"Now that's mean of you," I said; "I never had but one. It was all I
needed."
It flashed through me then what a thing like this might do to a name.
You know, Mag, every bit of recognition an actress steals from the
world is so much capital. It isn't like the old graft when you had to
begin new every time you took up a piece of work. And your name--the
name the world knows--and its knowing it makes it worth having like
everything--that name is the sum of every scheme you've planned, of
every time you've got away with the goods, of every laugh you've
lifted, of every bit of cleverness you've thought out and embodied, of
everything that's in you, of everything you are.
But I didn't dare think long of this. I turned to him.
"Tell me about this charge," I said. "Where was the purse? Whose was
it? And why haven't they missed it till after a week?"
"They missed it all right that night, but Mrs. Gates wanted it kept
quiet till the servants had been shadowed and it was positively proved
that they hadn't got away with it."
"And then she thought of me?"
"And then she thought of you."
"I wonder why?"
"Because you were the only person in that room except Mrs. Gates, the
lady who lost the purse, Mrs. Ramsay, and--eh?" "N--nothing. Mrs.
Ramsay, you said?"
"Yes."
"Not Mrs. Edward Ramsay, of Philadelphia?"
"Oh, you know the name?"
"Oh, yes, I know it."
"It was printed, you know, in gold lettering on the inside flap and--"
"I don't know."
"Well, it was, and it contained three hundred dollars, Mrs. Ramsay
says. She had slipped it under the fold of the spread at the top of
the bed in the room where you took off your things in Mrs. Gates'
presence, and put them on again when no one else was there."
"And you mean to tell me that this is all?" I raged at him; "that every
bit of evidence you have to warrant your treating an innocent girl
like--"
"You didn't behave like a very innocent girl, if you'll remember," he
said dryly, "when I first came into the box. In fact, if that fellow
hadn't just come in then I believe you'd 'a' confessed the whole
job.... 'Tain't too late," he added.
I didn't answer. I put my head back against the cushions and closed my
eyes. I could feel the scrutiny of his blue eyes on my naked
face--your face is so unprotected with the eyes closed; like a fort
whose battery is withdrawn. But I was tired--it tires you when you
care. A year ago, Mag, this sort of thing--the risk, the nearness to
danger, the chances one way or the other--would have intoxicated me. I
used to feel as though I was dancing on a volcano and daring it to
explode. The more twistings and turnings there were to the labyrinth,
the greater glory it was to get out. Maggie darlin', you have before
you a mournful spectacle--the degeneration of Nancy Olden. It isn't
that she's lost courage. It's only that she used to be able to think of
only one thing, and now--What do you suppose it is, Mag? If you know,
don't you dare to tell me.
When we got to the flat Obermuller was already there. At the door I
pulled out my key and opened it with a flourish.
"Won't you come in, gentlemen, and spend the evening?" I asked.
They followed me in. First to the parlor. The two fellows threw off
their coats and searched that through and through--not a drawer did
they miss, not a bit of furniture did they fail to move. Obermuller
and I sat there guying them as they pried about in their shirt-sleeves.
That Trust business has taken the life out of him of late. All their
tricks, all their squeezings, their cheatings, their bossing and
bragging and bullying have got on to his nerves till he looks like a
chained bear getting a drubbing. And he swears that they're in a
conspiracy to freeze him and a few others like him out; he believes
there's actually a paper in existence that would prove it. But this
affair of the purse seemed to excite him till he behaved like a bad
school-boy.
And I? Well, Nance Olden was never far behind at the Cruelty when
there was anything going on. We trailed after them, and when they'd
finished with the bedrooms--yours and mine--I asked the big fellow to
come into the kitchen with Mr. O. and me, while the blue-eyed
detective tackled the dining-room, and I'd get up a lunch for us all.
Mag, you should have seen Fred Obermuller with a big apron on him,
dressing the salad while I was making sandwiches. The Cruelty taught
me how to cook, even if it did teach me other things. You wouldn't
have believed that the Trust had got him by the throat, and was choking
the last breath out of him. You wouldn't have believed that our
salaries hadn't been paid for three weeks, that our houses were
dwindling every night, that--
I was thinking about it all there in the back of my head, trying to see
a way out of it--you know if there is such an agreement as Obermuller
swears there is, it's against the law--while we rattled on, the two of
us, like a couple of children on a picnic, when I heard a crash behind
me.
The salad bowl had slipped from Obermuller's fingers. He stood with
his back turned to me, his eyes fixed upon that searching detective.
But he wasn't searching any more, Mag. He was standing still as a
pointer that's scented game. He had moved the lounge out from the
wall, and there on the floor, spread open where it had fallen, lay a
handsome elephant-skin purse, with gold corners. From where I stood,
Mag, I could read the plain gold lettering on the dark leather. I
didn't have to move. It was plain enough--quite plain.