Although Hayden proved himself reluctantly regardful of the butterfly
lady's very evident desire to be left alone, he did not at once leave the
hotel. Instead, he strolled into the office and after loitering about
there for a few moments, he was just leaving when he encountered
Penfield, Horace Penfield. Ordinarily, Hayden would have avoided him as
he would fire and pestilence; but to-night he rather went out of his way
to secure Penfield's society.
Penfield was a thin man with slightly stooping shoulders and a neck that
craned forward. He had a long pale face as narrow as a wedge, a nose as
sharp as a fox's, keen, ferret-like eyes, and white lashes. No longer
young, he yet managed to achieve this effect and retain the manner of
youth. His claims to social distinction rested on the solid basis of
fear. He was a walking bureau of information, a daily newspaper. When the
harsh vituperation of those who, having nothing more to lose, had nothing
more to gain, occasionally assailed him, he had been heard callously to
assert that he preferred being dangerous to being ineffective, and that
he would infinitely rather be a menace to society than its victim. In
short, the profession of scandal-mongering he pursued with concentration,
finesse, and infinite tact. If for himself he achieved eminence, became
master of his craft, it was doubtless sufficient recompense.
"Hello, Hayden," he said in his thin, satirical voice. "How are you and
your affairs?"
"All right, I guess," said Hayden indifferently.
For a season they talked on various subjects, falling gradually into a
discussion of the merits of certain mining propositions, until Hayden
said with premeditated suddenness:
"By the way, Penfield, have you ever heard of the Butterfly mine or
estate?"
"The Butterfly!" repeated Penfield slowly. "The Butterfly!" He pinched
his lower lip meditatively. "Let me see! One of those Mexican mines,
isn't it? Or wait a moment," shrewdly. "I may have mines on the brain
because we've been talking about them. Upon my word, Hayden," his face
flushing with shame, his professional pride sadly wounded, "I'm awfully
sorry; but to tell the truth, I can't just put my finger on it. Yet
somewhere, lately, I've heard of it. Did I read of it or hear people
speaking of it?" He drew his hand over his brow, looking really worried.
"Come on and walk down the Avenue with me," he said. "Maybe the night air
will refresh my memory, and I'll be able to think it out as we move
along."
But the night air could hardly be regarded as a potent factor in
restoring Penfield's recollections, for they walked some distance and he
had succeeded in offering no answer to Hayden's question; and although he
strove lightly to discuss the various topics which arose between them, he
was manifestly so perturbed and dismayed that Hayden felt his contempt
mitigated by a faint touch of pity.
Finally, when about to cross from one side of the street to the other,
they paused to give an oncoming motor the right of way. As it went flying
past them, a woman leaned forward and bowed and smiled. It was the lady
of the butterflies, and in the white light of the electric lamp Hayden
saw seated beside her the same gray, elderly, unobtrusive man with whom
she had entered the Gildersleeve.
"By George! Marcia Oldham!" cried Penfield.
Marcia Oldham! What a coincidence! What luck! Hayden exulted. So Kitty's
Fairy princess and his fairy princess were identical. It was surely one
of the most incredible and delightful of happenings. Now Kitty Hampton
should have an opportunity to prove that cousinly affection of which she
was always assuring him.
"You know her, of course?" asked Penfield.
"I have recently met her," replied Hayden briefly.
"Queer thing about that family," meditated Penfield.
"Queer? How? What do you mean?" exclaimed Hayden involuntarily, although
he bitterly reproached himself a moment later, for having, as he
expressed it, so far forgotten himself as to ask any questions of
Penfield.
Penfield chuckled, an arid, biting chuckle it was, too. His face
brightened up, his crestfallen manner merged happily into jauntiness, his
self-respect was restored. He was again the authoritative gossip.
"You know, of course, of old Oldham. One of the millionaires of the last
decade. Well, with changing times, changing methods of finance, he lost
his grip, and about five years ago he died, heavily involved, leaving a
widow and one young daughter, Marcia. Mrs. Oldham had been a Southern
woman of the old regime, and was a pretty, absolutely helpless creature,
and Marcia was still at school.
"Of course it raised a storm of talk. They had been used to every luxury,
all the ease of wealth; they relied on the machinery, you know, to look
after them, and it never entered into their heads that the wheels could
stop. When they did stop, as you can imagine, every one was discussing
the poor Oldhams. There was the greatest raising of hands and lowering of
voices and mopping of eyes whenever their names were mentioned." His arid
chuckle seemed to strike Hayden like the spatter of hail.
