Alston Caruth lived in the Chimneystack Building. When he returned to
his apartments at midnight on the day of Gorloff’s visit to Professor
Shishkin, he found Marie Fitzhugh, agent of the Brotherhood, awaiting
him. She had risen at the sound of his key in the lock, and stood
facing him, externally cool and self-possessed, but with apprehension
shining in her soft dark eyes. Her fingers trembled as they rested on
the edge of the table, and her color came and went. A close observer
would have said that she was frightened half to death.
Caruth, however, was not a close observer; at least, not at that
moment. Amazement showed in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and
whipped the cigarette from his parting lips. His fresh young face,
flushed from the gaiety of the evening, looked almost boyish in its
confusion.
His obvious embarrassment seemed to restore the girl’s balance. “Mr.
Caruth?” she inquired, with a slight movement of her head.
Caruth nodded. For the moment he was beyond words. Her soft,
musical voice and air of refinement impressed him, despite the
unconventionality of her presence in his rooms at that time of
the night, and his attitude became even more respectful. “Yes,” he
stammered; “I am Mr. Caruth. What can I do for you?”
“I am Miss Fitzhugh. I have come four thousand miles to talk with you,
Mr. Caruth. Your valet was kind enough to let me wait, though he was
clearly horrified by my desiring to do so. Will you not sit down?”
Caruth hesitated. Of medium build, clean-shaven, correctly dressed, he
might have stepped out of a Gibson drawing. Every detail was present,
even to the strong chin and the firm mouth.
“It is late,” he suggested, glancing at the clock, the hands of which
stood straight upward. “I am at your service, of course, but perhaps
to-morrow----”
The girl smiled, a trifle wearily. “One does not come four thousand
miles for a trifle,” she answered. “The convenances must yield to
necessity. I must talk with you to-night.”
Caruth bowed and seated himself across the centre table from her.
Though his surprise had not abated, he was rapidly regaining his
self-possession, and as the girl resumed her own chair, he leaned
forward a little, studying her thoughtfully, noting the anxious lines
about her youthful eyes and mouth.
Although her English had been excellent, she did not impress him
as being of American nor yet of English birth. An alien air clung
intangibly about her and about her costume, which, even to his
masculine intelligence, bespoke the work of a dress-maker of more than
ordinary skill.
She was plainly a lady. Had it not been too amazing, he would
have guessed that she must be a person of distinction in her own
land--wherever that might be. That she was beautiful seemed somehow not
surprising; that she was very young did. What could such a woman be
doing alone in his bachelor rooms at that hour of the night.
Disguising his wonder, he sought to carry off the situation. “You are
tired?” he questioned gently. “I’m afraid I kept you waiting a long
time. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Can’t I offer you something to eat or
drink, Miss Fitzhugh?”
Slowly the girl nodded. “I’m glad,” she breathed, half to herself.
“They told me American men were like this, but I could scarcely believe
it. In Europe it would have been very different. I am proud of my
half-cousins.” She paused; then answered his question. “Thank you,” she
said. “I will take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
Caruth touched the bell. “Sherry and crackers, Wilkins,” he ordered
briefly.
Not until the tray had been set before them, and the valet had gone,
did either of them speak again. Caruth was slowly awakening to the fact
that the beauty of the woman before him was not ordinary. It was not
alone the perfection of her features that appealed to him. Every detail
about her was artistically perfect. Her coloring, the poise of her
head, the slim roundness of her taper fingers, the iridescent gleam
of her brown hair beneath her wide hat--all satisfied his somewhat
critical taste.
Suddenly he realized that he was staring, and, dropping his eyes, he
forced himself to speak casually. “Your half-cousins?” he queried,
answering her lead. “You are, then----”
“American? Yes! On my mother’s side, but my father is Russian, and I
have never been in America until to-night. I like it, Mr. Caruth,”
she ended--“what I have seen of it. It rests with you to confirm my
opinion.”
Caruth questioned her with his eyes. “Yes?” he answered politely. “I
hope I shall be able to do so.”
For a moment the girl did not speak. Her bosom rose and fell a trifle
faster. She crumbled her cracker nervously, and her hand shook slightly
as she lifted her glass. Caruth, silent, attentive, awaited her
pleasure.
“Ten days ago,” she said, at last, “a letter was mailed to you at
Stockholm in Sweden. It was not intended for you. It was sent to you
by mistake--a mistake realized within a few hours after it had been
posted. An effort was made to recover it, but it had already started on
its way. Its progress has been traced carefully. It left Brest on the
steamship _Latourette_, which reached quarantine here at eight o’clock
to-night. It may be delivered to you at any moment.”
