Slowly Maitland returned to the study and replaced the lamp upon his
desk; and stood briefly in silence, long fingers stroking his
well-shaped chin, his face a little thin and worn-looking, a gleam of
pain in his eyes. He sighed.
So she was gone!
He laughed a trace harshly. This surprise was nothing more than he
might have discounted, of course; he had been a fool to expect anything
else of her, he was enjoying only his just deserts both for having
dared to believe that the good in human nature (and particularly in
woman's nature) would respond to decent treatment, and for having acted
on that asinine theory.
So she was gone, without a word, without a sign!...
He sat down at the desk, sidewise, one arm extended along its edge,
fingers drumming out a dreary little tune on the hard polished wood;
and thought it all over from the beginning. Nor spared himself.
Why, after all, should it be otherwise? Why should she have stayed? Why
should he compliment himself by believing that there was aught about
him visible through the veneer acquired in a score and odd years of
purposeless existence, to attract a young and pretty woman's heart?
He enumerated his qualities specifically; and condemned them all.
Imprimis, he was a conceited ass. A fascinating young criminal had but
to toss her head at him to make him think that she was pleased with
him, to make him forget that she was what she was and believe that,
because he was willing to stoop, she was willing to climb. And he had
betrayed himself so mercilessly! How she must have laughed in her
sleeve all the time, while he pranced and bridled and preened himself
under her eyes, blinded to his own idiocy by the flame of a sudden
infatuation--how she _must_ have laughed!
Undoubtedly she had laughed; and, measuring his depth,--or his
shallowness,--had determined to use him to her ends. Why not? It had
been her business, her professional duty, to make use of him in order
to accomplish her plundering. And because she had not dared to ask him
for the jewels when he left her in the morning, she had naturally
returned in the evening to regain them, very confident, doubtless, that
even if surprised a second time, she would get off scot-free.
Unfortunately for her, this fellow Anisty had interfered. Maitland
presumed cynically that he ought to be grateful to Anisty.... The
unaccountable scoundrel! Why had _he_ returned?
How the girl had contrived to escape was, of course, more easy to
understand. Maitland recalled that sudden clatter of hoofs in the
street, and he had only to make a trip to the window to verify his
suspicion that the cab was gone. She had simply overheard his
concluding remarks to the cabby, and taken pardonable advantage of
them. Maitland had footed the bill.... She was welcome to that,
however. He, Maitland, was well rid of the whole damnable business....
Yes, jewels and all!
What were the jewels to him?... Beyond their sentimental associations,
he did not hold them greatly in prize. Of course, since they had been
worn by his mother, he would spare no expense or effort to trace and
re-collect them, for that dim sainted memory's sake. But in this case,
at least, the traditional usage of the Maitland's would never be
carried out. It had been faithfully observed when, after his mother's
death, the stones had been removed from their settings and stored away;
but now they would never be reset, even should he contrive to
reassemble them, to adorn the bride of the Maitland heir. For he would
never marry. Of course not....
Maitland was young enough to believe, and to extract a melancholy
satisfaction from this.
Puzzled and saddened, his mind harked back for ever to that carking
question: Why had she returned? What had brought her back to the flat?
If she and Anisty were confederates, as one was inclined at times to
believe,--if such were the case, Anisty had the jewels, and there was
nothing else of any particular value so persistently to entice such
expert and accomplished burglars back to his flat. What else had they
required of him? His peace of mind was nothing that they could turn
into cash; and they seemed to have reaved him of nothing else.
But they had that; unquestionably they had taken that.
And still the riddle haunted him: Why had she come back that night?
And, whatever her reason, had she come in Anisty's company, or alone?
One minute it seemed patent beyond dispute that the girl and the great
plunderer were hand-in-glove; the next minute Maitland was positively
assured that their recent meeting had been altogether an accident. From
what he had heard over the telephone, he had believed them to be
quarreling, although at the time he had assigned to O'Hagan the
masculine side to the dispute. But certainly there must have arisen
some difference of opinion between Anisty and the girl, to have drawn
from her that frantic negative Maitland had heard, to have been
responsible for the overturning of the chair,--an accident that seemed
to argue something in the nature of a physical struggle; the chair
itself still lay upon its side, mute witness to a hasty and careless
movement on somebody's part....
