_Mark Makes a Move_
Passing hurriedly out of the cloakroom, a little later, Ruth met
Simonds, the lieutenant of Frederic Fernand, in the passage. He was a
ratfaced little man, with a furtive smile. Not an unpleasant smile, but
it was continually coming and going, as if he wished earnestly to win
the favor of the men before him, but greatly doubted his ability to do
so. Ruth Tolliver, knowing his genius for the cards, knowing his cold
and unscrupulous soul, detested him heartily.
When she saw his eyes flicker up and down the hall she hesitated.
Obviously he wished to speak with her, and obviously he did not wish to
be seen in the act. As she paused he stepped to her, his face suddenly
set with determination.
"Watch John Mark," he whispered. "Don't trust him. He suspects
everything!"
"What? Everything about what?" she asked.
Simonds gazed at her for a moment with a singular expression. There were
conjoined cynicism, admiration, doubt, and fear in his glance. But,
instead of speaking again, he bowed and slipped away into the open hall.
She heard him call, and she heard Fernand's oily voice make answer. And
at that she shivered.
What had Simonds guessed? How, under heaven, did he know where she had
gone when she left the gaming house? Or did he know? Had he not merely
guessed? Perhaps he had been set on by Fernand or Mark to entangle and
confuse her?
There remained, out of all this confusion of guesswork, a grim feeling
that Simonds did indeed know, and that, for the first time in his life,
perhaps, he was doing an unbought, a purely generous thing.
She remembered, now, how often Simonds had followed her with his eyes,
how often his face had lighted when she spoke even casually to him. Yes,
there might be a reason for Simonds' generosity. But that implied that
he knew fairly well what John Mark himself half guessed. The thought
that she was under the suspicion of Mark himself was terrible to her.
She drew a long breath and advanced courageously into the gaming rooms.
The first thing she saw was Fernand hurrying a late comer toward the
tables, laughing and chatting as he went. She shuddered at the sight of
him. It was strange that he, who had, a moment before, in the very
cellar of that house, been working to bring about the death of two men,
should now be immaculate, self-possessed.
A step farther and she saw John Mark sitting at a console table, with
his back to the room and a cup of tea before him. That was, in fact, his
favorite drink at all hours of the day or night. To see Fernand was bad
enough, but to see the master mind of all the evil that passed around
her was too much. The girl inwardly thanked Heaven that his back was
turned and started to pass him as softly as possible.
"Just a minute, Ruth," he called, as she was almost at the door of the
room.
For a moment there was a frantic impulse in her to bolt like a foolish
child afraid of the dark. In the next apartment were light and warmth
and eager faces and smiles and laughter, and here, behind her, was the
very spirit of darkness calling her back. After an imperceptible
hesitation she turned.
Mark had not turned in his chair, but it was easy to discover how he had
known of her passing. A small oval mirror, fixed against the wall before
him, had shown her image. How much had it betrayed, she wondered, of her
guiltily stealthy pace? She went to him and found that he was leisurely
and openly examining her in the glass, as she approached, his chin
resting on one hand, his thin face perfectly calm, his eyes hazy with
content. It was a habit of his to regard her like a picture, but she had
never become used to it; she was always disconcerted by it, as she was
at this moment.
He rose, of course, when she was beside him, and asked her to sit down.
"But I've hardly touched a card," she said. "This isn't very
professional, you know, wasting a whole evening."
She was astonished to see him flush to the roots of his hair. His voice
shook. "Sit down, please."
She obeyed, positively inert with surprise.
"Do you think I keep you at this detestable business because I want the
money?" he asked. "Dear Heaven! Ruth, is that what you think of me?"
Fortunately, before she could answer, he went on: "No, no, no! I have
wanted to make you a free and independent being, my dear, and that is
why I have put you through the most dangerous and exacting school in the
world. You understand?"
"I think I do," she replied falteringly.
"But not entirely. Let me pour you some tea? No?"
He sighed, as he blew forth the smoke of a cigarette. "But you don't
understand entirely," he continued, "and you must. Go back to the old
days, when you knew nothing of the world but me. Can you remember?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Then you certainly recall a time when, if I had simply given
directions, you would have been mine, Ruth. I could have married you the
moment you became a woman. Is that true?" "Yes," she whispered, "that is
perfectly true." The coldness that passed over her taught her for the
first time how truly she dreaded that marriage which had been postponed,
but which inevitably hung over her head.
"But I didn't want such a wife," continued John Mark. "You would have
been an undeveloped child, really; you would never have grown up. No
matter what they say, something about a woman is cut off at the root
when she marries. Certainly, if she had not been free before, she is a
slave if she marries a man with a strong will. And I have a strong will,
Ruth--very strong!"
"Very strong, John," she whispered again. He smiled faintly, as if there
were less of what he wanted in that second use of the name. He went on:
"So you see, I faced a problem. I must and would marry you. There was
never any other woman born who was meant for me. So much so good. But,
if I married you before you were wise enough to know me, you would have
become a slave, shrinking from me, yielding to me, incapable of loving
me. No, I wanted a free and independent creature as my wife; I wanted a
partnership, you see. Put you into the world, then, and let you see men
and women? No, I could not do that in the ordinary way. I have had to
show you the hard and bad side of life, because I am, in many ways, a
hard and bad man myself!"
