THE FINGER PRINT
Kathleen Whitney breathed inward thanks when dinner was over. It had been
a trying ordeal on top of an agonizing day. Cloistered in her room with
only her sad thoughts for company, she had been relieved to find that
Miss Kiametia Grey had been prevailed upon by Mrs. Whitney to prolong her
afternoon visit to include a family dinner. But the spinster's endeavor
to divert her by relating society gossip finally palled, and she
permitted her thoughts to stray to other scenes.
"Did you receive your invitation to the Morton reception, Kathleen?"
asked Miss Kiametia, breaking off her conversation with Mrs. Whitney with
her customary abruptness, and startling Kathleen back to the present.
"Yes--no; I don't know," was her confused reply.
"It is here." Mrs. Whitney went into the library and returned with a
large envelope.
"What night?" Miss Kiametia took the card and examined its heavily
embossed surface with interest. "_Nouveau riche_ stamped all over it, as
well as R.S.V.P.--'Real Slick Vittles, People,'" and she laughed
disdainfully.
"All the trimmings." Mrs. Whitney replaced the card in its envelope. "I
have written our regrets. I understand the reception is given to announce
the engagement of Mona Morton to some South American Monte Cristo."
"Speaking of engagements," Whitney turned to the spinster, "what about
you and Randall Foster, Kiametia?"
"I shall never marry." Miss Kiametia's half bantering tone dropped, and
the eyes she turned to Kathleen were shadowed with a haunting regret.
"The habits of a life-time cannot be broken."
"Oh, Kiametia!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney in open disappointment. "Senator
Foster is splendid--and I had hoped--_why_ do you discourage his
attentions?"
"Can't stand the way he wears his hair," announced Miss Kiametia with an
air of finality which warned against further discussion.
"Marry him and make him change his barber," advised Whitney rising. "I
have to go out, Minna; you and Kathleen must not wait up for me. Good
night, Kiametia; Henry is downstairs, he can take you home in the car,
if you wish. See you tomorrow," and he moved toward the door. After a
brief hesitation Kathleen followed him into the hall.
"Must you go out, Dad?" she asked helping him with his overcoat. "It is
still stormy tonight, and I feel lonely"--her voice broke, and turning
Whitney impulsively took her in his arms.
"My darling little girl." He stopped and steadied his voice as he kissed
her tenderly. "There, don't worry, trust old Dad to put things
straight--as he did your broken dollies. Go early to bed, dear, and get
some rest."
"Rest!" Kathleen strove to suppress all trace of bitterness. "Now, don't
have me on your mind; come home early," and she returned his kiss and
went slowly back into the drawing-room, as the front door closed after
her father.
"We are going up to my boudoir, Kathleen; won't you come, dear?" asked
Mrs. Whitney.
"Not just now, mother; I want to talk to Vincent when he gets the table
cleared away."
"I envy you, Vincent," chimed in Miss Kiametia. "Such an excellent
servant. Oh, Minna, don't go to the elevator; suppose we walk upstairs."
Left by herself Kathleen went in search of Vincent. He was not in the
pantry, but judging by the still unwashed dishes that he was probably
eating his supper in the kitchen, she refrained from calling him
upstairs, and walked listlessly back into the drawing-room.
Sick at heart, utterly discouraged, she threw herself down on the large
sofa and sank back among the pillows. Throughout the long day she had
tried to banish all thought of Charles Miller. It was hopeless; his image
was in her heart as well as before her mental vision. To some women it is
given to love lightly, tasting but the essence, while to others love is a
lifetime of steadfast devotion. And that winter had brought to Kathleen
her one great passion; for weal or for woe she had given her heart to
Charles Miller, and she must drain the cup to the bitter dregs.
With the gradual awakening to the belief that Charles Miller was really a
blackguard, a--she shuddered, and raised her hands as if to ward off an
overwhelming horror. And he had dared to approach her that morning with
loving words on his lips. His eyes had met hers frankly--there had been
no effort to avoid, no show of fear--no, he was only facing a loyal
woman. Kathleen choked back a moan. Truly, he understood the art of
dissimulation. If she had not known of his duplicity, of his guilt, his
expression as he addressed her that morning would have proclaimed him
innocent of all wrongdoing. His expression, ah, it had been that which
had sowed a little seed of hope in her heart. Perhaps she could sketch
his face as he appeared that morning, again catch the expression that
inspired confidence in spite of all.
She sat bolt upright and glanced eagerly about for a scrap of paper and a
pencil. The white back of a magazine on a lamp table caught her eye and
she went toward it. By the lamp lay Miss Kiametia's gold mesh purse,
vanity box, and pencil. Kathleen snatched up the dangling baubles and the
magazine and returned to the sofa. If only she could get her impression
down on paper before remembrance faded! She could copy it at her leisure.