Caruth glanced at the clock and smiled. “I fear you are mistaken,” he
objected. “Even if this letter reached the post-office to-night--which
seems to me doubtful--it will not be delivered until to-morrow--unless,
of course, it has a quick delivery stamp on it.”
The girl nodded. “It has a quick delivery stamp on it,” she rejoined
promptly; “and if I understand your post-office methods, it will be
delivered very soon. The mail-bags left the ship when I did.”
“You crossed on the same vessel?”
“Yes. Special arrangements had been made, and I was permitted to come
up to the city on the tug that brought the mail. I came straight here
and have been waiting ever since. The letter has not arrived yet;
therefore it must come soon.”
“And when it does?” Caruth’s wonder was growing. Dimly he suspected
whither the conversation was tending, and with growing interest
he waited for his guest to come to the point. “When it does?” he
questioned again, gently.
The girl’s breath came faster. She evaded a direct answer.
“You see, Mr. Caruth,” she argued, “I do not try to conceal from you
the importance of this letter. It is of the very highest value to me
and to my friends. To you, it is neither of value nor of importance,
and, not being intended for you, it does not belong to you. It was
sent to you by mistake. I have come to ask you to give it back to me
unopened. Will you do it?”
Caruth drew a long breath. The inborn tendency of all men of his race
to do anything that a pretty woman wishes impelled him to promise. Yet
the request was certainly amazing.
“You ask a good deal, Miss Fitzhugh,” he temporized. “I know nothing
of this letter. I have no correspondents that I know of in Sweden--nor
in Europe either, for that matter. You may be right in saying that
the letter is not intended for me; yet--well, I think I am entitled
to ask a little further explanation. How is it possible for a letter
not intended for me to be addressed to me here--for I presume it is so
addressed?”
Miss Fitzhugh drew herself up. “Yes, the address is correct,” she
answered coldly. “I have told you it was put on by mistake by a friend
of mine who sends me to reclaim the letter----”
She broke off suddenly, as with startling abruptness the electric bell
at the door of the apartment sounded in their ears. “There! It’s come!
Go quick,” she cried.
Mechanically Caruth rose and turned to the door; then hesitated.
“Wilkins will bring it,” he explained.
“Wilkins? Your man? No! Go yourself. This matter is too grave to trust
to any one. Go quick.”
Under the spell of her command, Caruth stepped hastily to the door of
the room and flung it open. At the end of the hall the valet was just
signing the book of a letter carrier. As Caruth appeared he looked up.
“Quick delivery letter for you, sir,” he said.
Caruth took the letter, nodded, and turned back into the room.
The girl was standing where he had left her. Her lips were parted, and
her breath came fast. When she saw the letter her eyes glistened and
she stretched out her hand.
But Caruth drew back. “One moment,” he exclaimed.
The girl’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “I have
explained my claim to that letter. You have no right to keep it. Give
it to me at once.” An imperious stamp of her foot put a period to her
words.
A weaker man would have yielded, but Caruth set his jaws. “You have set
forth your claim to this letter,” he answered coldly, “after a fashion.
But, if you will pardon my saying so, you have by no means proved your
right to it. It may very well have been mailed to me by mistake, and
you may know it--without being entitled to it.”
Scornfully the woman stared at him. Her head was thrown back, and the
breath whistled through her distended nostrils.
“So!” she breathed, at last. “So this is American manhood! For the
first time in my life, my word has been questioned to my face.”
Caruth looked, as he felt, acutely uncomfortable. “No, no!” he
protested eagerly. “I don’t question your word. I didn’t know that
you had given it. Nobody”--a flash of admiration showed in his
eyes--“nobody could look at you and doubt you. I don’t doubt that you
have told me the exact facts. But I am also very sure that you have
not told me all of them. If the letter does not belong to me, I will
willingly surrender it to the real owner. But I might do endless harm
by surrendering it to the wrong party. I cannot give it up without
knowing more.”
Caruth quailed as he spoke. It was terribly hard even to debate
anything this woman asked. Scarcely could he force himself to go on. “I
must know more,” he pleaded. “Really, I must know more! Don’t you see
that I must?”
