"In my pocket."
"Oh!" She glanced stealthily around. "In your pocket!" she whispered.
"And--and if they stopped you----"
"I am Maitland."
"But if they insisted on searching you...." She was round-eyed with
apprehension.
"That's so!" Her perturbation was infectious. His jaw dropped.
"They would find the jewels--known to be stolen----"
"By God!" he cried savagely.
"Dan!"
"I--I beg your pardon. But ... what am I to do? You are sure----?"
"McClusky himself is on the nearest corner!"
"_Phew_!" he whistled; and stared at her, searchingly, through a
lengthening pause.
"Dan...." said she at length.
"Yes?"
"There is a way...."
"Go on."
"Last night, Dan"--she raised her glorious eyes to his--"last night, I
... I trusted you."
His face hardened ever so slightly; yet when he took thought the tense
lines about his eyes and mouth softened. And she drew a deep breath,
knowing that she had all but won.
"I trusted you," she continued softly. "Do you know what that means? I
trusted _you_."
He nodded, eyes to hers, fascinated, with an odd commingling of fear
and hope and satisfied self-love. "Now I am unconnected with the
affair. No one knows that I had any hand in it. Besides, no one knows
me--that I--steal." Her tone fell lower. "The police have never heard
of me. Dan!"
"I--believe----"
"I could get away," she interrupted; "and then, if they stopped you----"
"You're right, by the powers!" He struck the table smartly with his
fist. "You do that and we can carry this through. Why, lacking the
jewels, I _am_ Maitland--I am even wearing Maitland's clothes!" he
boasted. "I went to his apartments this morning and saw to that,
because it suited my purpose to _be_ Maitland for a day or two."
"Then----?" Her gaze questioned his.
"Waiter!" cried Anisty. And, when the man was deferential at his elbow:
"Call a cab, at once, please."
"Certainly, sir."
The rest of the corps of servants was at the other end of the big room.
Anisty made certain that they were not watching, then stealthily passed
the canvas bag to the girl. She bent her head, bestowing it in her
hand-bag.
"You have made me ... happy, Dan," came tremulously from beneath the
hat-brim.
Whatever doubts may have assailed him when it was too late, by that
remark were effaced, silenced. Who could mistrust her sincerity?...
"Then when and where may I see you again?" he demanded.
"The same place."
It was a bold move; but she was standing; the waiter was back,
announcing the cab in waiting, and he dared not protest. Yet his pat
_riposte_ commanded her admiration.
"No. Too risky. If they are watching here, they may be there, too." He
shook his head decidedly. The flicker of doubt was again extinguished;
for undoubtedly Maitland had escorted her home that morning; her
reference had been to that place. "Somewhere else," he insisted,
confident that she was playing fair.
She appeared to think for an instant, then, fumbling in her
pocket-book, extracted a typical feminine pencil stub,--its
business-end looking as though it had been gnawed by a vindictive
rat,--and scribbled hastily on the back of a menu card:
"_Mrs. McCabe, 205 West 118th Street. Top floor. Ring 3 times._"
"I shall be there at seven," she told him. "You won't fail me?"
"Not if I'm still at liberty," he laughed.
And the waiter smiled at discretion, a far-away and unobtrusive smile
that could by no possibility give offense; at the same time it was
calculated to convey the impression that, in the opinion of one humble
person, at least, Mr. Maitland was a merry wag.
"Good-by ... Dan!"
Anisty held her fingers in his hard palm for an instant, rising from
his chair.
"Good-by, my dear," he said clumsily.
He watched her disappear, eyes humid, temples throbbing. "By the
powers!" he cried. "But she's worth it!"
Perhaps his meaning was vague, even to himself. He resumed his seat
mechanically and sat for a time staring dreamily into vacancy, blunt
fingers drumming on the cloth.
"No," he declared at length. "No; I'm safe enough ... in _her_ hands."
* * * * *
Once secure from the public gaze, the girl crowded back into a corner
of the cab, as though trying to efface herself. Her eyes closed almost
automatically; the curve of laughing lips became a doleful droop; a
crinkle appeared between the arched brows; waves of burning crimson
flooded her face and throat.
In her lap both hands lay clenched into tiny fists--clenched so tightly
that it hurt, numbing her fingers: a physical pain that, somehow,
helped her to endure the paroxysms of shame. That she should have
stooped so low!...
Presently the fingers relaxed, and her whole frame relaxed in sympathy.
The black squall had passed over; but now were the once tranquil waters
ruffled and angry. Then languor gripped her like an enemy: she lay
listless in its hold, sick and faint with disgust of self.
This was her all-sufficient punishment: to have done what she had done,
to be about to do what she contemplated. For she had set her hand to
the plow: there must now be no drawing back, however hateful might
prove her task....
The voice of the cabby dropping through the trap, roused her. "This is
the Martha Washington, ma'am."
Mechanically she descended from the hansom and paid her fare; then,
summoning up all her strength and resolution, passed into the lobby of
the hotel and paused at the telephone switchboard.