She jerked feverishly at the gold pencil, and as she pulled it out laid
its point on the white paper--and then sat petrified. It was a hypodermic
needle. Some seconds passed before she moved; then she raised the gold
cylinder--outwardly it resembled a pencil, inside were concealed the
syringe and needle. With anxious haste she manipulated its delicate
mechanism, and slipped back the needle to its hiding place.
Forgotten for the moment was her own problem. Brilliant, gifted Kiametia
Grey a drug fiend--Oh, the pity of it! In the light of her discovery
Kathleen remembered many idiosyncrasies which the drug habit would
explain; often that winter she had found Miss Kiametia dozing in her
chair at the theater, at dinners, in motors, but had put it down to
over-fatigue from too much social gayety. Miss Kiametia's variable likes
and dislikes, her sudden whims and fancies, her irritability--all were
traceable to the same cause.
The sound of her name caused Kathleen to raise her head with a start.
Henry, the chauffeur, was standing just inside the hall door.
"Beg pardon, Miss Kathleen," he said. "Mrs. Whitney wished me to tell you
that Miss Grey will spend the night here and has retired to her bedroom.
And I was to ask you if you had any orders for the motor tomorrow."
"No, none, thanks. As you go downstairs, tell Vincent that I wish
to see him."
"Vincent has gone, Miss Kathleen." Meeting her quick glance, he added,
"It is his evening out."
"Oh! Please ask Rosa to stop in my room before she goes to bed."
"Very good, Miss Kathleen." As he turned to leave, the loud buzz of the
front doorbell sounded. Not waiting to hear the directions Kathleen
called after him, Henry darted into the hall.
Picking up Miss Kiametia's gold purse and the hypodermic needle, Kathleen
replaced them on the table, but halfway to the hall door she hesitated.
Should she not take them to Miss Kiametia? Suppose Henry, for instance,
should take it into his head to examine them? At the thought Kathleen's
face hardened, and she returned to pick up Miss Kiametia's property.
Henry's voice from the doorway arrested her.
"Captain Miller," he announced, and retired.
Kathleen stood as if carved from stone, every vestige of color
stricken from her. If her life had depended upon it, she could not
have turned around.
"Have you no word for me?" asked the familiar voice, and Miller stepped
in front of her, his wistful eyes pleading for him. But Kathleen was
mute. Slowly, unwillingly his eyes dropped before her level gaze and
rested finally on the gold baubles in her hand. "Why do you not wear my
ring, Kathleen?"
The question stung her out of the bewildered trance into which his
unexpected appearance had thrown her.
"The ring was returned to you for good and sufficient reasons," she said
icily. "That you choose to ignore these reasons does not affect the
issue. Will you leave this house, or shall I ring for the servant?"
"Kathleen, are you mad?" He whitened to the lips. "Think what you are to
me, dearly beloved; your words cut me like a knife."
"Your similes are unfortunate," she stammered, with dry lips. "I do not
use knives. I leave that for others, the coroner's jury to the contrary."
"Do you think the coroner's jury influenced my judgment, sweetheart?
Shame--I have more faith than you. I know that you are innocent of
Spencer's death."
"You have every reason to know that I am innocent." Kathleen was
thoroughly roused. "It is not a question of faith on your part,"
significantly. "I see no use in these discussions. It is better that we
do not meet. Again I ask you to go--forever."
Without replying he turned and paced the room rapidly, hands in pocket,
head bent forward. Kathleen watched him with burning eyes and aching
heart. To outward seeming he had the attributes which make for success.
What mad blood-lust had made him throw the world away?
"Suppose I accede to your unreasonable request, Kathleen," he said,
stopping before her. "Will you do something for me?"
"Yes," huskily.
"Then get from your father the specifications and drawings of his latest
invention for me."
As if she had not heard aright, Kathleen stared at him.
"Wh-what is it you ask?" she stammered.
"The plans of your father's _latest_ invention," patiently. "I do not
mean the camera."
"Either you or I are mad," she looked at him dazedly. "Do you realize
that my father would not give me those plans--that I should have to
steal them."
"Expediency knows no law," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "Call it
borrowing." Kathleen shrank back appalled.
"Good God! That you should be so base!" she cried. "For more than
forty-eight hours I have closed my eyes to reason; deluded myself that
you acted from temporary mental aberration--that Sinclair Spencer's death
was unpremeditated. My impulse was to help--to save. Ah, you wooed me
well this winter." Her voice broke and she drew a long quivering breath.
"It is a pitiful thing to kill a woman's love. Some day, perhaps, I shall
be grateful to you. Go!"
He flinched at the scorn in her voice, but stood his ground
doggedly. "Not until I get the drawings and specifications of the
invention," he answered.