“Very well. You shall.” The woman paused for an instant and then
went on: “This letter and another were put into a bottle which was
thrown overboard from a sinking ship. It floated about until ten
days ago, when it was picked up by a fisherman. One of the letters
was for my friends. The address was legible, and it was forwarded to
us by mail, reaching us twenty-four hours later. The address on the
other had partly faded; the name of the person for whom it was meant
had disappeared altogether. But it was addressed in your care, at
your address here. The fisherman who found it showed it to a casual
American, who advised him to send it on to you, and who provided him
with an envelope and postage, including a quick delivery stamp.
“When our letter came, we hurried down to question the fisherman, and
from him learned what I have told you. Our letter had once contained
all the information we needed, but part of the writing had been washed
out by the sea water, and could not be read. We hope that the letter
sent to you may be in better condition, so I have hurried over here to
get it from you.”
Caruth listened amazedly. “But,” he objected, “for whom was the letter
really meant?”
“I do not know. Evidently for some one associated with you. Can you not
guess?”
Caruth shook his head slowly. “No,” he mused. “No, I cannot guess.”
Curiously he studied the envelope he held in his hands.
The woman hesitated; then came to a sudden resolution. “There are two
envelopes,” she explained. “One of them was put on by the fisherman.
Open that, if you will, but be careful.”
Caruth obeyed and drew out the inclosure. It was a small envelope,
dirty and stained and smelling strongly of fish. Indeed, a minute scale
clung to one corner until he mechanically brushed it away. On the face,
in blurred writing, appeared his own name: “Care Mr. Alston Caruth,
Chimneystack Apartment Building, New York, N. Y.” Another name had been
written just above, but it was indecipherable.
“The whole address was there when the fisherman opened the bottle,”
explained the girl. “Part of it soaked off in his pocket on the way to
shore. Can you make it out?”
Caruth studied the superscription, and shook his head. “No,” he
declared; “I can make out nothing. But I soon will.” With a quick
motion, he ripped open the envelope.
Before he could draw out the contents, the girl caught his hand.
“Wait!” she cried. “Wait! Have I not proved my right to that letter?”
Caruth shook his head. “Certainly not,” he decided. “So far as I can
see, neither you nor I have any title to it, or any right to read it.
Nor do I intend to read it further than to see whether the inside gives
any clue to the man for whom it is intended.”
“Wait!” Tensely the girl’s hand fell on his arm. “If nothing else will
avail,” she cried, “will not my entreaties do so. I beg you, I implore
you, to give me that letter. It is nothing to you; it may easily be
life or death to me. You do not know for whom it is meant. You are
under no obligations to an unknown writer and an unknown addressee. Do
not look into it farther. Give me the letter, I implore you!”
She leaned forward. Her violet eyes gleamed into his; her lips
quivered, her form shook with the stress. “Oh!” she pleaded. “Give it
to me. You will give it to me?”
A sudden passion flamed in Caruth’s veins--a passion that gripped and
shook him. “By God!” he cried hoarsely. “You--you----”
The girl started back and dropped her hand. Then her lips curled. Men
were all alike, after all. American men were no better than their
European brothers. She had seen so many; so very many. Caruth would
yield, and she would despise him for it. Yet she went on. “Give it to
me,” she breathed.
“No!” Caruth’s voice rang out. “No! No! Oh, you women! You beautiful
women! How easily you beguile men! How dare you do it? How dare you use
beauty such as yours for such a purpose? How dare you use such tools to
gain your selfish ends?”
“How dare I?” The girl’s form straightened till to Caruth’s gaze
she seemed to tower above him. “How dare I?” Her voice was low and
thrilling, but it did not quiver. “How dare I? I dare because my
country calls me to do it. All that I am and have belongs to it. My
future, my liberty, my life, are all at its service. I am entitled to
that letter--I swear it. If you ask it, I will tell you everything, and
in so doing put my life in your hands. Shall I do it?”
Caruth drew his hand across his eyes. “No!” he said hoarsely. “I
believe you. Take the letter.”
Eagerly the woman reached out her hand, but before her fingers
could close upon the envelope, the portières that hung between the
apartment and an inner room clashed gently on their rings and Caruth’s
valet pushed his way through them. “I beg pardon, sir!” he murmured
deferentially.
Annoyed, Caruth faced him, the hand holding the letter dropping to his
side. “Well, Wilkins?” he questioned coldly.
“I beg pardon, sir,” repeated the man. “But I think that letter belongs
to me, sir. Will you kindly look inside and see if it doesn’t begin ‘My
dear Jim’ and end ‘Yours, Bill,’ sir? If it does, it is certainly mine,
sir. I think it’s from my brother Bill, sir.”