He said it, almost literally, through his teeth. His face was fierce,
defying her--his eyes were wistful, entreating her not to agree with
him. Such a sudden rush of pity for the man swept over her that she put
out her hand and pressed his. He looked down at her hand for a moment,
and she felt his fingers trembling under that gentle pressure.
"I understand more now," she said slowly, "than I have ever understood
before. But I'll never understand entirely."
"A thing that's understood entirely is despised," he said, with a
careless sweep of his hand. "A thing that is understood is not feared. I
wish to be feared, not to make people cower, but to make them know when
I come, and when I go. Even love is nothing without a seasoning of fear.
For instance"--he flushed as the torrent of his speech swept him into a
committal of himself--"I am afraid of you, dear girl. Do you know what I
have done with the money you've won?"
"Tell me," she said curiously, and, at the same time, she glanced in
wonder, as a servant passed softly across the little room. Was it not
stranger than words could tell that such a man as John Mark should be
sitting in this almost public place and pouring his soul out into the
ear of a girl?
"I shall tell you," said Mark, his voice softening. "I have contributed
half of it to charity."
Her lips, compressed with doubt, parted in wonder. "Charity!" she
exclaimed.
"And the other half," he went on, "I deposited in a bank to the credit
of a fictitious personality. That fictitious personality is, in flesh
and blood, Ruth Tolliver with a new name. You understand? I have only to
hand you the bank book with the list of deposits, and you can step out
of this Tolliver personality and appear in a new part of the world as
another being. Do you see what it means? If, at the last, you find you
cannot marry me, my dear, you are provided for. Not out of my charity,
which would be bitter to you, but out of your own earnings. And, lest
you should be horrified at the thought of living on your earnings at the
gaming table, I have thrown bread on the waters, dear Ruth. For every
dollar you have in the bank you have given another to charity, and both,
I hope, have borne interest for you!"
His smile faded a little, as she murmured, with her glance going past
him: "Then I am free? Free, John?"
"Whenever you wish!"
"Not that I ever shall wish, but to know that I am not chained, that is
the wonderful thing." She looked directly at him again: "I never dreamed
there was so much fineness in you, John Mark, I never dreamed it, but I
should have!"
"Now I have been winning Caroline to the game," he went on, "and she is
beginning to love it. In another year, or six months, trust me to have
completely filled her with the fever. But now enters the mischief-maker
in the piece, a stranger, an ignorant outsider. This incredible man
arrives and, in a few days, having miraculously run Caroline to earth,
goes on and brings Caroline face to face with her lover, teaches Jerry
Smith that I am his worst enemy, gets enough money to pay off his debt
to me, and convinces him that I can never use my knowledge of his crime
to jail him, because I don't dare bring the police too close to my own
rather explosive record."
"I saw them both here!" said the girl. She wondered how much he guessed,
and she saw his keen eyes probe her with a glance. But her
ingenuousness, if it did not disarm him, at least dulled the edge of his
suspicions.
"He was here, and the trap was laid here, and he slipped through it. Got
away through a certain room which Fernand would give a million to keep
secret. At any rate the fellow has shown that he is slippery and has a
sting, too. He sent a bullet a fraction of an inch past Fernand's head,
at one point in the little story.
"In short, the price is too high. What I want is to secure Caroline
Smith from the inside. I want you to go to her, to persuade her to go
away with you on a trip. Take her to the Bermudas, or to Havana--any
place you please. The moment the Westerner thinks his lady is running
away from him of her own volition he'll throw up his hands and curse his
luck and go home. They have that sort of pride on the other side of the
Rockies. Will you go back tonight, right now, and persuade Caroline to
go with you?"
She bowed her head under the shock of it. Ronicky Doone had begged her
to send Caroline Smith to meet her lover. Now the counterattack
followed.
"Do you think she'd listen?"
"Yes, tell her that the one thing that will save the head of Bill Gregg
is for her to go away, otherwise I'll wipe the fool off the map. Better
still, tell her that Gregg of his own free will has left New York and
given up the chase. Tell her you want to console her with a trip. She'll
be sad and glad and flattered, all in the same moment, and go along with
you without a word. Will you try, Ruth?"
"I suppose you would have Bill Gregg removed--if he continued a
nuisance?"
"Not a shadow of a doubt. Will you do your best?"
She rose. "Yes," said the girl. Then she managed to smile at him. "Of
course I'll do my best. I'll go back right now."
He took her arm to the door of the room. "Thank Heaven," he said, "that
I have one person in whom I can trust without question--one who needs no
bribing or rewards, but works to please me. Good-by, my dear."
He watched her down the hall and then turned and went through room after
room to the rear of the house. There he rapped on a door in a peculiar
manner. It was opened at once, and Harry Morgan appeared before him.
"A rush job, Harry," he said. "A little shadowing."
Harry jerked his cap lower over his eyes. "Gimme the smell of the trail,
I'm ready," he said.
"Ruth Tolliver has just left the house. Follow her. She'll probably go
home. She'll probably talk with Caroline Smith. Find a way of listening.
If you hear anything that seems wrong to you--anything about Caroline
leaving the house alone, for instance, telephone to me at once. Now go
and work, as you never worked for me before."