The slamming of the front door caused Kathleen to look in that
direction, and Henry's entrance the next instant stayed the words on her
parted lips.
"A special delivery for you, Miss Kathleen," he said, "from the State
Department."
Kathleen took the proffered envelope mechanically.
"Wait, Henry," steadying her voice. "When Captain Miller calls again, he
is not to be admitted, under any pretense."
"Very good, Miss Kathleen," and concealing his curiosity, the chauffeur
moved swiftly away.
There was a pause which Miller broke. "Read your letter," he said
composedly. "I can wait."
Kathleen was on the point of collapse; desperately she clung to her
remnant of composure. Hardly conscious of her action, she tore open the
outer envelope, and read the brief statement that the letter inclosed had
been sent to her, care of the Department of State. With some stirring of
curiosity not unmixed with dread, she examined the contents of the second
envelope. It read:
"United Service Club,
"London, England.
"MY DEAR MISS WHITNEY:
"I send the inclosed, forwarded to me by Major Seymour, who was until
recently a prisoner in Germany. My nephew, John Hargraves, was killed in
action.
"Very truly yours,
"Percival Hargraves."
John dead! Her loyal friend dead--and killed in action! Through a blur of
tears Kathleen read the stained scrap of paper inclosed in the
Englishman's note:
"DEAR KATHLEEN:
"I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he--warn
Uncle--Kathleen ... Kathleen...."
Shaken with grief Kathleen raised her head and looked at her companion
sitting immovable in his chair. If he felt any interest in the letter
and her emotion, he did not evince it. Three years before, he, she, and
John Hargraves had been friends in Germany. John, the soul of honor,
loyal and unselfish in his friendship, had laid down his young life for
his country. His last dying word had been of her--to warn her....
Kathleen stood erect, wrath drying the tears which affection had
brought. John had seen Karl in London in war times; there was but one
answer to the puzzle.
"Captain Karl von Mueller," she said cuttingly, "to use the name by which
I knew you abroad, do you wish my father's invention for Germany?"
"I do." Rising quietly, he faced her, stern and unyielding. "Why
dissemble any longer? Your father promised to sell it to us; then went
back on his given word. In handing me the invention you will but redeem
his pledge."
"You have a strange conception of honor." Her eyes were blazing with
fury. "Your statement about my father is open to doubt. Captain von
Mueller, I give you forty-eight hours to leave this country before I
denounce you as a German spy."
"Really?" His slow smile of unbelief caused her to writhe inwardly. "Do
you think the unsupported statement of a woman suspected of murder will
find credence?" Kathleen clenched John Hargraves' letter until her
knuckles shone white under the taut skin. "Secondly," he continued in the
same quiet tone, "you speak tonight only of this winter. Have you
forgotten our relationship in Germany?"
"That is hardly the term for it," she said proudly. "I met you at the
house of a German schoolmate ..."
"And our friendship rapidly ripened into love," he said softly, never
removing his gaze from her bloodless face. "Our walks in the meadows
about Berlin, our elopement ..."
"But not our marriage," she burst in. "John Hargraves can testify that I
left you."
"John Hargraves is dead."
"True," she could hardly articulate. "But we were not married."
"Quite so; that is my point--_I_ did not _marry_ you."
Kathleen swayed upon her feet and threw out her hand blindly for support.
"You cur! you despicable cur!" she gasped. "Don't touch me." But though
she shrank from him, his strong hand steadied her toward the hall door.
"Washington society is surfeited with scandal," he said. "When more
composed think of your father's latest invention."
If she heard him she gave no sign. Mental torture had exhausted her
emotion. She never raised her head as he guided her to the staircase; her
eyes stared only at his open right hand.
The house was dark except for the hall light burning dimly, when Winslow
Whitney inserted his latchkey and entered the front door. Removing hat
and overcoat, he made his way noiselessly to his studio in the attic.
With cautious movement he fingered the locks on his door. Would Miller's
plan for catching Spencer's murderer work out? According to their
arrangement he had left the door insecurely fastened.
Just as he was about to creep into the room, he heard distinctly in the
stillness a whispered word in a voice his keen ear instantly recognized.
All idea of caution forgotten, he threw open the door and switched on the
electric light. To outward appearances the room was empty.
Darting over to where he kept his secret papers, he lifted a powerful
Mazda lamp, the better to scan the prepared paper left where an
incautious thief would be obliged to rest his hand with some degree of
force. Under the powerful light the finger prints stood out distinct and
clear. But with eyes starting from his head, Whitney paused to snatch up
a magnifying glass, and by its aid examined the finger prints minutely.
"It's--his--finger print--but the voice, my God! the voice.... Kathleen,
Kathleen!" A gurgle choked his utterance, and the magnifying glass
clattered beside him as he fell inertly on the floor.