DUST

In the dull hot dusk of a summer's day a green touring-car, swinging

out of the East Drive, pulled up smartly, trembling, at the edge of the

Fifty-ninth Street car-tracks, then more sedately, under the

dispassionate but watchful eye of a mounted member of the Traffic

Squad, lurched across the Plaza and merged itself in the press of

vehicles south-bound on the Avenue.

Its tonneau held four young men, all more or less disguised in dust,

dusters and goggles; forward, by the side of the grimy and anxious-eyed

mechanic, sat a fifth, in all visible respects the counterpart of his

companions. Beneath his mask, and by this I do not mean his goggles,

but the mask of modern manner which the worldly wear, he was, and is,

different.

He was Daniel Maitland, Esquire; for whom no further introduction

should be required, after mention of the fact that he was, and remains,

the identical gentleman of means and position in the social and

financial worlds, whose somewhat sober but sincere and whole-hearted

participation in the wildest of conceivable escapades had earned him

the affectionate regard of the younger set, together with the sobriquet

of "Mad Maitland."

His companions of the day, the four in the tonneau, were in that humor

of subdued yet vibrant excitement which is apt to attend the conclusion

of a long, hard drive over country roads. Maitland, on the other hand,

(judging him by his preoccupied pose), was already weary of, if not

bored by, the hare-brained enterprise which, initiated on the spur of

an idle moment and directly due to a thoughtless remark of his own, had

brought him a hundred miles (or so) through the heat of a broiling

afternoon, accompanied by spirits as ardent and irresponsible as his

own, in search of the dubious distraction afforded by the night side of

the city.

As, picking its way with elephantine nicety, the motor-car progressed

down the Avenue--twilight deepening, arcs upon their bronze columns

blossoming suddenly, noiselessly into spheres of opalescent

radiance--Mr. Maitland ceased to respond, ceased even to give heed, to

the running fire of chaff (largely personal) which amused his

companions. Listlessly engaged with a cigarette, he lounged upon the

green leather cushions, half closing his eyes, and heartily wished

himself free for the evening.

But he stood committed to the humor of the majority, and lacked

entirely the shadow of an excuse to desert; in addition to which he was

altogether too lazy for the exertion of manufacturing a lie of

serviceable texture. And so he abandoned himself to his fate, even

though he foresaw with weariful particularity the programme of the

coming hours.

To begin with, thirty minutes were to be devoted to a bath and dressing

in his rooms. This was something not so unpleasant to contemplate. It

was the afterwards that repelled him: the dinner at Sherry's, the

subsequent tour of roof gardens, the late supper at a club, and then,

prolonged far into the small hours, the session around some

green-covered table in a close room reeking with the fumes of good

tobacco and hot with the fever of gambling....

Abstractedly Maitland frowned, tersely summing up: "Beastly!"--in an

undertone.

At this the green car wheeled abruptly round a corner below

Thirty-fourth Street, slid half a block or more east, and came to a

palpitating halt. Maitland, looking up, recognized the entrance to his

apartments, and sighed with relief for the brief respite from boredom

that was to be his. He rose, negligently shaking off his duster, and

stepped down to the sidewalk.

Somebody in the car called a warning after him, and turning for a

moment he stood at attention, an eyebrow raised quizzically, cigarette

drooping from a corner of his mouth, hat pushed back from his forehead,

hands in coat pockets: a tall, slender, sparely-built figure of a man,

clothed immaculately in flannels.

When at length he was able to make himself heard, "Good enough," he

said clearly, though without raising his voice. "Sherry's in an hour.

Right. Now, behave yourselves."

"Mind you show up on time!"

"Never fear," returned Maitland over his shoulder.

A witticism was flung back at him from the retreating car, but spent

itself unregarded. Maitland's attention was temporarily distracted by

the unusual--to say the least--sight of a young and attractive woman

coming out of a home for confirmed bachelors.