"'What will become of them?' 'What can they do?' 'A helpless woman like
Mrs. Oldham and a young daughter!'" He mimicked feminine voices. "You
heard that sort of thing bleated on every side. All the women advanced
positive opinions on just what they ought to do. The consensus, I
believe, amounted to this, that it was the part of wisdom for the Oldhams
to sell everything they had left and depart for some obscure German or
French town where Marcia might perfect herself in the languages and fit
herself for a nursery governess or something of that kind.
"But"--again a fit of laughing which almost choked him--"to the
disapproval, even horror and disgust of all kind friends, the eccentric
Oldhams did nothing of the kind. They went along as they always had, and
certainly they did not then display nor ever have displayed any lack of
money. They live simply, entertain very little; but Marcia who is
considered a beauty goes out constantly. She is seen everywhere, dresses
quite as well as her school friends, Kitty Hampton and Bea Habersham,
with whom she always appears, and who, as of course you know, have both
married enormous amounts of money. Her extravagance is hardly discreet,
considering a watchful and censorious world; but when one has such
powerful and extremely loyal friends, discretion is unnecessary."
"She paints beautifully, I understand," said Hayden indignantly.
Penfield's thin laughter stabbed his ear-drums. "If she sold in a year
all the pretty little pictures she paints it would barely pay for her
gowns. No, that won't do. But," and a new note crept into Penfield's
voice, "did you see that old duffer who was with her? That's where she
shows her discretion. He is kept very much in the background. It is only
occasionally that she appears with him."
"Who is he?" asked Hayden gruffly, desperately ashamed of himself for
stooping to question Penfield.
Penfield elevated his eyebrows and spread his hands. "Let us hope that he
is the rich uncle from Australia," he said gently. "Ah, Hayden, Bea and
Kitty have managed the affair with Wilfred Ames beautifully so far. They
Have almost succeeded in pulling it off in spite of the reluctant lady
and Wilfred's raving mother; but Wilfred, good, old, thick-witted
Wilfred, is becoming daily more uncomfortable. Fido won't lie down and go
to sleep on the hearth-rug as Kitty and Bea wish him to. On the contrary,
owing to his mother's watchful vigilance, he is sniffing around quite
suspiciously, and," with a series of chuckles, "I believe, although I am
not sure yet, that the fair Marcia has a rival, and a rival to be
reckoned with, I assure you."
Hayden felt he had stood all that he could. Penfield really was too
offensive. His first impulse was to turn on his heel and leave his
companion without a word; but on second thoughts, he decided to retain
Penfield's company, and put into execution a little plan which was
rapidly maturing in his brain, and which appealed to his hazard-loving
fancy. It was a mere chance, one in a million, but he considered it worth
taking. Penfield knew all the world and its affairs. He, more than any
one Hayden could think of, might be of use to him in a certain Argonautic
expedition he was adventuring upon. He decided to put it to the test,
anyway.
"So you, too, are interested in mines," he said, with an easy change of
subject. "Well," with a short laugh, "as far as they are concerned, I
happen to be in the position of a man who sees a spring of water in the
desert and may not stoop to drink of it."
"What on earth do you mean?" cried Horace. His head shot forward, his
nose twitched. He scented a fresh piece of news as a dog scents truffles.
"Have you found a fortune?" His curiosity was as fully aroused as Hayden
hoped.
They had reached the latter's apartment by this time and Hayden paused a
moment on the step. "Come in," he said, "and I will tell you. You have
not seen my diggings, anyway."
By what he considered a sheer stroke of luck, he, Hayden, had not been
two days in New York, when an old friend, who was under the necessity of
taking a long journey with the expectation of being absent several
months, urged him to take possession of the apartment he and his wife
were temporarily vacating. After a sight of it, Hayden gladly embraced
the opportunity and now, he and his Japanese servant, Tatsu, the
companion of ten wandering years, were installed in beautiful and
luxurious quarters which had come without the lifting of a finger to
secure them.
Here was a fresh field for Penfield's inevitable investigations, and
Hayden's disclosures of his private affairs, deeply as they interested
him, could wait a bit. Horace was patient by nature and training. "One
thing at a time," was a favorite motto, and it was not until he had
exhausted the possibilities of the apartment and had peered into every
nook and corner, that he consented to sit down in the comfortable library
and express his commendation of the place and envy Hayden's luck.
Robert, on his part, had followed his guest about, replying mechanically
to his questions and endeavoring to throw off a depression which had
crept over him.
