somewhat absent during the progress of the simple luncheon he ordered.
He did not, in fact, really pay much attention to his surroundings until
an odd event effectually brought him to himself.
He had arisen from his table, and was making his way slowly to the door,
his progress somewhat impeded by the simultaneous departure of a large
luncheon party. As he trailed along behind the laughing crowd of girls,
he happened to glance casually to the left, and encountered the gaze of
a woman sitting at a table near the wall.
She was not young, but there was a stately distinction in her looks and
manner which impressed Lawrence. Her face was a perfect oval, showing
remnants of great beauty, and Barry had a vague impression that he had
seen her before. She was perfectly gowned, and wore no jewels, save a
single strand of wonderful pearls. Her companions were much younger,
and wholly charming. The head waiter hovered obsequiously about the
table.
As their eyes met, Barry saw her start slightly and stare for a second,
a look of puzzled astonishment on her face. The next instant she smiled
and bowed in a manner which was even more than cordial.
Automatically Lawrence returned the bow with what grace he could assume,
and passed on. At the door he turned for a backward glance. and was
surprised to see that the lady had moved a little in her chair, and was
following him with her eyes.
"I suppose I've met her somewhere," he thought, pausing in the doorway.
"I wish I could remember her name. She's certainly somebody."
An instant later he caught the eye of the head waiter, and summoned him
with a slight gesture.
"Who is the lady at the fourth table from the door?" he asked briefly.
"I seem to have forgotten her name."
The haughty functionary followed the direction of Barry's glance, and
then turned back, an odd expression in his eyes.
"That is Mrs. Winslow Courtney, sir," he answered stiffly.
For a second Lawrence was almost feezed. Then, with a short nod, he
passed on into the corridor.
Mrs. Winslow Courtney! No wonder he could not recall meeting her
before. He doubted whether he had ever even seen her, save, perhaps, in
her box at the opera; for it was she, more than any other woman, who
ruled New York society. With family, vast wealth, and a charming
personality, she had taken her place in that innermost circle around
which the social life of the entire country revolved. One of her
daughters was the wife of Prince von Lauenberg, the wealthiest nobleman
in Prussia; another was the Duchess of Wilton.
Decidedly Barry had no right to that charming smile from Mrs. Winslow
Courtney.
"I suppose she took me for some one else," he murmured, as he left the
Plaza. "I wouldn't mind knowing her, though. Her friends, her
acquaintances, have to be somebody."
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE GIRL WHO VANISHED.*
Having grown a little weary of dodging people, Lawrence decided not to
give those who seemed so interested in his movements a chance to pick up
his trail again that afternoon. He was fond of motoring, so he
proceeded at once to hire a good car, and, with only a chauffeur for
company, went spinning out over the snowy, level roads of Westchester
County.
In spite of the cold, he enjoyed it so much that it was nearly a quarter
past five before he entered the yacht club, and sent up his name to
Hamersley.
The latter descended at once, and, when he had finished upbraiding
Barry, they went up to the famous model room, and, settling down in a
corner with cigars, chatted, and joked each other for over an hour.
Two or three times Lawrence was on the point of asking his friend
whether he had an opening for a good stenographer in his office, but
each time he could not seem to bring himself to make the inquiry. And
so they parted without Miss Rives and her very pressing necessities
being mentioned.
"I'll talk it over with her to-night, and ask her if she won't let me
find her a position," Barry decided, as he walked around to the hotel.
Having dressed with unusual care, he took a taxi to the Waldorf and
dined there again in solitary state.
Though he kept his eyes open throughout the meal, he saw nothing of the
blond fellow he had outwitted that morning, or of the bearded man. There
was apparently no one in the dining room or about the hotel corridors
who paid any more attention to him than would be accorded to any
handsome, well-dressed, prosperous-looking chap. Instead of being
relieved at this, Barry was affected in quite the opposite manner. The
sudden cessation of interest struck him as being decidedly unnatural,
and made him wonder whether it was not a bluff to hide the real
intentions of the unknown spies.
After he had dined, he had a taxi summoned, and not until it was at the
door did he leave the lighted corridor for the street.