The apartment house happened to be his own property. A substantial and

old-fashioned edifice, situated in the middle of a quiet block, it

contained but five roomy and comfortable suites,--in other words, one

to a floor; and these were without exception tenanted by unmarried men

of Maitland's own circle and acquaintance. The janitor, himself a

widower and a convinced misogynist, lived alone in the basement.

Barring very special and exceptional occasions (as when one of the

bachelors felt called upon to give a tea in partial recognition of

social obligations), the foot of woman never crossed its threshold.

In this circumstance, indeed, was comprised the singular charm the

house had for its occupants. The quality which insured them privacy and

a quiet independence rendered them oblivious to its many minor

drawbacks, its lack of many conveniences and luxuries which have of

late grown to be so commonly regarded as necessities. It boasted, for

instance, no garage; no refrigerating system maddened those dependent

upon it; a dissipated electric lighting system never went out of

nights, because it had never been installed; no brass-bound hall-boy

lounged in desuetude upon the stoop and took too intimate and personal

an interest in the tenants' correspondence. The inhabitants, in brief,

were free to come and go according to the dictates of their

consciences, unsupervised by neighborly women-folk, unhindered by a

parasitic corps of menials not in their personal employ.

Wherefore was Maitland astonished, and the more so because of the

season. At any other season of the year he would readily have accounted

for the phenomenon that now fell under his observation, on the

hypothesis that the woman was somebody's sister or cousin or aunt. But

at present that explanation was untenable; Maitland happened to know

that not one of the other men was in New York, barring himself; and his

own presence there was a thing entirely unforeseen.

Still incredulous, he mentally conned the list: Barnes, who occupied

the first flat, was traveling on the Continent; Conkling, of the third,

had left a fortnight since to join a yachting party on the

Mediterranean; Bannister and Wilkes, of the fourth and fifth floors,

respectively, were in Newport and Buenos Aires.

"Odd!" concluded Maitland.

So it was. She had just closed the door, one thought; and now stood

poised as if in momentary indecision on the low stoop, glancing toward

Fifth Avenue the while she fumbled with a refractory button at the

wrist of a long white kid glove. Blurred though it was by the darkling

twilight and a thin veil, her face yet conveyed an impression of

prettiness: an impression enhanced by careful grooming. From her hat, a

small affair, something green, with a superstructure of grey ostrich

feathers, to the tips of her russet shoes,--including a walking skirt

and bolero of shimmering grey silk,--she was distinctly "smart" and

interesting.

He had keenly observant eyes, had Maitland, for all his detached pose;

you are to understand that he comprehended all these points in the

flickering of an instant. For the incident was over in two seconds. In

one the lady's hesitation was resolved; in another she had passed down

the steps and swept by Maitland without giving him a glance, without

even the trembling of an eyelash. And he had a view of her back as she

moved swiftly away toward the Avenue.

Perplexed, he lingered upon the stoop until she had turned the corner;

after which he let himself in with a latch-key, and, dismissing the

affair temporarily from his thoughts, or pretending to do so, ascended

the single flight of stairs to his flat.

Simultaneously heavy feet were to be heard clumping up the basement

steps; and surmising that the janitor was coming to light the hall, the

young man waited, leaning over the balusters. His guess proving

correct, he called down:

"O'Hagan? Is that you?"

"Th' saints presarve us! But 'twas yersilf gave me th' sthart, Misther

Maitland, sor!" O'Hagan paused in the gloom below, his upturned face

quaintly illuminated by the flame of a wax taper in his gaslighter.

"I'm dining in town to-night, O'Hagan, and dropped around to dress. Is

anybody else at home?"

"Nivver a wan, sor. Shure, th' house do be quiet's anny tomb--"

"Then who was that lady, O'Hagan?"

"Leddy, sor?"--in unbounded amazement.

"Yes," impatiently. "A young woman left the house just as I was coming

in. Who was she?"

"Shure an' I think ye must be dr'amin', sor. Divvle a female--rayspicts

to ye!--has been in this house for manny an' manny th' wake, sor."

