Rodrigo flung himself into his berth on the midnight train to
Philadelphia with no idea of sleep. One resolve kept pounding in his
head. He would tell John Dorning everything when he saw him, and
then he would clear out. He heard people shuffling in the aisle
outside of his curtained resting place. They were addressing the
porter and each other in that hoarse penetrating whisper that
passengers affect on sleeping cars with the mistaken idea that it
does not disturb the sleepers. He became conscious of the train
getting under way with clanging bell and dashing about of human feet
on the cement platform. For half the journey across the flats of New
Jersey he was awake. Then, emotionally and physically exhausted, he
fell into a doze.
Crisp, sunshiny weather greeted him as he stepped out into Broad
Street, Philadelphia, some hours later. It had the effect of
clearing his brain. The world was rolling along cheerfully,
unconcerned, after all. Ferris and the other members of the library
committee were already in session with John when Rodrigo appeared at
Ferris's office.
John had the opportunity for only a word or two with his partner
privately before the conference went into session. "Did you go to
dinner and the concert with Elise?" Dorning asked eagerly. When
Rodrigo shook his head in the negative, John frowned a little and
went on dolefully, "Gad, how I miss her. Whatever the consequence,
I'm not going to leave her again. I'll bring her along, no matter
how bored she gets."
It seemed to Rodrigo in that instant that it would be nothing short
of murder to shatter this man's dream. He simply couldn't do it, at
least not for the present.
Nor was he any nearer to his confession that evening as John sat
opposite him in the dining car on the way back to New York. John was
elated. They had closed the contract successfully and he was going
back to Elise. He chided Rodrigo several times with being so
preoccupied. They parted at Grand Central Station, John having two
minutes in which to catch the Greenwich-bound train.
Mary Drake was putting flowers in a vase on his desk when Rodrigo
arrived at his office the next morning. She frequently did this, but
considering the circumstances surrounding their last conversation, he
was a little surprised to find her there. Nevertheless he greeted
her gravely and stood standing until she would have finished her task
and departed. But he became gradually aware that she was using the
flowers as a subterfuge, that she did not intend to leave until she
had spoken to him.
Mary said, with the air of a person who has been thinking something
over for some time and is having some difficulty in expressing
exactly what she means, "Rodrigo--there is something I should like to
say." And, though he offered her no encouragement, she continued.
"I have come to the conclusion that I was not as wise the last time I
spoke to you as I thought I was. I have been thinking it over ever
since. I was unjust to you. I belittled my feelings toward you.
And I said there was a reason why we could never marry, and I didn't
do you the justice to tell you what it was."
"I don't think telling me now will help either of us," he replied,
striving to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Things have
changed for me since then. I over-estimated myself. I told you I
was a better man--than I am. To-day I see clearly that I was a fool."
She asked, suddenly apprehensive, "Something--that has taken away
your love for me?"
His reply was bitter. "No, my faith in myself. Night before last, I
weakened so that I don't deserve anybody's love, least of all, yours."
She recovered, smiled and came nearer to him, bravely intending to
comfort him. "You are too hard on yourself, Rodrigo. You are angry
and bitter. And that is my fault, I know."
"No, you have nothing to do with it," he said almost brutally. "I am
going away from here too, as soon as I can. I shall stay away,
forever."
He was surprised at the response in her face. She seemed glad,
relieved. She hastened to explain. "Oh, Rodrigo, don't you see that
that clears things up for us, for you and me? That eliminates the
barrier that stood between us? I did not have the heart to tell you
I could never say I loved you as long as you remained with Dorning
and Son, as long as you and John were so closely associated. And I
did not dare suggest breaking off your friendship."
"John?" he asked, mystified. "What has John got to do with you and
me?"
"Not John, but----"
"Elise?"
