The Scrawled Message
But, as it turned out, Dorcas hadn’t “done it” at all. Bates on reaching
his aunt’s apartment found no one at home. But very soon Sir Herbert
Binney appeared.
“Look here, Richard,” he began, “I’ve taken a fancy to that little girl
of yours——”
“She isn’t mine.”
“You’d like her to be?”
“Very much; in conditions that would please us both.”
“Meaning Bunless conditions. I can’t offer you those, but I do say now,
and, for the last time, if you will take hold of my Bun proposition,
I’ll give you any salary you want, any interest in the business you ask,
and make you my sole heir. I’ve already done the last, but unless you
fall in with my plans now, I’m going to make another will and your name
will be among the missing.”
“But, Uncle Herbert——”
“I’ve no time for discussion, my boy; I’ve to dress for dinner,—I’m
going out,—but this thing must be settled now, as far as you’re
concerned. You’ve had time enough to think it over, you’ve had time to
discuss it with that pretty little girl of yours,—my, but her eyes
flashed as she called me Uncle Bunny! It was a slip,—I saw that, and I
pretended to be annoyed, but I liked her all the better for her
sauciness. Well, Richard,—yes or no?”
“Can’t you give me another twenty-four hours?”
“Not twenty-four minutes! You’ve hemmed and hawed over this thing as
long as I’ll stand it! No. You know all the details, all the advantages
that I offer you. You know I mean what I say and I’ll stand by every
word. I’m going to meet the head of a big American concern to-night, and
if you turn me down, I shall probably make a deal with him. I’d rather
keep my business and my fortune in the family, but if you say no, out
you go! So, as a countryman of yours expressed it to-day, you can put up
or shut up!”
“All right, sir,—I’ll shut up!” and Richard Bates turned on his heel,
while Sir Herbert Binney went out of the apartment and slammed the door
behind him.
Almost immediately Miss Gurney came in.
“My stars, Ricky!” she exclaimed, “I met Sir Binney Bun in the hall and
he looked as if somebody had broken his heart! Has his pet chorus girl
given him the mitten?”
“No; I gave it to him. He wants me to sell his precious pies over a
counter,—and I can’t see myself doing it.”
“I should say not! It’s a mystery to me how the aristocracy of England
go into trade, and if it’s a big enough deal, they think it’s all right.
If it’s tea or bread or soap, it doesn’t matter, so they sell enough of
it. Well, young man, what about your escapade in the Park? Shall I tell
your aunt?”
“You said you intended to,—do as you like.”
“I won’t tell her, if——”
“Oh, you’d better tell me—what is it?”
The cool, incisive tones of Miss Prall interrupted the speakers and
Richard’s aunt calmly gazed at him and then at Miss Gurney, as she came
into the room, seated herself, and began drawing off her gloves.
“I’ll tell you myself, Aunt Letitia,” said Bates. “I’m old enough not to
be bossed and ballyragged by you two women! Forgive me, Aunt Letty, but,
truly, Eliza makes me so mad——”
“Go out, Eliza,” said Miss Prall, and Eliza went.
“Now, Ricky boy, what is it? About Sir Herbert of course. And I’ll stand
by you,—if you don’t want to go into his business, you shan’t——”
“It isn’t that at all, Aunt Letitia. Or, at least, that is in the air,
too,—up in the air, in fact,—but what Eliza is going to tell you,—and
I prefer to tell you myself,—is that I’m in love with——”
“Oh, Richard, I am so glad! You dear boy. I’ve felt for a long time that
if you were interested in one girl—some sweet young girl,—you’d have a
sort of anchor and——”
“Yes, but wait a minute,—you don’t know who she is.”
“And I don’t care! I mean, I know you’d love only a dear, innocent
nature,—but tell me all about her.”
Miss Prall’s plain face was lighted with happy smiles of interest and
eager anticipation, and she drew her chair nearer her nephew as she
waited for him to speak.
Bates looked at her, dreading to shatter her hopes,—as he knew his next
words must do.
“Well, to begin with,—she is Dorcas Everett.”
Miss Prall’s eyes opened in a wide, unbelieving stare, her face paled
slowly, her very lips seemed to grow white, so intense and concentrated
was her anger.
“No!” she said, at last, in a low tense voice, “you don’t mean that.
Richard! you can’t mean it,—after all I’ve done for you, after all I’ve
hoped for you,—and,—I’ve loved you so——”
“Now, auntie, listen; just you forget and forgive all this old feud
business,—for my sake,—and Dorcas’; be noble, rise above your old,
petty quarrel with Mrs Everett, and give us your bond of peace as a
wedding present.”
His pleading tones, his hopeful smile held Miss Prall’s attention for a
moment, and then she blazed forth:
“Richard Bates, I cannot believe it. Ingrate! Snake in the grass! To
deceive me,—to carry on an affair like this, for you must have done
so,—under my very nose, and keep it all so sly! Dorcas Everett!
daughter of my enemy,—my long time foe,—the most despicable woman in
the world! And, knowing all about it, you deliberately cultivate the
acquaintance of her daughter and secretly go on to the point of wanting
to marry her! I can’t believe it! It’s too monstrous! Were there no
other girls in the world,—in your life,—that you must choose that one?
You can’t have been so diabolical as to have done it purposely to break
my heart!”