But it was all inexplicable. Eventually Maitland shook his head, to
signify that he gave it up. There was but one thing to do,--to put it
out of mind. He would read a bit, compose himself, go to bed.
Preliminary to doing so, he would take steps to insure the flat against
further burglarizing, for that night, at least. The draught moving
through the hall stirred the portière and reminded him that the window
in the trunk-room was still open, an invitation to any enterprising
sneak-thief or second-story man. So Maitland went to close and make it
fast.
As he shut down the window-sash and clamped the catch he trod on
something soft and yielding. Wondering, he stooped and picked it up,
and carried it back to the light. It proved to be the girl's hand-bag.
"Now," admitted Maitland in a tone of absolute candor, "I am damned.
How the dickens did this thing get there, anyway? What was she doing in
my trunk-closet?"
Was it possible that she had followed Anisty out of the flat by that
route? A very much mystified young man sat himself down again in front
of his desk, and turned the bag over and over in his hands, keenly
scrutinizing every inch of it, and whistling softly.
That year the fashion in purses was for capacious receptacles of
grained leather, nearly square in shape, and furnished with a chain
handle. This which Maitland held was conspicuously of the
mode,--neither too large, nor too small, constructed of fine soft
leather of a gun-metal shade, with a framework and chain of gun-metal
itself. It was new and seemed well-filled, weighing a trifle heavy in
the hand. One face was adorned with a monogram of cut gun-metal, the
initials "S" and "G" and "L" interlaced. But beyond this the bag was
irritatingly non-committal.
Undoubtedly, if one were to go to the length of unsnapping the little,
frail clasp, one would acquire information; by such facile means would
much light be shed upon the darkness. But Maitland put a decided
negative to the suggestion.
No. He would give her the benefit of the doubt. He would wait, he would
school himself to patience. Perhaps she would come back for it,--and
explain. Perhaps he could find her by advertising it,--and get an
explanation. Pending which, he could wait a little while. It was not
his wish to pry into her secrets, even if--even if....
It was something to be smoked over.... Strange how it affected him to
have in his hands something that she had owned and touched!
Opening a drawer of the desk, Maitland produced an aged pipe. A brazen
jar, companion piece to the ash receiver, held his tobacco. He filled
the pipe from the jar, with thoughtful deliberation. And scraped a
match beneath his chair and ignited the tobacco and puffed in
contemplative contentment, deriving solace from each mouthful of
grateful, evanescent incense. Meanwhile he held the charred match
between thumb and forefinger.
Becoming conscious of this fact, he smiled in deprecation of his
absent-minded mood, looked for the ash-receiver, discovered it in
place, inverted beneath the book; and frowned, remembering. Then, with
an impatient gesture,--impatient of his own infirmity of mind: for he
simply could not forget the girl,--he dropped the match, swept the book
aside, lifted the bowl....
After a moment of incredulous awe, the young man rose, with eyes
a-light and a jubilant song in the heart of him. Now he knew, now
understood, now believed, and now was justified of his faith!
After which depression came, with the consciousness that she was gone,
for ever removed beyond his reach and influence, and that by her own
wilful act. It was her intelligible wish that they should never meet
again, for, having accomplished her errand, she had flown from the
possibility of his thanks.
It was so clear, now! He perceived it all, plainly. Somehow (though it
was hard to surmise how) she had found out that Anisty had stolen the
jewels; somehow (and one wondered at what risk) she had contrived to
take them from him and bring them back to their owner. And Anisty had
followed.
Poor little woman! What had she not suffered, what perils had she not
braved, to prove that there was honor even in thieves! It could have
been at no inconsiderable danger,--a danger not incommensurate with
that of robbing a tigress of her whelps,--that she had managed to filch
his loot from that pertinacious and vindictive soul, Anisty!
But she had accomplished it; and all for him!