She hesitated, then, "Yes. If I admitted to you that I loved you, I
would always have had her to fight. And I couldn't. She spoke to me
about you day before yesterday, and I saw that she would do anything
to prevent us loving each other. I did not believe what she said
about you. But it showed me to what lengths she would go, and I was
afraid. Fighting her would mean the end of your friendship with
John, of your connection with Dorning and Son. Oh, I realize the
grip she has upon John. If it came to a choice between you and her,
you know which he would keep. And I was not sure what your feeling
for me might turn to if I were the cause of a break between you and
John. Mrs. Dorning is clever, fascinating, and, I am afraid, quite
relentless. I know her feelings toward you and how hard she has
tried to----"
He cut in savagely, "Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that
Elise and I----"
"No. Not you," she interrupted quietly. "I have overheard you
talking to her on the telephone several times. I know how you have
sought to avoid her. I can speak frankly about her to you, I think.
You will know that I am not moved by jealousy or a desire to gossip
or anything petty. But she has called John's office several times
from the Van Clair Hotel, for instance, on occasions when she knew he
was not here and was to meet her somewhere later. She has given me
messages over the 'phone for him, and each time I heard voices
laughing and shouting near her. One evening when I passed the Van
Clair on the way to the subway, she got out of a taxi with a strange
man and went in. That place had a bad reputation, you know. It is
just as well for New York that it has burned down."
He stared at her, startled, and, striving to make the question
casual. "There was a fire at the Van Clair? When?"
"Why, night before last, just after midnight. It was in all the
papers. It burned to the ground."
Dismay gripped him, and he turned away quickly so that she could not
see his face. At once Mary read that it had something to do with
her, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder, her face flushed and
smiling.
She said softly, "Perhaps it was that fire, the feeling it brought
that we never know what will happen, never realize how short a time
we may have to rectify a mistake, that showed me how wrong I was day
before yesterday. I love you, Rodrigo. I will be your wife--if you
still want me."
He turned a stricken face to her. He was held in a sudden fear and
foreboding. He had hardly heard what she had said. And he had no
time to answer her, for the door of his office was flung violently
open and John Dorning, excited, disheveled, burst upon them.
"Rodrigo!" he cried from the door. Then, coming forward, "Thank God.
I found you here."
He looked so badly that Mary asked in alarm, "You're ill, John. Can
I do anything for you?"
"Thank you, Mary--no," he answered, and gathering from his tone that
he wished to be alone with his friend, she left quietly.
He almost ran up to Rodrigo. "Elise was not there when I got home,
Rodrigo! She left no word of any kind. I've called up everybody. I
can't find her."
Rodrigo sagged against the desk, as if struck a blow. He repeated
dully, "Can't find--Elise?"
"No. Rodrigo, do you know where she is--do you? I'm worried to
death. Anything might happen to her in this town.
Accidents--anything."
By this time, with a great effort, Rodrigo had recovered a semblance
of control over himself. He spoke soothingly. "Oh, that's nonsense,
John. Have you called her friends?"
"Everybody. I've been to the police. I've traced all the ambulance
calls. I've found out about fatal fires, and there haven't been any,
except one in some hotel. I've driven and telephoned all over town.
People must think I'm crazy. I 'phoned Warren down at his place, and
he's helping me search too." He ran his hands nervously through his
damp, blond hair. He cried, "And I will go crazy, Rodrigo, if I
don't get on track of her soon." He seized his friend's lapel and
fixed wild eyes upon him. "You don't think she could have run away
from me, left me without a word, do you? No, of course not. Not
that. We loved each other too much." He fell to pacing the floor
rapidly.
"There's probably some very obvious explanation of her absence,"
Rodrigo strove to soothe him, and himself. "There usually is. Have
you called Mrs. Palmer?"
John turned abruptly, his whole expression changing to one of intense
relief. "I'm an idiot!" he cried. "I never thought of her. My
car's outside. I'll drive up there at once. Mrs. Palmer is ill, as
a matter of fact. Perhaps she's taken a turn for the worse and Elise
was called there suddenly. I'll run right up." He snatched up his
hat and was gone.