The night had been cold, and to one with any decency of feeling, Penfield
was a disagreeable companion; but if noxious he also had his uses, and
the more Hayden pondered the matter, the more he was strengthened in his
decision to secure Penfield's assistance. The humor for it grew upon him
as the reassuring comfort and cheer of his surroundings gradually
permeated his consciousness.
He was, as he felt, really risking very little. As he had said to Horace,
he was in the position of a man who has found a spring in the desert, but
may not stoop to drink. No, all the publicity Penfield could give to the
fact of his, Hayden's, discovery of the spring might be of incalculable
benefit to him in his search for the owners of a certain property, and
could, under no circumstances work him an injury, so long as he kept the
secret of the situation inviolably locked in his breast, and no matter
whose imagination might be fired by the tale, he felt a reasonable
security. Experienced prospectors, experts in their line, had
been seeking this symbolic well in the desert for twenty-five years and
he, not by virtue of his skill or knowledge, but by a mere fluke, a
glorious accident, had stumbled on it. It was hardly likely that another
should have a similar experience, within the space of the next few months
at any rate, and the next few months were all he asked.
The wood-fire on the hearth flickered redly over the walls, the lamps
were lighted in anticipation of his arrival; easy chairs were drawn near
the fire; books, papers and magazines were temptingly displayed on the
table.
"What were we talking about before we came up?" said Hayden, with the
effect of mental effort.
"Mines," Horace replied promptly. "You were about to tell me of a big
find you've made. Go on."
"Ah, yes. But"--Hayden laughed a little ruefully--"you've put the thing
entirely too definitely when you say 'a big find I've made.' The bother
of it is that I have and I haven't."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Horace, cocking his head sidewise and
looking at his host speculatively.
"Just what I say," replied the latter. "You see, it happened down in
South America, several months ago. We were running a railroad through a
great estate, oh, an enormous estate in the mountains. You could get
about any variation of climate and soil you wanted. Well, there was a
tradition about the place which I heard again and again, and which
gradually grew to haunt my imagination; it was that somewhere on this
estate was a lost mine of stupendous value; and that although no one had
apparently any idea where it might be located, or had succeeded in
finding a trace of it, nevertheless, according to current report, it had
been worked within the last quarter of a century, that is, worked in a
primitive and intermittent sort of way."
"But," interrupted Penfield, "twenty-five years! That of course is within
the memory of dozens of people. What on earth--"
"Wait," said Hayden. "Your part of this game is to listen calmly, not
interrupt. Don't you suppose I considered all those points? Now to go
back into the history of the thing; this is the story that I gathered,
here a little, there a little, and gradually pieced together.
"This vast estate was one of the holdings of a very ancient and noble
Spanish family. It was, as I have said, situated in the mountains, and
naturally comprised great tracts of valueless land, barren and rocky,
although there were also fertile valleys and broad cultivated plateaus. A
great mansion, the home of Don Raimond De Leon, the owner of the estate,
was situated on one of these plateaus and commanded one of the most
beautiful views one could dream of. One gazes down the mountain side on
fields of corn and alfalfa, green as emerald, and orchards of blooming
fruit-trees; down, down these terraces fall until at their feet lie the
tropical valleys with their orange and pineapple groves, and wild,
luxuriant vegetation; and then, one turns and glances upward; above him
the barren mountain sides, the summits austere, remote, covered with
perpetual snow.
"Well, here surrounded by every form of natural scenery, there lived, I
say, this old don and his only daughter, Lolita. Of course she had a name
a mile long, Maria Annunciata Mercedes Eugenie and all the rest, but they
called her Lolita for convenience. The traditions of their rank were
always rigidly maintained. They lived in feudal state and splendor,
occasionally journeying to Spain; and the daughter, in addition to her
beauty, was possessed of all the graces and accomplishments of a young
woman of her class.
"But while yet in the flower of her beauty and youth, an American
adventurer, a soldier of fortune, appeared upon the scene. He had either
come by design or strayed there by mistake, probably the former; but
that, however, is immaterial. He happened to possess those first
requisites of the successful soldier of fortune--a charming personality,
a pretty wit, and a most ready address. In a very short time, the
hacienda and all that it contained were his. He captured not only the
daughter but the old don himself, and to him the latter confided the
source of the family's almost illimitable wealth, the source, but not
its location; and this source was a hidden mine, called oddly enough
'The Veiled Mariposa.'"
Penfield started as if he had been shot. "What did you say that name
was?" he cried, his ferret-face sharpened with eagerness.
