NEMESIS
On the afternoon of the day following these events Amy and Greg
alighted from the flivver at the door of the Stickney Arms. Their pale
composed faces masked a great inner excitement for they knew that
Francisco de Socotra was at home. It had been Amy's idea thus boldly
to beard him in his lair. Ever since she had got up that morning the
direction of affairs had been in her hands. Greg looked at the little
creature with a new wonder and respect.
The hall-boy Frank received them with a broad grin not unmixed with
slyness. The new clothes that Bessie had got Amy made her look like a
bride perhaps. Clearly Frank's explanation of this visit was that they
were returning, married, for the parental blessing. Therefore he
looked both disappointed and puzzled when they sent up their names:
Miss Wilmot and Mr. Parr. Word was quickly returned that they were to
be shown up.
A new maid opened the door to them, to whom they meant nothing. They
were ushered into the handsome living-room of the apartment where Señor
and Señora de Socotra were both waiting. Amy was quickly received into
the other woman's arms who patted her and wept and babbled
incoherently. De Socotra, whatever his feelings were, received them
with a happy parental smile that was perfection. His welcome included
Greg. Not by the slightest sign did he betray any consciousness of the
events of the night before.
Greg thought grimly: "He feels that he can afford to smile since the
body of his victim is reduced to ashes, and the damning evidence of the
little black book destroyed too. Wait a bit, old fellow!"
While Amy and Señora de Socotra murmured together, Señor Francisco made
bland remarks on the weather, his wicked eye twinkling at Greg as if to
invite him to enjoy the situation. He offered Greg one of the
incomparable cigars. Greg, reflecting that all this was for the
benefit of the gentle, kindly little lady who had harmed no one, took
it.
"Last night I pointed a gun at him and to-day he comes back with a
cigar," he thought. "Life's a funny affair!"
Amy said to Greg deprecatingly: "I am lying to her, poor dear! I am
telling her that I was so much better to-day that they allowed me to
come out for a little while in your care."
"Admirable!" murmured de Socotra.
Señora de Socotra shyly nodded and smiled at Greg, and said something
to Amy that was evidently intended to be repeated to him. There was a
charming, child-like quality in the little lady that was wholly
irresistible.
Amy said: "She asks your pardon that she cannot speak your language.
She wishes me to thank you for taking such good care of me."
"She thinks you're one of the keepers," chuckled de Socotra.
Through Amy Greg made his best compliments to Señora de Socotra.
Amy soon rose to go. Her adoptive mother clung to her piteously and
would not let her go until Amy promised to return the next day,
"perhaps to stay." De Socotra accompanied them into the hall,
expecting no doubt to learn there the real object of this call. Nor
was he disappointed.
"Francisco," said Amy coldly, "it is necessary that Mr. Parr and I
discuss with you what is to be done."
"Come into my room," said de Socotra.
"No, we cannot talk here while mamma knows we are still in the house.
We want you to come to us in Gibbon Street."
De Socotra elevated his fine eyebrows. "That _would_ be thrusting my
head into the lion's mouth!" he said humorously.
"Are you afraid?" taunted Amy.
"My dear, the bravest man has to exercise ordinary prudence or the days
of his bravery would be few!"
"Mr. Parr saved your life twice last night."
"Another time he might not be so fortunate."
"Francisco, I pledge you my word that no harm will come to you while
you are there, and that you will be allowed to go as freely as you
come."
De Socotra looked at Greg.
"I add my word to Miss Wilmot's," said Greg stiffly. "Moreover there
is no objection to your bringing any friend or friends with you, as
many as you like."
"But if I still feel obliged to decline this charming invitation?" said
de Socotra mockingly.
"You will not decline it," said Amy.
"Why will I not?"
"Because in that case I will be obliged to tell mamma the whole truth
about what has happened. I am taking all this trouble for the sake of
sparing her. If you will not help me in that, then affairs must take
their course regardless."
"What affairs?" asked de Socotra with a great parade of innocence.
"What is the use of making pretenses among us three? We know, and you
know that we know."
"But no one else knows," was the smiling reply. "And there is no proof
in existence."
"You don't know what proof we have. Come to Mrs. Bickle's house and we
will lay our case before you. You can then decide whether or not you
care to accept the conditions that we lay down."
De Socotra hesitated. Bravado and simple curiosity struggled with the
man's sense of prudence. Above all he was a gamester.
"When do you want me to come?"
"It is four now. We will expect you between five and six."
"Very well, I'll be there."
Upon the stroke of half-past five de Socotra drove up to Bessie
Bickle's in a taxi-cab. He bade the man wait. Amy and Greg met him at
the front door. He came alone.
"You are a bold man, Francisco," said Amy.
Amy had changed to a black dress which set off the unrelieved pallor of
her skin like alabaster. The little creature now had a consecrated air
like a priestess that added inches to her stature. Greg, who was
wretchedly ill at ease, regarded her with a kind of awe. She was the
leader now. A strange hush brooded over the little house. The
shutters of the store were up.
Amy led the way up-stairs. De Socotra, notwithstanding his pretended
assurance, was impressed by the change in her dress and manner. All
the way up he talked lightly to conceal his uneasiness.
"What an odd retreat you have chosen! I thought we should never get
here. My chauffeur had never heard of Gibbon Street, nor any one else
for that matter. What shocking streets we came through. Picturesque
though, if one cares for that sort of thing."
