A FLASH OF MEMORY
The man opened the green door and came forward slowly into the
chamber, but he came in a shambling, apologetic way, and Hester
realized that he was not there in any aggressive or accusing spirit.
On the contrary, he looked at her almost pleadingly out of small,
shifty eyes. Where had she seen those eyes before?
"Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded.
He stood still, working his lips nervously under his little black
mustache.
"I am Anton, the chauffeur," he said glibly. "There's a pane of
glass broken in the roof of the conservatory and Mr. Baxter asked me
to fix it. I was going out through that window. I didn't know any
one was here, Miss--er--" he looked at her inquiringly.
"He got away with that all right," she reflected. Where had she seen
this man? Was it in Paris? In Monte Carlo? In New York? And
suddenly, by one of those quick intuitions that had often guided her,
she decided to take the aggressive.
"Don't you remember me?" she smiled. "Hester Storm?"
"Hester Storm?" he reflected. "No, I--I can't say that I do."
He lifted a hand to his forehead, then ran his fingers back through
his thick hair, and Hester noticed a single white lock threading the
black mass just above the temple. Where had she seen a white lock
like that?
Again he ran his fingers through his hair and paused, with arm lifted
and elbow forward, while his hand grasped the back of his head. It
was an awkward position and--she had seen it before--she had seen a
man somewhere--hold his head like that and--look straight before him
the way this man was looking.
"I must have been mistaken," she said quietly. She began to wonder
if Anton suspected her. Could he know anything? How long had he
been standing at that green door before she saw him? "Why are you
staring at me like that?" she asked.
"Just to make sure, but--no, I don't know you; I've never seen you."
He put down his arm and listened a moment to the reassuring sound of
the typewriter. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I'm doing sewing for Miss Thompson," she answered innocently. She
spoke in a low tone, and she noticed that he spoke in a low tone.
"What made you think I knew you?" he continued.
"Why I--I don't know. It was just an idea."
"Do you know me? I mean have you ever seen me before?"
She shook her head. "I thought I had, but--I've got you mixed with
somebody else. No harm, is there?" she added, with a little laugh
that parted her red lips while her dark eyes glowed on him alluringly.
"Not a bit. Say, you look like an Italian, but you talk like an
American."
"I am an American."
"From New York?"
"From New York."
The chauffeur studied her admiringly for a moment. "That's my town.
Good old Manhattan Island! Say, Miss Storm, why were you so pale
just now?"
"Pale? Was I pale?" she trembled.
"You sure were; you looked as if you'd seen a ghost. And now that I
think of it--say, that's funny!" He stopped short, his two hands on
his hips, and eyed her with a keen sidelong glance.
"What is funny?"
"Why, when I come in you gave me the haughty look--like this," he
struck the attitude of a tragedy queen. "Who are you? What do you
want?" he mimicked her. "Then a minute later you're all smiles and
friendly and ask if I don't remember you? How is that, Miss Hester
Storm?"
"I don't see anything strange about it," she began uneasily. "I
thought--er."
"You thought you knew me," he interrupted. "And if you knew me who
did you think I was? That's what I want to know." There was a note
of menace in his tone, as if he felt that he had the best of the
situation.
"I've told you I was mistaken," answered Hester sharply. "I don't
care to talk about this any more. You'd better fix that pane of
glass--if there is any pane to fix."
It was a chance shot, but it went home. "What do you mean by--by
that?" stammered Anton.
"Oh, nothing."
He took a step nearer and she saw that he was white with anger.
"You'd better not take that smarty tone with me, young lady. I've
got something on you, all right. You weren't doing much sewing when
I opened that door. Oh, I saw you! Some time before you saw me.
Say, what was there so very partic'larly interesting about that golf
bag?"
It was a critical moment for Hester and she rose to it finely.
"Ha, ha, ha!" she laughed carelessly, although terror was clutching
her heart. "Do you want to know why I was looking in that golf bag,
Mr. Anton?"
"Yes, I do," he answered roughly, "and I'm going to know right now."
He strode toward the golf bag and seized it by the strap.
"You'd make a good detective, Mr. Chauffeur," she tittered. "I
dropped my scissors into that bag and I'll be much obliged if you'll
fish them out for me."
So natural was her tone and so convincing her air of good-natured
derision that Anton turned, hesitating, while one hand rested on the
golf bag. Then, as before, he ran the fingers of his other hand
through his mane of hair and clasped the back of his head in
perplexity. It must have been this characteristic attitude that
brought the flash of memory.
"Ah!" cried Hester, in sudden inspiration. "Now I know where I saw
you."
The thrill of exultation in her voice convinced the wavering
chauffeur and he came toward her in alarm, leaving the golf bag.
"Where?" he demanded.
She half closed her eyes as if looking at a distant picture.
"In a rathskeller--on Forty-second Street--near Broadway--one night,"
she answered in broken sentences.
"Well?"
"You were sitting at a table with a man who looked like a Tenderloin
sport or--a Bowery tough. He had a blue handkerchief around his
head--so. He had lost a piece of his ear."
Anton listened, fascinated.
"How do you know he had?"
"I heard him tell you. He said the top of it had been bitten off.
That's why I noticed him. Remember?"
"You're crazy. I never was in a rathskeller on Forty-second Street.
And I don't know any man who's had his ear bitten off." He paused
and again moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What was
the man's name?"
"I don't know his name," answered Hester, "but I heard some sweet
things he said and a few that you said and----" she laughed at him
tauntingly. "You have a nice, elegant line of friends, Mr. Anton."
"I tell you it wasn't me," he blustered.
"Oh, yes, it was. I know you by that white lock in your hair
and--see here, I know you by another thing. I'll prove it. Let's
see you smile."
"Smile? Why should I smile?" He tightened his lips into a grim line.
"Because you'd look much better, for one thing. You're not pretty
that way, Mr. Anton. And if you smile, you'll show a gold tooth
on--let me see--on this side, a big, shiny gold tooth. Come, now,
smile."
It is a matter of conjecture whether Anton, thus challenged, would or
would not have revealed the treasures of his bicuspid region. At any
rate he did not do so on this occasion owing to the fact that
developments were suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices in the
library below, followed by a light, quick step on the winding stair.
Whereupon Anton, without smiling, without explaining, and without any
further sign of interest in the damaged conservatory, faded away as
he had come, through the green door, and with the same cringing,
apologetic manner. The honors of this brief but spirited engagement
were easily with Hester.
Swiftly the adventuress caught up the skirt she was supposed to be
mending and, seating herself, began some movements of measurement,
while her face took on an expression of diligent interest. A moment
later Betty Thompson swept into the chamber and, to the absolute
astonishment of the sewing girl, went straight to the golf bag.
White-faced, Hester rose to her feet. She could feel her hands and
her lips getting cold. Was this the end of the game?
"Can I--can I do anything?" she managed to ask.
"No, no," said Betty cheerfully. "Don't get up. Mrs. Baxter wants
to play golf and I'm going to lend her my bag. There!"
She caught up the bag and disappeared with it down the stair, while
Hester, stunned by this sudden change of fortune, listened to the
mocking rattle of the clubs.