"But, I tell you--"

"Belike 'twas somewan jist sthepped into the vesthibule, mebbe to tie

her shoe, sor, and ye thought--"

"Oh, very well." Maitland relinquished the inquisition as unprofitable,

willing to concede O'Hagan's theory a reasonable one, the more readily

since he himself could by no means have sworn that the woman had

actually come out through the door. Such had merely been his

impression, honest enough, but founded on circumstantial evidence.

"When you're through, O'Hagan," he told the Irishman, "you may come and

shave me and lay out my things, if you will."

"Very good, sor. In wan minute."

But O'Hagan's conception of the passage of time was a thought vague:

his one minute had lengthened into ten before he appeared to wait upon

his employer.

Now and again, in the absence of the regular "man," O'Hagan would

attend one or another of the tenants in the capacity of substitute

valet: as in the present instance, when Maitland, having left his

host's roof without troubling even to notify his body-servant that he

would not return that night, called upon the janitor to understudy the

more trained employee; which O'Hagan could be counted upon to do very

acceptably.

Now, with patience unruffled, since he was nothing keen for the

evening's enjoyment, Maitland made profit of the interval to wander

through his rooms, lighting the gas here and there and noting that all

was as it should be, as it had been left--save that every article of

furniture and bric-à-brac seemed to be sadly in want of a thorough

dusting. In the end he brought up in the room that served him as study

and lounge,--the drawing-room of the flat, as planned in the forgotten

architect's scheme,--a large and well-lighted apartment overlooking the

street. Here, pausing beneath the chandelier, he looked about him for a

moment, determining that, as elsewhere, all things were in order--but

grey with dust.

Finding the atmosphere heavy, stale, and oppressive, Maitland moved

over to the windows and threw them open. A gush of warm air, humid and

redolent of the streets, invaded the room, together with the roar of

traffic from its near-by arteries. Maitland rested his elbows on the

sill and leaned out, staring absently into the night; for by now it was

quite dark. Without concern, he realized that he would be late at

dinner. No matter; he would as willingly miss it altogether. For the

time being he was absorbed in vain speculations about an unknown woman

whose sole claim upon his consideration lay in a certain but immaterial

glamour of mystery. Had she, or had she not, been in the house? And, if

the true answer were in the affirmative: to what end, upon what errand?

His eyes focused insensibly upon a void of darkness beneath him,--night

made visible by street lamps; and he found himself suddenly and acutely

sensible of the wonder and mystery of the City: the City whose secret

life ran fluent upon the hot, hard pavements below, whose voice

throbbed, sibilant, vague, strident, inarticulate, upon the night air;

the City of which he was a part equally with the girl in grey, whom he

had never before seen, and in all likelihood was never to see again,

though the two of them were to work out their destinies within the

bounds of Manhattan Island. And yet....

"It would be strange," said Maitland thoughtfully, "if...." He shook

his head, smiling. "'_Two shall be born,_'" quoted Mad Maitland

sentimentally,--

"'_Two shall be born the whole wide world apart--_'"

A piano organ, having maliciously sneaked up beneath his window, drove

him indoors with a crash of metallic melody.

As he dropped the curtains his eye was arrested by a gleam of white

upon his desk,--a letter placed there, doubtless, by O'Hagan in

Maitland's absence. At the same time, a splashing and gurgling of water

from the direction of the bath-room informed him that the janitor-valet

was even then preparing his bath. But that could wait.

Maitland took up the envelope and tore the flap, remarking the name and

address of his lawyer in its upper left-hand corner. Unfolding the

inclosure, he read a date a week old, and two lines requesting him to

communicate with his legal adviser upon "a matter of pressing moment."

"Bother!" said Maitland. "What the dickens--"

He pulled up short, eyes lighting. "That's so, you know," he argued:

"Bannerman will be delighted, and--and even business is better than

rushing round town and pretending to enjoy yourself when it's hotter

than the seven brass hinges of hell and you can't think of anything

else.... I'll do it!"