Giving the Forty-eighth Street address, he stepped in and took up a
position that would enable him easily to glance through the back window
every now and then, and see whether he was being followed.
Until they turned out of Longacre Square it was impossible to tell this
with any certainty. The streets were full of taxis and motor cars,
carrying people to theaters or the opera or coming away empty. But,
having turned into the comparatively deserted cross street, Barry kept
an extra sharp lookout. Before the taxi reached Eighth Avenue he was
rewarded by seeing another car skid around from Broadway in their wake.
With a slight frown of annoyance, he wondered how they had managed it.
It is always more or less trying to miss a trick of any sort, and
Lawrence rather prided himself on his keenness of observation.
The slowing down of his car as they approached the house made him thrust
the matter from his mind in favor of more agreeable things. After all,
his pursuer could accomplish nothing here.
Stepping out on the sidewalk, Barry told the chauffeur to wait, and ran
up the steps. After a prolonged wait, a rather untidy-looking maid
answered his ring, holding the door only partially open, and peering
doubtfully through the crack.
"Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence inquired.
The girl stared. "Miss--who did you say?"
"Miss Rives--Miss Shirley Rives!" Barry's tone was slightly impatient.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the second taxi had crawled
past, and come to a stop a few doors beyond. "She arrived last night, I
believe."
The maid sniffed. "It's news to me," she remarked pertly. "Mebbe
you've got the wrong house. There ain't no Miss Rives, nor anybody like
it, stopping here just now."
Lawrence's eyes flashed, but he restrained his anger with an effort. He
had never seen quite such a stupid creature in his life.
"I have made no mistake in the house," he retorted abruptly. "Kindly
ask your mistress to see me for a moment."
"She ain't in." The girl's tone was plainly triumphant. Evidently she
sensed the irritation in Barry's voice, and was glad of a chance to
retaliate.
For an instant Lawrence was stumped. It was intolerable that he should
be cheated out of something he had been looking forward to all day by
the stupidity of a saucy maid. Whether it was anything more than
stupidity he did not know, but he was determined not to give in yet.
"Then take my card to Miss Sally, the young lady who has your top floor
front," he said tersely, slipping one hand into his pocket, and drawing
forth a cardcase.
The maid hesitated, frowning. For an instant it seemed as if she meant
to close the door in his face, and Barry was all ready to thrust a foot
into the crack. Then something in his determined expression must have
decided her, for she grudgingly stood aside for him to enter.
Taking out a gold pencil, Lawrence hastily scrawled a few words on his
card, and handed it to her in silence.
The girl took it and glanced insolently at the hatrack. Finding that
there was nothing there or anywhere else in the hall of an easily
portable nature, she tossed her head and flounced to the stairs.
It seemed an eternity to the impatient Lawrence before a door closed
hastily above, and he heard the sound of light footsteps hurrying down
from the top floor. Presently a girl came in sight on the stairs, a
rather nice-looking girl, with trim black hair and fresh coloring. As
she saw Barry, she slackened her pace, and made the last few steps very
slowly, indeed, pausing at the foot with one hand still resting on the
balustrade.
"I'm very sorry, indeed, to have troubled you," Lawrence said, with a
pleasant smile, "but I came to see Miss Rives, and the girl insists she
isn't here."
The blank stare of amazement she gave him struck Barry with a chill
sense of foreboding.
"Miss Rives!" the girl repeated slowly. "You can't be talking about
Shirley Rives?"
"That's just who I mean. She came here last night. She had--er--left
her boarding place rather suddenly, and when I--met her downtown she was
on her way to see you."
For a second the girl looked keenly into his eyes, without speaking.
Then she gave her head an odd shake.
"You don't look like a person who is joking," she said quietly, "so I
s'pose you've made a mistake some way. I haven't seen Shirley Rives in
two months, and more."
Barry's jaw dropped, and some of the ruddy glow left his cheeks. The
thing was impossible. He had left Shirley on this very doorstep not
twenty-four hours before--had even seen her enter the house on her way
to this friend's room. And now they had the audacity to tell him that
she had never been here. There was something queer about the whole
matter, and he meant to find out what it was before he left the place.
