XIV

In one of his discourses upon the art of narrative, whether of fiction

or fact, my dear father remarks on the difficulties pertaining to

narration in the first person. "For it invariably happens," he says,

"that some portion of those events to which the narrator is party, or

which directly affects his subsequent actions, will be enacted while he

is absent, but which must nevertheless be described by him in order that

the sequence of the tale be fully comprehended by the reader.

Nevertheless the events so recorded must perforce be obtained at

secondhand, and suffer to a certain degree in their quality of

convincingness by reason of their losing direct contact with the author;

and however credible the witness from whom the facts are obtained, they

must naturally take a certain color from his own personality, and hence

a deplorable lack of continuity occurs, which greatly weakens the

credibility of the tale."

Very interesting, too, and eminently correct, though I confess that the

paragraph, while perfectly familiar to me because of my diligent study

of my dear father's writings, was never so clear to me as when I came

upon a practical application of it in my own experience; a thought which

has very likely occurred to more than one person who has had some sudden

occasion to perceive the fundamental truth of a familiar copy-book

axiom, such as "Honesty is the best policy," if you understand me. But I

digress--or rather, what I mean is this: That while I undertook the

writing of this chronicle in order to refute a false impression which

the newspapers had created regarding the name of Talbot, and also to

retrieve the fair and unsullied name of the Peggs, I find to my dismay

that as I reach the crux of the whole matter, I was not actually present

at some of the most important events with which my narrative has to

deal, and that I must therefore rely on Peaches' account of it. That she

was fairly accurate in her statement I feel reasonably certain; but I

must confess to some chagrin at missing the best part of the story. It

seems to have been my fortune through life to take an active part merely

through inadvertence.

And yet I scarcely perceive how I could very well have been there when

it happened. Two elements intervened to prevent it--an overwhelming

desire for the sleep of which I had been deprived for the best part of

two nights, and the natural desire on Peaches' part that she have

privacy for what she was about to do. Which, of course, did not develop

until after the departure of the police inspector and his henchmen.

In the first place, of course, we were simply dumfounded at finding the

Madonna of the Lamp in her proper place. How it had got there and by

whom it was returned was an overwhelming mystery. No less astonishing

was the question as to where it had been during its absence. I am quite

sure that the policemen felt that a hoax of some kind had been

perpetrated and they were not to blame for experiencing a very

considerable annoyance at being pulled out of bed or out of office or

some such thing and motoring all that long way for nothing. They were

distinctly annoyed. That is, all except the little one without a

uniform, who it later developed was not a detective at all. Indeed at

the time we should have realized that he was altogether too clever for a

detective. He was, in point of fact, a newspaper reporter. And it was

through his efforts that we were subjected to all the mortification of

so much publicity.

Well, at any rate, he was the only person who did not seem to think he

had been disturbed for nothing. On the contrary, he made a number of

notes about the picture, the painter of it, the name and status of every

person present, with a fiendish correctness; no detail of possible

interest to the public eluded him. And no wonder his printed version was

so completely correct, as, under the impression that he was an officer

of the law, I myself supplied the information.

It was almost another hour before the excitement died down, the three

men took their departure, and the servants were packed off to bed.

I regret that it is here necessary to chronicle the fact that Mr.

Markheim had taken rather too many cocktails; but such is the painful

truth. His wealth having made a large cellar possible, he was inclined

to prodigality in this direction, and each of the series of nervous

shocks which he experienced served as an excuse for another drink. And

when the last servant, including Wilkes, had gone upstairs, he was, I

must admit it, quite elevated by the alcoholic stimulants in which he

had indulged upon his own prescription. In rather simpler language, Mr.

Pegg crudely referred to his prospective son-in-law as having "a

considerable snoot full." An unscientific but descriptive statement.

"Well--I am going to hit the old alfalfa!" Pinto announced. "Time for

everybody to turn in!"

"I'm going to sit on this sofa all night!" announced Sebastian with

alcoholic determination. "Can't tell, can't tell, they might come back!"

"Oh, might they!" said Mr. Pegg. "Well, I don't care to see the

beauties. I have an idea that they will let that oil painting alone for

quite a season now. Good night."

"Come, Peaches," I said stiffly, for Sebastian was not a sight to

inspire much liking or approval. "Come on to bed, that's a good girl."

There was a curious gleam in that young woman's golden eyes, however,

and her mouth had a set look about it which I had never seen there

before except upon one occasion; and that was on the ranch when one of

the Japanese foremen was insolent to her. He went away like a whipped

dog, I recall, and afterward proved himself the best man we had. And to

do this with a Jap is an achievement, I assure you. And all she had done

was to speak to him. She was no shrew, but she had a sharp way of

presenting an unpleasant truth. I glanced at the recumbent Markheim in

pity, even before she answered me.