No one paid the slightest attention to this babble. At the head of the
stairs Amy opened the door of Bessie's bedroom and passed in. De
Socotra was still talking as he followed her. Greg was behind him.
"Houston Street reminded me of Rome, Rome in Juvenal's day with its----"
The sentence was caught up on a gasp. It was never completed.
Bessie's room had been transformed into a little mortuary chapel.
Everything in it had been removed and the walls hung from ceiling to
floor in grim black draperies. The effect was startling in the
extreme; it had been designed to startle. In the center of the room,
the sole object it contained, rested a plain black coffin on a severely
draped bier. Six tall candles stood about the head lighting the face
of the corpse strangely. It was the face of de Silva--peaceful, waxen,
and faintly yellow.
Greg fascinated watched de Socotra. Amy disdained to look at him. Her
gaze was bent like Nemesis on the poor clay. De Silva's face showed a
dignity it had never known in life. One saw the man he might have
been. Stilled now was the wild spirit that had been touched too late
by kindness.
De Socotra's bronzed face turned gray, and a network of tiny dark veins
showed under his skin. One realized the man's age. He breathed like
something hurt. But he kept his back straight and his gaze never
faltered from the dead man's face.
"Where did you--where did you--" he began twice, but did not finish.
Amy without speaking pointed to a note pinned on de Silva's breast. De
Socotra, seeing that he was expected to read it, came forward. His
nostrils twitched, a pained look showed deep in his eyes; one guessed
that it afflicted him with nausea to approach the body of his hired
assassin, but his iron will was not yet broken. He stooped, and in the
light of the candles began to read with a sneer. It was the note de
Silva had left for Greg.
As he realized what it implied, de Socotra sharply straightened, and
for an instant looked wildly around like a trapped creature. But he
quickly controlled himself. He turned his back on the coffin.
"So this is your proof," he said, and God knows what effort it cost him
to bring it out so nonchalantly; "but he's dead, too!"
"Follow me," said Amy.
She opened the door that communicated with Bessie's parlor. An
overpowering breath of sweetness was wafted forth. She passed in. De
Socotra followed to the door, walking steadily, but with a gait
somewhat stiffer than his wont. At the door he put out a hand to
steady himself. His eyes looked wildly around the next room, and he
drew back a little as if his flesh refused to be subjected to a further
horror.
This room, too, was a resting-place of the dead, but with a difference.
Great, many-branched candlesticks stood around this rich bier flooding
the room with a pale gold light. Roses pink and white and red were
everywhere; sheaves of roses heaped on the coffin and strewn on the
pall.
Amy's expression was very different as she stood beside this bier. She
was still a marble woman, but it was a marble head of grief. Her hands
involuntarily went to her breast. She gazed down, oblivious alike to
de Socotra and to Greg. Greg looked at her and experienced the meaning
of adoration.
De Socotra's horror-stricken eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Anon they
darted frantically from side to side like rats threatened by fire. In
the end he had to look. His eyes were dragged in agony to the dead
man's face. A groan was forced from the bottom of his breast. At that
moment the debonair scoundrel's spirit broke. His head fell forward,
his limp arms dropped to his sides.
He saw the face of Antonio Bareda beautiful in death. The lips seemed
to be on the point of breaking into the old friendly smile; there was a
slight lift to the eye-brows that suggested light and humor lurking
behind the lowered lids. The wrinkles of age were all smoothed out.
The happy warrior slept the long sleep.
"Come closer," said Amy remorselessly.
The broken man had no thought but to obey. He approached the coffin's
foot on sinking knees. The change in his face was shocking. He saw
that the dead man held clasped in his hands the little black book in
which was bound up "the happiness of a whole people," but de Socotra
regarded that indifferently now.
He whispered hoarsely: "It is enough. I understand you." Turning, he
made his way towards the hall door like a man struggling against a
crushing power, like a swimmer at the last gasp.
"Wait!" said Amy.
Reaching him, she held out the little shagreen case. "Something of
yours that I wish to return to you," she said with dreadful meaning.
Greg shuddered. De Socotra dropped the case in his pocket.
At the foot of the stairs he paused again. Without looking at Amy he
murmured: "Will you come back--and stay with mamma?"
"If I do not find Bianca there."
"I shall send her away at once."
"Very well. I shall be there to-night."
When the door closed behind him Greg burst out: "You cannot go! It is
too horrible!"
"It must be gone through with," she murmured.
Early next morning Greg, who had paced his room the night through,
received the expected summons. Francisco de Socotra had been found
dead in his bed. Heart-failure, the doctor said. How should he have
noticed the tiny needle prick on the man's throat? The needle itself
had been destroyed before he came.
Señora de Socotra was a piteous figure. Later in the day she insisted
on seeing Greg to thank him for his kindness at so dreadful a moment in
a strange land. Overwhelming as was her grief there was no bitterness
in it. She spoke of it as simply as a child. Amy with the tears
running down her cheeks translated for Greg.
"If you could have known him as I knew him! So good a man, so kind and
true! Like a knight of olden times; my knight! I could not live
without him, did I not feel that he had left me a work to do. He has
left a great fortune, they tell me. Every penny of it shall I devote
to good works in his memory! If I cannot be happy I can at least find
peace in building a worthy memorial to his dear name."
When they left her Amy said: "You understand now why I acted as I did?"
"I understand," Greg said.