"I haven't made a mistake," he said sternly. "I brought Miss Rives to
this door myself a little before eleven last night. She looked up at
your window, and when she saw it lighted she said it was all right; that
Sally must still be here, because she used to read till all hours. She
rang the bell, and I waited till the door opened and she went inside.
And now you want me to believe that you never----"
He broke off abruptly, startled at the look on the girl's face. She had
grown pale, and her eyes were dilated until they looked like holes
burned in a white sheet. Her hands--slender, well-kept hands they
were--were clenched tightly, and as Barry stopped she flung them up with
an odd, eloquent gesture.
"It's the truth!" she gasped, in a frightened voice. "I haven't seen
her--I swear it!" Her lips were trembling, and she caught them swiftly
between her teeth. "Something's happened to her--it must have! Was she
down in her luck? Had she lost her job?"
Barry nodded miserably. He was dazed--bewildered. But overtopping every
other sensation was cold, deadly fear; fear for another one cares for,
which is infinitely more gripping and powerful than an emotion involving
self alone.
"Yes," he stammered. "She'd lost her job. She'd been turned out of her
room--turned into the street last night. Do you know what that might
have meant if I hadn't found her?"
The swift, horrified intake of her breath told him that she knew only
too well. For a second she stood absolutely still, her mouth working.
Then suddenly she put up both hands swiftly to her face, and began to
sob. Almost as swiftly, she snatched them away again, and stared at him
out of eyes filled with tears.
"What's come to her?" she demanded fiercely. "Why'd she leave this house
without seeing me? What made her go, and where's she gone? Tell me
that! She didn't vanish into air, did she? Where's she gone,
and--where--is she--now?"
Lawrence did not answer her. For some seconds that same question had
been pounding through his brain with the dull, rhythmical iteration of a
hammer on an anvil.
Where was she now?
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*ANOTHER WOMAN.*
As Barry departed a little later he was conscious of a maddening
sensation of helplessness. There seemed no question in his mind that
Shirley Rives had left the house of her own accord. The fact that she
had made not the slightest attempt to see her friend, Sally Barton,
proved that conclusively. It was possible, of course, that the head of
the establishment, a Mrs. Weston, could throw some light upon the
mystery; but she had gone over to Long Island, and was not expected back
until the following morning.
Barry's first impulse had been to go at once to the station house, make
inquiries there, and possibly send out a general alarm; but he realized
almost at once that such a step would be unwise. Miss Rives had given
him no right to interfere in her affairs. She was a perfectly free
agent to come and go as she liked, and where she chose; but the fact
that she had disappeared in this utterly inexplicable manner drove
Lawrence distracted.
Wild thoughts of suicide, under the burden of her troubles, flashed
through his mind. Girls, even of her high mental caliber, had been
driven to such desperate acts. Mrs. Weston's reception of her might
have been the last straw to an already staggering load, and driven her
impulsively forth into the street again. Worse yet, it might not have
been Mrs. Weston at all who opened the door. There was quite as good a
chance of its being some lodger on his way out. And Sally Barton's
estimate of some of the lodgers was far from reassuring.
The maid had been summoned again, and interrogated sharply by the girl,
but to no purpose. She had gone to bed about half past nine, leaving
her mistress making up accounts in the back room. She knew nothing
further, had heard nothing out of the way; and in the morning there had
not been the slightest sign of any stranger having been in the house.
And there Lawrence was obliged to leave the matter. Think as he would,
he could hit upon nothing else he might do. The stenographer promised
to telephone him the instant she learned anything from Mrs. Weston; but
Barry had already determined to call at the house directly after
breakfast next morning. How he was going to remain in suspense for even
that length of time he did not understand.
It was barely nine as he left the house, and for a moment or two he
hesitated on the curb, wondering where he should go. Then a whimsical,
absurd notion came to him, and, having ordered the chauffeur to drive to
the northwest corner of Madison Square, he stepped into the taxi.
There was not the slightest hope in his mind of thus finding any clew.
The vagaries of chance were strange and improbable enough, to be sure,
but they could scarcely be expected to bring about such an utterly wild
coincidence as that. He simply had a feeling that he wanted to return
to that spot where he had first met her, and anything in the way of
action was better than moping alone in his rooms.