Hardly had the door closed when Rodrigo bounded to the clothes-tree
and took the unread morning paper from his overcoat pocket. He sank
into his chair and spread the sheet eagerly on the desk in front of
him. There, in screaming black headlines, it leaped out at him:
VAN CLAIR FIRE VICTIM IS
STILL UNIDENTIFIED
--------
BODY OF WOMAN GUEST THOUGHT TO HAVE
PERISHED IN HOTEL TRAGEDY HAS
NOT BEEN FOUND
--------
Up to an early hour this morning, the woman occupying the room on
the ninth floor of the ill-fated Hotel Van Clair, which burned to
the ground shortly after midnight Wednesday, remained
unidentified, and no trace of her charred body had been found in
the still smoking ruins. The hotel register, the only direct
means of identification, has evidently burned and--
With a sudden cry of anguish, he crushed the paper violently between
his hands, as if to destroy the devastating news it brought him. The
sheet fell to the floor as he stretched his arms out in a gesture of
hopelessness.
After a while he became aware of a hand upon his shoulder, and Mary's
voice was saying gently, "I heard John leave, so I came back. What
is wrong!"
He felt himself crumpling. He leaned against her, raising his
fear-stricken eyes to her. "Elise! She's gone. John has been
looking for her. He's half crazy. But he'll never find her. I
know." And, as her face remained questioning, "The paper says a
woman has been burned. The woman was Elise--and I--I sent her there.
She came back here that night and--well, she fascinated me. I forgot
everything. I was to meet her later at the Van Clair. She left me
to meet me there later. Then John telephoned long distance, about
the business, and I came to my senses. I didn't go to the hotel.
She must have stayed there. The fire broke out half an hour after
she left me. So you see, Mary--I sent her there--I killed Elise!
And I can never tell John--never!"
Growing horror gathered in her eyes. She whispered, "It
is--horrible."
"I sent John away on a fool's errand. I had to have time to think."
She said tensely, "But you say she came back to you, here? It was
her idea, your going to the hotel? I know--the fascination of her,
Rodrigo. And she went there alone--"
"What difference does that make?" he said wildly. "What good that I
came to my senses? I sent her there. And now John! Counting on me
to see him through--me!"
"You must tell John," she said firmly.
"I can't!"
"It would be kinder than to let him live not knowing, always
wondering and hoping. It's cowardly not to tell him."
"Tell him--that, because of me, his wife, his wife, whom he adored,
is dead?"
"Not because of you--in spite of you."
Rodrigo answered her, calmer, now reasoning. "You don't realize how
he loved her, set her up as a saint upon an altar. I could not tell
him the truth. It would blacken her forever before the whole world.
I think he would prefer suffering any torture rather than that."
"That is a compromise, Rodrigo, and, therefore, wrong."
He said excitedly: "Call it what you please--I can't tell him!"
"Not even if I promise to help you with all the love I am capable of?
Don't you see, Rodrigo?--I feel guilty with you. If I had not been
so blind before, this might not have happened." She held out her
hands, pleading with him, "Oh, Rodrigo, I love you. I did not
realize how much until now. I can forgive everything in you--but
cowardice. I will stand by you--but please, please tell John and ask
him to forgive you. You can't see him through with that guilt always
before you. It's impossible."
But he reiterated stubbornly. "No, I cannot tell him. I cannot kill
him too. I would rather kill myself."
She asked quietly, "Not even if it means my love for you? Will you
kill that too?"
He replied slowly, "There's nothing--could make me tell him." His
voice was unsteady, hie eyes blinded with tears as he turned away
from her, her whole body drooping.
The telephone shrilled like a crack of doom, and he fumblingly lifted
the receiver as she waited.
"She hasn't been here, Rodrigo!" came John's anguished voice. "What
am I to do? I don't know----"
"Don't lose your nerve, old man," Rodrigo replied, and his tones were
weak, almost unrecognizable.
"I'm at my wits' end. I've questioned her aunt, the servants here,
everybody."
"Come on back down here then, old man," urged Rodrigo. "We'll
workout a plan. Don't worry. I'll be here waiting. Come right
down."
He hung up the receiver, staring ahead of him, seeming unconscious
that Mary was still there. When he became aware of her, he said as
steadily as his trembling body allowed, "We'll all be upset
terribly--for a while. Please--you will carry on temporarily, try to
keep the place going, help us, won't you?"
She answered, "Yes, I will carry on. Don't worry about business. It
will be all right." And her eyes too were full of tears.