"The Veiled Mariposa," repeated Hayden, watching him keenly, and
overjoyed at the success of his plan. It was evident that Horace knew
something. "Mariposa is the Spanish name for butterfly, you know."
"By Jove, what a coincidence!" muttered Penfield.
"A coincidence? How? What do you mean?" It was Robert's turn to be eager
now. "Have you heard of it? Have you?"
Penfield shook his head. "Not of it exactly, but--but--"
"But--but--" repeated Hayden impatiently. He felt injured and showed it.
"You evidently know something, but you won't tell me. Do you think that
is playing quite fair, Horace?"
"Bosh! I'm playing fair all right. I'll tell you fast enough when there's
anything to tell. What I have in mind may be the merest coincidence,
probably is. I want to do a bit of thinking first before I say anything.
But go on with your story. What has all this to do with you?"
"Where was I? Oh, yes." Hayden took up the thread of his narrative again.
"Well, the soldier of fortune married the don's lovely daughter with the
old father's entire approval. They had a great wedding, the festivities
lasting for days. Don Raimond bestowed bags and bags of gold and silver
on them, and they sailed away for France.
"Now, contrary to the customary fate of such unions, the marriage
although childless turned out happily. For the next ten years or so, the
American and his Spanish wife, his name by the way was Willoughby, lived
in great magnificence in the various capitals of Europe, maintaining an
almost royal state and entertaining constantly on a grand scale.
Occasionally, they visited the father in South America, and once or twice
he visited them, and the bags of gold were always punctually forthcoming.
"Then suddenly, a most appalling thing happened. The district in which
the old don lived was swept by a plague of unusual virulence. De Leon
succumbed before he had time to make any disposition of his property,
even write a line to his daughter. His Yankee overseer in charge of the
mine was also stricken the same day and followed his employer within a
few hours, and the Indian and Spanish laborers on the estate went like
sheep. There is a rumor that misfortunes did not cease here, but that the
plague was followed by an earthquake of a most devastating nature, and
thus the population of that especial district was almost wiped out.
"As soon as the news of these disasters reached the Willoughbys they took
passage at once for South America to verify the terrible rumors. They
found their worst fears confirmed, and to crown their sorrows,
Willoughby, after going over De Leon's papers again and again, could find
no map of the mine, nor any directions as to its location. There were
records enough of the ore mined and shipped, all in the old don's
handwriting, but nothing to aid his son-in-law in rediscovering the mine.
"Willoughby immediately put some experienced prospectors to work and
secured the services of several geological experts, but to no avail. The
mine, mentioned always in the don's documents as The Veiled Mariposa,
seemed to have vanished as completely as if it had never existed, or to
have been sunk by the earthquake into the very bowels of the earth.
"All his efforts to find it having proved useless--efforts extending over
several years--Willoughby put a young nephew of De Leon's, who had
recently arrived from Spain, in temporary charge of the estate and
returned with his wife to France. Accustomed now for many years to a
vast, unconditioned expenditure, he found it impossible to contemplate
the comparative poverty which stared him in the face and he resolved to
try to dispose of the whole estate, which a will of De Leon's made at the
time of her marriage conferred intact upon his daughter Lolita.
"He hoped to sell at a magnificent figure. He trusted to his own magnetic
eloquence and his indisputable proofs of the enormous revenues of the
mine to inflame the cupidity of the purchaser or purchasers to such a
degree that he would find no difficulty in securing a sum which would
enable him to live in comfort, even luxury, for the remainder of his
days. He was not successful in arranging the matter abroad and he came to
this country about six years ago hoping to make a better bargain. He
remained here in New York several months and then sailed for France on
_The Princess Verona_."
"_The Princess Verona_," interrupted Penfield. "Why, she was lost at sea;
went down with a terrible loss of life."
Hayden nodded. "And neither Willoughby nor his wife was among the saved.
But just before sailing, he wrote to the Spanish nephew on the old
estate, and also to his lawyers in France, announcing exultantly that he
had been successful in his mission, having sold the property at a great
figure, and that he would shortly write of all the details of the
purchase. But from that day to this, the nephew has heard nothing further
of the matter. There has been no effort to claim or to take possession of
the property. That is, with this exception. Within the last six years,
foreign prospectors have twice appeared on the estate, and on being
questioned as to their business have said they came from the owners of
the property. In both instances, however, they withheld the names of the
people they were supposed to represent, and little credence was given to
their story.
"But nevertheless, the French lawyers believe that the estate was sold,
for just before sailing Willoughby purchased drafts in New York for a
large sum of money.
