces?” as Ashley bows for the dozenth time toward the stream
of pedestrians.
“That is a part of our business, Miss Hathaway. A newspaper man acquires
a passing acquaintance with all classes of society. But to drop shop
talk, tell me of Raymond and of yourself. I feel quite an interest in
the quaint old town. Here is Maillard’s close by. Suppose we drop in and
have a cup of chocolate. Oh, it is quite the thing,” smiles Jack, as
Miss Hathaway hesitates a moment. “Everybody goes to Maillard’s after a
shopping tour.”
“Then, as we are in Rome, we must imitate the Romans,” she acquiesces.
“For surely these bundles must be quite sufficient to convict me of
having been shopping.”
When she is snugly ensconced in an alcove, with a steaming cup of the
beverage so dear to the feminine heart before her, Jack studies her face
across the tiny table.
More beautiful if that were possible, than ever, he decides, watching
the shifting color in the rounded cheek; with more animation—yes,
decidedly more animation; quite a different being from the doubly
bereaved daughter of the dead cashier of nearly a year ago. But what is
she doing in New York? thinks Jack, with a sudden twinge in the cardiac
region that astonishes even himself. It cannot be that she has heard
from Derrick Ames, and besides, her sister—What rot, he mentally
concludes, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly looks up and catches
his puzzled expression.
Miss Hathaway’s eyes twinkle. “Has it just occurred to you that you have
left your pocketbook at home?” she asks. “Your expression was just such
as the humorous artists attach to the subjects of such unfortunate
contretemps.”
“Ah, but that seldom does happen in real life, Miss Hathaway. No; my
sole earthly possessions are at this moment resting securely in the
bottom of one small pocket. But what lucky chance brought you within
range of my defective vision on Broadway this afternoon?”
“Oh, I have been a dweller in the metropolis since last Saturday. We,
that is Mr. Felton and myself, are en route to Cuba.”
“To Cuba! Pardon me, but why to that war-racked isle? You see, I have
just returned from interviewing a native of Cuba on the situation there,
and his description hardly makes it out as a desirable watering-place
just at present.”
Miss Hathaway laughs, a trifle nervously. “Perhaps it is rather an odd
place to go this spring, and while I had a great desire to visit the
country I really had no serious idea of gratifying the wish. But one
evening while I was thinking of the matter, Mr. Felton suddenly asked me
how I would like to go to Cuba. I said I would be delighted to go to
escape the chill winds of March, and to my great surprise he suggested
that we make preparations and start at once for New York. So here we
are, and on Saturday we sail for tropic climes. But do you think there
is any danger to Americans traveling in Cuba? I thought—I had read—that
the disturbances were limited to some of the far inland districts and
that there was no trouble in Havana and the larger cities.”
Ashley pulls his mustache thoughtfully. “No, I do not see how there can
be possible danger for you,” he says at last. “Be sure, to avoid any
possible annoyance, to get your passports before leaving New York. By
Jove,” he murmurs under his breath, “if the Hemisphere should send a man
to Cuba, and I that man—well, that wouldn’t be half-bad.”
“But why should Mr. Felton desire to go to Cuba?” Ashley asks. “I
fancied all his interests were in Vermont.”
“He says that he has some property that requires his attention there, a
sugar plantation, I fancy, or something of the sort. Anyway, he is quite
anxious to go.”
A sugar plantation in Cuba! Jack draws a long breath and his active mind
reverts to his interview with Don Manada. Felton-Alvarez of the
captain-general’s staff, a young American planter! The son has evidently
forsworn his country and by joining the Spanish army has become a
Spanish citizen. Therefore he undoubtedly cannot be extradited. But the
father?
“How long does Mr. Felton contemplate remaining in Cuba?” Ashley asks,
carelessly.
“That will depend upon his inclinations and the condition of his
business affairs.”
“That means indefinitely,” Jack thinks. “Cyrus Felton must not go to
Cuba!” Then aloud: “Miss Hathaway, pardon me if I revive unpleasant
memories, but the deep personal interest I took in the case must be my
apology. Have you heard from your sister—since—since the tragedy?”
For a moment Miss Hathaway is silent, her face clouding with the sad
thoughts of that last fateful Memorial Day. “Mr. Ashley,” she says at
last, looking him full in the face, “I have received two letters from my
sister Helen. She is well, and I trust happy. She was married in this
city the day after they—she—left Raymond.”