As the car jerked forward and sped across town, Barry paid little
attention to the second taxi, except to notice that it was following
about half a block behind. At the corner of the square he got out, told
the chauffeur to wait, and walked slowly down the winding walk.
As before, the place was deserted. The great, glittering tower still
loomed high above the branches of the gaunt trees. The fountain had
that same look of dreariness and desolation. The cold was as bitter;
but the wind had died away, and everything was still.
As he rounded the ice-rimmed basin, Barry's heart leaped into his
throat. Entering the square, just as she had entered it last night, was
a slight, slim figure, who came toward him hurriedly, yet with that same
odd sense of hesitation in her movements. As they approached each
other, Lawrence's heart was thudding so loudly that he fancied he could
hear the beats. It was impossible--utterly impossible; and yet he
hoped.
She came on hurriedly, and his pace slackened the barest trifle as he
tried to penetrate the shadow beneath the black hat brim. Then he saw
that it was not Shirley Rives. It was a girl, pinched and worn with
fatigue and hunger.
Half a dozen steps he took blindly, fairly sick with disappointment,
before he stopped abruptly and turned around. The girl was hurrying on;
she had almost reached the fountain.
"Stop!" Barry cried impulsively. "Wait a minute."
Instinctively she obeyed, twisting her head backward to watch his
coming; and the thin, white wedge of face, ghastly in the pitiless
electric light streaming down upon it, smote Lawrence with a new pang.
By the time he reached her he held a thin leather case with gold corners
in his hand.
"Here!" he said harshly, yet with a certain throbbing undercurrent of
pity in his voice. "Take this and get something to eat. Do you
understand?"
She stared at the bill he held out, then her fingers closed over it
convulsively.
"Thanks," she said hoarsely. She stood for a second or two, gazing into
his face. Then she shivered. "Thanks," she repeated, and this time it
seemed as if a whole world of despair and misery was in that little
word.
Barry made no answer. There was nothing more to say, and he knew it.
Still he lingered for a second before he uttered a brief good night, and
turned toward his waiting taxi.
It was the old, old tragedy, but somehow the strange coincidence of time
and place filled Lawrence with an awful, unreasoning dread, and made his
ride back to the hotel a torture.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*BEYOND BELIEF.*
At first Barry was tempted to phone Hamersley, and tell him he could not
come to the dance. He had never felt less like such a thing in his life,
but, as he slowly approached the instrument, trying to think up a
plausible excuse, he realized that anything would be better in his
present state of mind than sitting alone in his room.
So he ordered a taxi to be ready for him at ten. When that time came he
descended, and was driven to the Hamersley house, just off upper Fifth
Avenue. He saw that the other car was still trailing him persistently,
but somehow he did not care. That seemed no longer a very important
matter.
There was a considerable delay in getting started, for Jock's mother and
sister were going along, and, as the big chap expressed it: "To be ready
in time for a dance, a woman ought to start dressing when she gets up in
the morning."
They came down at length, however, and, after a little conversation, all
four got into the limousine, which had been waiting nearly an hour, and
were soon bowling down Fifth Avenue.
It was after eleven when they entered the great ballroom at Sherry's,
and the dance was apparently in full swing. The glittering lights, the
flowers, the wonderful, intoxicating music, the gleam of jewels and
bright eyes, could not but arouse Barry from his abstraction and make
him glad that he had come.
Large as the room was, it seemed crowded with dancers, while about the
walls and in the anterooms sat patronesses, chaperons, and other
non-participants, watching the brilliant scene, chatting among
themselves, or here and there indulging in a rubber of the inevitable
bridge.
"It's very mixed, of course," Miss Hamersley was saying, as they glided
over the perfect floor. "That's always the way with a big affair like
this. If there's any one you want to meet just make Jock introduce you.
He knows everybody. Yes, surely, Peter. Thanks, very much, Mr.
Lawrence."
Before the latter could collect his wits, she was whirled away on the
arm of the young fellow who had cut in; and Barry backed up against the
wall, diverted by the kaleidoscopic scene, his eyes roving about the
room in search of possible acquaintances.
For a time he saw no one he knew. There were plenty of charming faces,
beauties of every type, and not a few of whom glanced curiously in his
direction. There were many girls whom he would have liked immensely to
meet twenty-four hours before; but, somehow, now that he had seen
Shirley Rives, he ceased to be enthusiastic over others.