"But where are the owners? Why should any one person or group of persons
consider a property sufficiently desirable as to pay such a sum for it
and then apparently drop the whole matter? It's unthinkable, incredible."
Hayden sprang to his feet and began to walk the floor. "That's the
question that has been puzzling me for months. What is their game? What
does their waiting mean? But that is what I am here for--to try and trace
up those owners. I'm prepared to give time and money to the task, for,
Horace"--a passionate exultation rang through his voice--"I--I--have
discovered the mine, the wonderful, lost Veiled Mariposa."
"The deuce you have!" exclaimed Penfield, actually showing something like
excitement. "And is it really all that tradition says of it?"
"More," affirmed Robert solemnly. "I tell you, Horace, it makes the
fabled treasures of the Incas look like thirty cents. Ah, it's--" He
paused on the hearth-rug and looked down on the gossip in the chair. "I
have told you the story because you know everybody and everything about
everybody, and I hoped you might be able to help me in my investigations.
Your exclamation a while ago shows that you do know something."
Penfield gazed at the fire through narrowed lids, then he shook his head.
"No," he said, "truly I know nothing. What I jumped at a while ago is
something that you are bound to run across yourself. I'm not telling all
that I know, but I'm willing to bet that within a very short time you
will hear of The Veiled Mariposa, and that, too, from a most unexpected
source."
"What are you driving at now?" cried Hayden. "Come, speak up. What's the
use of being mysterious?"
"It amuses me, that's all," grinned Penfield. "But truly, Hayden, if I
could be of any assistance to you I would. As I can not, at present, I
shall just sit tight and look on, occasionally putting my finger just far
enough in the pie to stir things up and make them merry." He rose and
getting into his coat and hat sauntered toward the door.
"But, Horace"--Hayden started after him--"what do you mean by predicting
that I shall soon hear of The Veiled Mariposa?"
But Penfield only grinned more inscrutably than ever and closed the door
behind him.
Hayden glared irritably after his departing guest and then shook his fist
in the direction Penfield had taken. Having thus relieved his feelings,
he threw himself into a chair and moodily lighted a cigarette. He was
suffering one of the swift reactions of the optimistic and mercurial
temperament, which, if it suns itself upon the slope of Olympus pays for
the privilege by an occasional sojourn in Avernus. He was disgusted with
Penfield, with himself, with the world.
But wait, even in Avernus the darkness is sometimes penetrated by a ray
of light. His quest, so far, had been fruitless. In the various cities of
Europe where the Willoughbys had lived and where he had made the most
patient investigations, he had discovered practically nothing; and yet,
here in New York, he had seen Penfield, the imperturbable, literally jump
when he had mentioned The Veiled Mariposa; and further, he had assured
him that he would hear some word regarding it within a short time. Come!
Hayden cheered visibly. That was something, at any rate. Things were not
so bad, after all. He was well out of Avernus and beginning to scale
Olympus, and his mind reverted to the earlier and happier part of the
evening.
Then he had met and talked with Marcia Oldham. Marcia! What a charming
name! It was certainly a tremendous piece of luck that he had discovered
it. Of course, he had been disturbed by Penfield's revelations and
innuendoes. No one who took an interest in Miss Oldham could fail to be
so. Nevertheless, Penfield's statements should always be thoroughly
discounted. That was understood.
Robert mechanically lighted another cigarette, still deep in thought.
Penfield had spoken of the Oldham family fortunes. "Nothing left," he had
asserted, and yet they continued a manner of life which involved large
expenditures. How could one account with some show of probability for
these circumstances?
A number of hypotheses flashed through his brain. Could it not be
possible that this strong, self-reliant girl might have been aware of
certain resources of her father's; or might not some old friend greatly
indebted to the father have come forward in the hour of need? That was
not so incredible. Only, only, and this question recurred to him with an
insistence diabolical and mocking. Why should a woman, young, beautiful,
luxurious to the point of extravagance, preserve these mysteries? Aye,
there was the rub.
And as he sat there in the fire-light, alone with his disturbing
meditations, trying to find some solution of this haunting puzzle, he
felt more strongly than ever the spell of her presence. He did not wish
to throw it off, he would not have been able to do so if he willed. It
seemed to him that he had but to lift his eyes to see her standing there
in her black gown, the butterflies shining in the fire-light. Again he
looked into her sweet eyes, and he knew that from his soul he believed in
her. That whatever circumstances entangled her they were not of her
choosing, and that whatever mysteries enmeshed her the web was not of her
weaving.