"I have something to say to Mark," she replied quietly. "I will come up

later. Don't wait for me."

Well, what could a chaperon do under these conditions except comply?

Besides, I have not the vitality of extreme youth, and sleep was on the

very verge of overwhelming me. Besides, which, Mr. Pegg exchanged a

glance with me, which reënforced his daughter's request; and so saying

good night to the engaged pair we left them and climbed the stairs in

company. In another hour it would be dawn and the house was very

ghostly. It was immensely comforting to have dear Mr. Pegg accompany me

to my door, though once there he sprang a rather disconcerting

surprise.

"Say--do you know what book that was Peaches came down to get?" he asked

with twinkling eyes as he opened my door for me. "Rather curious reading

for a young girl. I don't want her tastes to get perverted."

"What--what book was it?" I inquired, disturbed.

"You ought to look after what she reads more carefully," said her father

with some severity. "It was Kimball's Commercial Arithmetic. Good-night,

Miss Free!"

And with that he was gone, leaving me to digest his statement as best I

could. However, the significance of the remark was soon obliterated by a

heavy slumber which lasted until I was roused by Peaches, who brought me

an eleven-o'clock breakfast and the astonishing story of what occurred

after I had retired. I will not attempt to tell it in her own language,

for she was incurably given to the use of slang, but will endeavor to

present in their proper sequence the events as they occurred.

As soon as Peaches was left alone with her fiancé the disgust and

repulsion which had been rapidly mounting in her breast all evening

reached its apex in expression. True, Sebastian Markheim was no

different from what he had been right along--a little less attractive,

rather more grotesquely disordered and a little more drunken, perhaps,

but Markheim just the same--slightly accented, that was all. But the

small exaggerations were enough to drive her wild. Coming to light as

they did at a moment when she was at the highest possible tension, when

for forty-eight hours she had been living with the animate ghost of her

old and far deeper love, the spectacle of this disorganized little

millionaire with his ungroomed head, his preposterous purple satin

wrapper, his stupid drunkenness and his ineffective querulousness about

his picture was too much for her. The very thought of marrying him

became more than the mere impossibility which it had been from the

moment when her memories of Sandro had been quickened into new life.

This marriage, now only a few weeks distant, became an actual horror.

She felt unable to face the thought of it another hour. And so, despite

his condition, she set about making a clean break.

"Mark," said she in a low strained voice, towering over him as he sat in

a crumpled heap upon the big sofa before the fire place, "Mark--I am not

going to marry you."

"Eh? What's that, what's that?" said he.

"I said that it's all off!" Peaches affirmed. "I couldn't marry you--not

on a bet. I'm awfully sorry of course. Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you!" he said, getting to his feet and seizing her by the hand.

"Here--sit down a minute--you can't do that, you know--sit down and

let's talk this over!"

She did not want to do so, but his grip upon her arm was strong, and

rather than cross him she complied.

"You don't understand--I'm breaking it off," she said firmly.

"But what have I done?" Sebastian asked. "Come on now--don't be mad at

me! Didn't I pet you enough to-night? Come--give us a kiss and forget

it!"

"I don't want to kiss you!" said Peaches, drawing away from his advance.

"Please, Mark! I'm trying to tell you that I had the wrong dope--I never

loved you enough to marry you, and to-night I got a gleam of light I

can't go through with it."

"Not go through with it!" he replied sullenly. As the fact that she

really meant what she said slowly penetrated to his befuddled brain a

look of anger took the place of the maudlin affection which had been in

his face a moment before. "Not go through with it--but you--you

promised. Why, the wedding invitations go out to-morrow--impossible not

to go through with it!"

"I'm sorry--but you heard me," said she. "I don't love you."

"But I love you!" he burst out. "And as for love--you don't know

anything about it. What can a great big kid like you know about love?

You'll love me when we are married! Stop your nonsense and give us a

kiss!"

He made a lunge at her, which she managed to evade, moving over to the

opposite end of the sofa. But quick as a cat Markheim was after her. He

was just drunk enough to have lost his head, but not drunk enough to be

clumsy. It was at this moment that Peaches began to be afraid of him.

"No, no!" she cried, trying to get away from his pudgy hands. "I tell

you I don't love you--please! Let me alone. Mark, don't make me afraid!"

"Why should you be afraid?" he asked thickly. "You are going to marry

me--do you hear? I've stood your offishness long enough. I've kept away

from you whenever you said. I've been a fool! But you are mine,

understand? Mine! You've promised. Everyone knows it, and by heaven I'll

take you when I see fit. Come here!"

Peaches felt as if she were caught in the meshes of some horrid dream.