“To Derrick Ames?”
Louise nods.
“Are they now residing in the city?”
“No; they are not now in this country—I should say this part of the
country,” she adds, hastily.
For a moment a silence falls and both absently sip their chocolate, busy
with their thoughts. Then Ashley remarks, smilingly:
“Apropos of nothing, Miss Hathaway, did you ever hear of the great
French ball, the annual terpsichorean revel of Gotham?”
“Certainly, I have read about it. I gather that it is not always
strictly—well, not exactly in the same category with the patriarchs’
ball.”
“No—not precisely,” admits Ashley. “What I was leading up to is this: I
suppose I shall be assigned to do the ball for the Hemisphere to-morrow
evening—I have done it for the last two years—and a friend of mine
kindly presented to me a pocketful of tickets. Now, I know you would
enjoy looking in on the brilliant scene for an hour or two in the early
part of the evening.”
“Why, Mr. Ashley, I really do not see how we could. It would hardly be
proper.”
“Not perhaps to mingle with the rush, but as a casual looker-on in
Verona the propriety could scarcely be questioned. A mask, a box where
you could sit and listen to the really good music and watch the glitter
and gayety, I believe you would recall the hour whiled away as one of
thorough enjoyment. Besides—and here is the selfish part of my
proposition—it would render the affair less of an old story to me. You
must really say ‘yes,’” persists Ashley, as Miss Hathaway hesitates,
with the inevitable result.
“Well, if Mr. Felton is willing to pose as a ‘chaperon’ for a brief
space, perhaps I may consent to assist the Hemisphere.”
“I assure you that that appreciative journal will be deeply grateful.
Where shall I call for your ultimatum?”
“We are stopping at the St. James. And now I must hurry home to examine
my purchases. Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Ashley. I am so
glad to have met you again. Good-by.”
“Au revoir—until the morrow,” Jack responds, as Miss Hathaway’s elegant
figure threads its way through the throng. “I wonder what the
straight-laced Vermont maiden would say if she could look into the
wine-room of the garden about an hour before the French ball makes its
last kick. But she won’t, though. The first hour or two of the function
is as decorous as an afternoon tea on Fifth Avenue—rather more so, I
fancy. And now to the office to fire the Cuban heart with Don Manada’s
screed.”
But seated at his desk at the Hemisphere office, Ashley’s thoughts
persist in straying away from the yellow sheets he is rapidly covering
with the Manada interview.
The Raymond tragedy mingles with thoughts of Cuba. His previously
conceived ideas are undergoing a decided metamorphosis. The knowledge
that the elder Felton is going to Cuba, where his son, according to the
description of Manada, is apparently settled, and for a long period, if
not forever, suggests to the newspaper man the conclusion that Mr.
Felton must have been aware of his son’s movements since the sudden
departure from Raymond; may even have counseled that flight. Nay, more,
that father and son are jointly implicated in the death of Cashier
Hathaway. The theory just evolved grows stronger the more Jack considers
the circumstances. On Cyrus Felton, then, depends the unraveling of the
mystery. And he left Raymond suddenly, according to Miss Hathaway’s
admission. Barker, judging from his message on the finding of the
revolver, must have been in Raymond before or during the departure of
Cyrus Felton. Is it not possible, then, that the ex-bank president
became possessed of the knowledge that Barker is again actively at work
on the case; that he further became aware that Barker had, or was likely
to get, some important clew, such as the discovery of the revolver, for
instance; that he considered discretion the better part of valor and
determined to flee the country and join his son in Cuba?
Ashley’s busy pen ceases to skim over the paper for a moment, as he
rears this dazzling edifice.
“I believe I have struck the bull’s-eye,” he reflects. “If only Barker
has a little more evidence to back up the finding of the revolver, Miss
Hathaway may not take that trip to Cuba after all—at least, not with her
present amiable traveling companion.”
A few moments later the big batch of copy, the result of Ashley’s visit
to Don Manada, is tossed upon the desk of the city editor. Then, still
preoccupied and unusually untalkative for jovial Jack Ashley, the
interviewer has again drawn on overcoat and gloves and is leaving the
entrance to the Hemisphere office when a hand is dropped on his
shoulder, as Detective Barker earnestly greets him:
“You’re just the man I want to see. Where can we indulge in a quiet talk
for half an hour?”
“Come right up to the cable editor’s room. He won’t be in for an hour or
two.”
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