He stepped quickly to the corner of the room, where stood the telephone

upon a small side table, sat down, and, receiver to ear, gave Central a

number. In another moment he was in communication with his attorney's

residence.

"Is Mr. Bannerman in? I would like to--"

* * * * *

"Why, Mr. Bannerman! How _do_ you do?"

* * * * *

"You're looking a hundred per cent better--"

* * * * *

"Bad, bad word! Naughty!--"

"Maitland, of course."

* * * * *

"Been out of town and just got your note."

* * * * *

"Your beastly penchant for economy. It's not stamped; I presume you

sent it round by hand of the future President of the United States whom

you now employ as office-boy. And O'Hagan didn't forward it for that

reason."

* * * * *

"Important, eh? I'm only in for the night--"

* * * * *

"Then come and dine with me at the Primordial. I'll put the others off."

* * * * *

"Good enough. In an hour, then? Good-by." Hanging up the receiver,

Maitland waited a few moments ere again putting it to his ear. This

time he called up Sherry's, asked for the head-waiter, and, requested

that person to be kind enough to make his excuses to "Mr. Cressy and

his party": he, Maitland, was detained upon a matter of moment, but

would endeavor to join them at a later hour.

Then, with a satisfied smile, he turned away, with purpose to dispose

of Bannerman's note.

"Bath's ready, sor."

O'Hagan's announcement fell upon heedless ears. Maitland remained

motionless before the desk--transfixed with amazement.

"Bath's ready, sor!"--imperatively.

Maitland roused slightly.

"Very well; in a minute, O'Hagan."

Yet for some time he did not move. Slowly the heavy brows contracted

over intent eyes as he strove to puzzle it out. At length his lips

moved noiselessly.

"Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness.

Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger across

the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark, heavy line.

And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of dust, was the

silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small, delicate, unmistakably

feminine of contour.

"Well!" declared Maitland frankly, "I _am_ damned!"

Further and closer inspection developed the fact that the imprint had

been only recently made. Within the hour,--unless Maitland were indeed

mad or dreaming,--a woman had stood by that desk and rested a hand,

palm down, upon it; not yet had the dust had time to settle and blur

the sharp outlines.

Maitland shook his head with bewilderment, thinking of the grey girl.

But no. He rejected his half-formed explanation--the obvious one.

Besides, what had he there worth a thief's while? Beyond a few articles

of "virtue and bigotry" and his pictures, there was nothing valuable in

the entire flat. His papers? But he had nothing; a handful of letters,

cheque book, a pass book, a japanned tin despatch box containing some

business memoranda and papers destined eventually for Bannerman's

hands; but nothing negotiable, nothing worth a burglar's while.

It was a flat-topped desk, of mahogany, with two pedestals of drawers,

all locked. Maitland determined this latter fact by trying to open them

without a key; failing, his key-ring solved the difficulty in a jiffy.

But the drawers seemed undisturbed; nothing had been either handled, or

removed, or displaced, so far as he could determine. And again he

wagged his head from side to side in solemn stupefaction.

"This is beyond you, Dan, my boy." And: "But I've got to know what it

means."

In the hall O'Hagan was shuffling impatience. Pondering deeply,

Maitland relocked the desk, and got upon his feet. A small bowl of

beaten brass, which he used as an ash-receiver, stood ready to his

hand; he took it up, carefully blew it clean of dust, and inverted it

over the print of the hand. On top of the bowl he placed a weighty

afterthought in the shape of a book.

"O'Hagan!"

"Waitin', sor."

"Come hither, O'Hagan. You see that desk?"

"Yissor."

"Are you sure?"

"Ah, faith--"

"I want you not to touch it, O'Hagan. Under penalty of my extreme

displeasure, don't lay a finger on it till I give you permission. Don't

dare to dust it. Do you understand?"

"Yissor. Very good, Mr. Maitland."