The thought of her, leaping back into his mind after a brief
distraction, brought a faint pucker into Barry's forehead. Presently,
still thoughtful, he moved slowly from his place, drifting toward the
end of the room where the line of ladies stood to receive the belated
guests who still dribbled in at intervals.
Presently his eyes fell upon a group at some distance from him, and he
gave a great start. The group consisted of a girl surrounded by five or
six men. Her back was squarely toward Lawrence, but there was something
about her slim, graceful figure, tiny but exquisitely proportioned, and
the tilt of her head, with its wonderful crown of coppery hair, which
was so like Shirley Rives that it almost hurt.
She wore a close-fitting gown of shimmering golden tissue, in which
sequins gleamed and winked with every movement. A gorgeous string of
pearls was wound twice about her neck. On her arms were several costly
bracelets.
Apparently she had only just arrived. It would seem, also, that she was
having some difficulty in choosing a partner from the number of men
hovering about her. Barry, watching her with unconscious curiosity,
could see her laugh and shake her head several times. Once, when a
youth stepped forward with lifted arms, as if the matter were settled,
she slipped away from him, holding up the big spray of orchids she
carried with a gesture of admonition.
At length, with a sudden display of dignity, she lifted her head, and
nodded to a tall, handsome fellow who stood, apparently unmoved, on the
outer edge of the circle.
As he came swiftly forward, the others fell back with shrugs and
disappointed looks. The girl caught up her skirts, and placed one tiny
hand upon her partner's shoulder; and Lawrence, who had been watching
the little comedy with more interest than he realized, decided that in a
moment she would turn, and he would see her face.
An instant later she did turn--full upon him; and Barry's heart almost
ceased to beat. In that brief second, before she was whirled away into
the crowd, he saw the wonderful brown eyes, the tender, shapely mouth,
the graceful curve of cheek and chin which had so fascinated him the
night before, and which had scarcely left his mind for a moment since.
The girl was Shirley Rives!
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
*CHAOS.*
Never in all his life had Barry Lawrence been so staggered. For a
moment or two he refused to believe the evidence of his senses. The age
of miracles was passed, and it was nothing less than a miracle to see
this girl, who had been penniless, friendless, desperate the night
before, now clad in silks, glittering with jewels, and apparently
absolutely at home amid these luxurious surroundings.
It was more than absurd; it was utterly impossible. He had been
deceived by some chance resemblance, coupled with the fact that her face
remained so vividly and constantly in his mind, into fancying for a
second that this stranger was Shirley Rives.
Recovering his composure with an effort, Barry moved swiftly along the
wall until he reached a nook banked with palms and ferns. Slipping
through them, he let the trailing green curtain fall into place behind
him. Then he waited, his eyes, fixed upon the gliding throng, for the
girl to reappear. He meant to satisfy himself that he had made no
mistake.
Subtle, seductive, almost intoxicating in its rhythmic sweetness, the
wonderful waltz music, while it fell upon unheeding ears, seemed,
nevertheless, to stir his being with vague unrest. Couples flashed
swiftly by his corner or glided past more slowly. Some were the epitome
of graceful motion; others romped about the hall in modifications of the
uncouth turkey trot and other dances of the same sort which had, of
late, been attracting so much unfavorable comment. There were tall
girls and short, beautiful and plain; but Barry's eyes passed over their
faces with the utmost indifference. Not one of them was the girl he
sought.
Suddenly his heart began to thud, and his figure stiffened as he bent
forward and parted the leaves a little more. She was coming toward him
down the polished floor, moving with that inimitable grace which seems
born in most Southern girls.
There was a gleam of jewels on her corsage and in her hair. The diamond
buckles on her absurdly tiny satin slippers winked and sparkled as her
feet kept perfect time with the music. The swish of her gown sounded
clearly to the strained senses of the man behind the palms.
Just as the couple glided so close that he could almost have touched
them, the girl looked up into her partner's face, and laughed, a low,
soft, bewitching laugh, which sent the blood boiling into Barry's face,
and brought his teeth together on his under lip.