With a sudden wrench she broke loose from him, darting round the end of

the sofa. But with an amazing agility Markheim vaulted the back and was

after her, hot in a pursuit made silent by the thickness of the heavy

carpet, their panting breath the only noise in the big room. A single

lamp was the only light, but it was enough to show her his face, purple,

bestial--suggesting a chasm of horror.

Swift as she was she could not escape him. He was at the door behind

her, barring her way, smiling terribly. Then at the French windows as

quickly as she reached them, his hot moist hands upon hers, even as she

seized the knob. Then back across the room again in fierce pursuit. He

seemed to have gone quite mad and become possessed with an uncanny

swiftness and strength. Then Peaches stumbled across a great chair, and

in another instant his arms were about her, his hot breath upon her

face.

"Help!" she cried, struggling to release her hands, which he held behind

her back. "Help! Sebastian--you beast--let me go, let me go!"

And then the whirlwind happened. Some terrific force like a giant cloud

of vengeance tore the satyr from her; and there was Sandro, his face

white and fierce. With a single gesture he had thrown Markheim half

across the room, and stood with squared fists waiting for the assault

which came almost at once.

"You rotter!" sang out the newcomer. "Take your dirty hide out of here!"

With a howl of rage and surprise Markheim picked himself up and came at

his manservant with purple face and popping eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted. "Leave the room!"

"Not until I've given you the thrashing of your life!" replied the

valet. "Come and get your punishment if you won't clear out!"

And Markheim came. With a roar he flew at the man, striking blindly,

wildly, and uttering a volley of language which was in itself a shower

of blows. How long they fought Peaches hardly knows. Crouched against

the mantelshelf as if seeking the protection of the calmly smiling

Virgin above, she watched the two men struggle to a finish. She was

fascinated, terrified, and at the same time fiercely exalted. The end

came abruptly, with Markheim sprawling on the floor, and Sandro slowly

raising himself to a towering figure of contemptuous victory above his

employer.

"Get up!" he said, panting, as he administered a kick to the prostrate

body of the other man. "That will do, I expect. Get up!"

Moaning, Sebastian obeyed, his face streaked with blood from a cut upon

his forehead, his left eye swollen and rapidly turning as purple as the

tattered remains of his dressing gown.

"I'll have the law on you for this!" he warned, fumbling for his

handkerchief.

"Come here!" commanded the servant in a voice of authority.

"Help!" squeaked Markheim. But before he could utter another sound

Wilkes had him by the collar, and was dragging him to where Peaches

still cowered against the wall.

"None of that nonsense!" commanded Sandro. "If you yell I'll have to

give you another drubbing. Now get down on your knees and ask her

pardon!"

For an instant Markheim attempted to disobey. But his captor raised his

hand and as though at a signal Sebastian fell groveling on the floor

before Peaches, bubbling repentance--a loathsomely servile thing from

which she shrank.

"Oh, take him away!" she begged. "I hate him so! Take him away!"

"You hear what she says!" said her rescuer grimly. "Go now! Make haste

or I will throw you out!"

With some difficulty Markheim got upon his feet and made for the door.

"The police!" he said. "I will have the police! Oh, my face--my face!"

He had found his handkerchief now, and staggered out of the room,

holding it to his wound and mumbling imprecations.

Slowly Peaches emerged from her torpor of fright and looked at the man

who an hour earlier had been a servant. He was transformed. His

shoulders were squared, his eyes alive, his face flushed--he was her

boy-lover again. There was no mistake. Now she knew him beyond the

shadow of a doubt. If she had ever really questioned his identity, from

this moment there was no room for questioning left. All the tightening

of her heartstrings, long drawn taut by repression, relaxed. It was as

if her whole being had suddenly been flooded with warm sunlight.

"Sandro!" she said, going toward him with outstretched arms. "Sandro, my

love, my love!"

For one second she saw the unwitting, involuntary response in his eyes.

Then he looked down, that she might not behold it, and drawing himself

up he clicked his heels together and bowed. Though he trembled as he did

so, his voice was controlled.

"Miss Pegg," he said, "I--I am happy to have served you! Good night."

"Sandro!" cried Peaches. "Why do you pretend? I know you--I know. You

couldn't fool me now! My dear, I thought that you were dead. But even on

the day we got here I knew you--I knew you in the hall, that first

moment. Oh, why do you keep away from me like that? Don't you love

me--don't you want me? Why do you pretend?"

"Don't! Please!" he entreated. "Miss Pegg, I--am just a servant in this

house!"

"I don't care what you are!" she cried recklessly. "You are Sandy. I

know you and I love you."

"My God!" he said, the familiar pet name striking home at last. "Don't!

You cannot understand my position. I tell you I am a servant. It is some

chance resemblance."

She switched on the main light then and came nearer, scanning his face

closely. His hands clenched at his sides, but otherwise he remained

immovable.

"You cannot make me doubt," she said at length. "You are Sandro di

Monteventi, who was reported killed at----"

"Miss Pegg--don't make it too hard!" he said humbly. "Will you not

accept my statement and let me go?

"No!" she said fiercely. "Because I know who you are--and because I know

that you love me. There! I have told the truth!"

"It is true that I love you," he admitted. "One need not have seen you

for longer than a day for that. But why do you persist I am this

stranger?"

"Because I know it!" she declared.

"You could not prove it!" he said simply.

"I don't have to!" she said, going closer. "Oh, Sandy, Sandy, I love you

so! I have been hungry for you such a long, long time!"

She slipped her arms round his neck. And then for a long while she was

not conscious of anything except his lips upon hers, and the blessed

iron strength of his arms about her. At length he drew away, just far

enough to look into her eyes.

"Merciful Madonna!" he breathed. "You are too much for my poor strength.

I have no right to touch you--but how I love you!"

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Peaches, wild with triumphant happiness,

"you'll never get away from me again, Sandro mio!"

But he pushed her from him roughly.

"No, no!" he said. "I--you are wrong! You have got to believe you are

wrong, even though you hate yourself and me as well for the glimpse of

heaven you have given me."

But she could not let him go.

"Have I got to have any other proof?" she laughed. "Oh, my dear, my

dear! Good heavens--what is it?" she added in a changed tone, for he was

looking over her shoulder toward the end of the room with an expression

as if he had seen a ghost.

Automatically she turned to follow the direction of his gaze, and almost

instantly encountered another pair of eyes set deep in a white face that

stared in at the window. In another instant it was gone, and like a

flash her companion had seized her by the elbows and was holding her

with a gaze that riveted her attention.

"See here!" he said rapidly. "I've got to leave you. They've got me this

time, I'm afraid. But I'll make a dash for it. Say nothing if I get

away. Silence will help me most. And no matter who I am, I love you. It

will not hurt you to know that. Good-by!"

Abruptly he was gone, slipping from the great room as noiselessly as he

had entered it, his going swift as a shadow, and leaving Peaches

temporarily paralyzed and at a loss. With a tremendous effort she pulled

her wits together and started for the doorway through which he had

vanished. To reach it she had to pass the mantelpiece, and as she did so

she automatically raised her eyes to the painting whose calm beauty had

been the cause of so much turmoil, and a curious glitter on the lower

edge of the frame caught her eye. The flash was such a brilliant one

that despite her pre-occupation she stopped to examine its source. And

then with a little cry of triumph she stretched out her hand toward it.

On the lower carvings of the ornate Florentine frame lay a little gold

penknife studded with diamonds--her own jeweled penknife, the one with

which Sandro di Monteventi had cut that long-faded rose in the garden at

San Remo--the precious trinket which she had given him for a keepsake.

The proof! It was the proof positive! In a single flash a great deal

became clear. He had left it there earlier in the evening--at the time

the picture was missed--perhaps at the time it was put back!--and

missing it he had later returned to retrieve it when he fancied that

every one was asleep, and so had stumbled upon her scene with Markheim,

and come to her rescue. Seizing the tell-tale toy she kissed it wildly

and started for the door.

"Sandro! I have proof!" she cried, though she knew he could not hear

her.

"Proof of what, signorina?" said a voice in the doorway. And there,

blocking the entrance to the corridor, was the figure of a bearded man.

With a cry Peaches shrank back, instinctively hiding the knife in the

palm of her hand. The intruder had a sinister look. His hat was pulled

well down over his eyes and his coat collar was pulled up about his

ears.

"What do you want?" demanded Peaches huskily. "What are you doing here?"

She was retreating toward the bell as she spoke, the man's gaze

following her action without protest. Coming well into the room he

removed his hat, shaking a few drops from it as he did so. The shoulders

of the coat were also wet. Evidently it was raining heavily outside. His

face as revealed in the stronger light was less alarming, and he spoke

in an even tone.

"Ring by all means!" said he. "Bring help as soon as possible! As for

who I am," he went on, throwing back his wet coat and revealing a silver

badge, "I am Pedro, the missing night watchman, and I have a warrant of

extradition for the arrest of Sandro di Monteventi, alias The

Eel--wanted by the International Secret Service for the theft of the

Scarpia panels and sundry charges."

"Go on, ring, miss," said a second man, following in on the heels of the

first; a man whom Peaches instantly recognized as the face at the

window. "Ring, please--we know he is in the house--and incidentally

don't you try to get away. We want to talk to you--you seemed to know

him rather well."