“Oh, no, Auntie, I didn’t do that! I chanced to meet Dorcas,—one day at
Janet Fayre’s,—and, somehow, we both fell in love at once!”
“Stop! don’t tell me another word! Get out, Eliza!” as Miss Gurney
reappeared at the door. “I told you to get out! Now, stay out! Get away
from me, Richard; you can’t help any by trying to fawn around me! You
don’t know what you’ve done,—I grant you that! You don’t know—you
can’t know,—how you’ve crucified me!”
Springing up from her chair, Miss Prall darted from the room, and out
into the hall. Down one flight of stairs she ran, and furiously pealed
the bell of Mrs Everett’s apartment on the floor below.
The maid who opened the door was startled at the visitor’s appearance,
but the angry caller asked for no one; she pushed her way past the
servant, and faced Mrs Everett in her own reception room.
“Do you know what’s going on, Adeline Everett? Do you know that your
daughter is—is interested in my nephew? Answer me that!”
“I don’t know it, and I don’t believe it,” returned Mrs Everett, a
plump, blonde matron, whose touched-up golden hair was allowed to show
no gray, and whose faintly pink cheeks were solicitously cared for.
“Ask her!” quivered Letitia Prall’s angry voice, and she clenched her
long thin fingers in ill-controlled rage.
“I will; she’s in the next room. Come in here, Dorcas. Tell Miss Prall
she is mistaken,—presumptuously mistaken.”
The haughty stare with which the hostess regarded her guest continued
until Dorcas, coming in, said, with a pretty blush and smile, “I’m
afraid she isn’t mistaken, Mother.”
“Just what do you mean?” Mrs Everett asked, icily, transferring her gaze
to her daughter.
Very sweet and appealing Dorcas looked as she realized the crucial
moment had arrived. Now she must take her stand for all time. Her big,
dark eyes turned from one furious face to the other as the two women
waited her response. Her face paled a little as she saw their attitude,
their implacable wrath, their hatred of each other, and their
momentarily suspended judgment of herself. Yet she stood her ground.
With a pretty dignity, she spoke quietly and in a calm, steady voice:
“I heard what Miss Prall said,” she began, “I couldn’t help it, as I was
so near, and all I can say is, that it is true. I am not only interested
in Richard Bates, but I love him. He loves me,—and we hope—oh,
mumsie,—be kind!—we hope you two will make up your quarrel for our
sakes!”
“Go to your room, Dorcas,” her mother said, and in those words the girl
read her doom. She knew her mother well, and she saw beyond all shadow
of doubt that there was no leniency to be hoped for. She sensed in her
mother’s expression as she pronounced the short sentence, an absolute
and immutable decision. She might as well plead for the moon, as for her
mother’s permission to be interested in Letitia Prall’s nephew.
“Wait a minute,” countermanded Miss Prall. “Answer me this, Dorcas. Are
you and my nephew engaged? Has it come to that?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, thinking quickly, and deciding it best to
force the issue.
“Hush!” commanded her mother; “go to your room!”
Mrs Everett fairly pushed her daughter through the door, closed it, and
then said: “There is little need of further remark on this subject. We
might have known it would come,—at least we might have feared it. One
of us must leave this house. Will you go or shall I?”
“You take no thought of the young people’s heart-break?”
“I do not! Dorcas will get over it; I don’t care whether your nephew
does or not. I can take care of my child, and that’s all that interests
me.”
“You think you can,—but perhaps you do not know the depth of their
attachment or the strength of their wills.”
“It is not for you, an unmarried woman, to instruct me in the ways of
young lovers! I repeat, Letitia Prall, I can take care of my daughter.
Her welfare in no way concerns you. I am only thankful we discovered
this state of things before it is too late. Good Heavens! You don’t
suppose it is too late, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t suppose those young idiots are—married!”
“Of course not! My Richard is above such clandestine ways!”
“Your Richard isn’t above anything! My Dorcas is, but—he might have
persuaded her—oh, well, I’ll attend to Dorcas. There is no need for you
to tarry longer.”
The exaggerated courtesy of her manner goaded Miss Prall to rudeness.
“I shall stay as long as I like,” she returned, stubbornly sitting
still. “There is more to be said, Adeline Everett. There is more to be
done. I want your assurance that you will move away,—it doesn’t suit my
plans to leave this house,—and that you will take your forward and
designing daughter far enough to keep her from maneuvering to ensnare my
nephew.”
“I shall be only too glad to take my daughter away from the vicinity of
your crack-brained charge! What has Dick Bates ever done? He has never
earned a dollar for himself!”
“He doesn’t need to. He is a genius; he will yet astonish the world with
his inventions. You know me well enough to know that I speak truth.
Moreover, he is his uncle’s sole heir!”
“Binney, the Bun man!”
“Yes, Sir Herbert Binney, proprietor of the famous Binney’s Buns. But,
look here, Adeline,” the absorption in her nephew’s interest blotted out
for the moment her scorn of the other woman, “Uncle Binney favors the
match.”
“What match?” Mrs Everett was honestly blank.
“Between Richard and Dorcas.”
“Why, he doesn’t know Dorcas.”
“He has seen her, and anyway, he’d approve of any nice girl that Rick
cared for. You see, Sir Herbert wanted the boy to marry and settle down
and become the American branch of Binney’s Buns.”
“My daughter the wife of a baker! No, thank you! You know me, Letitia
Prall, well enough to know my ambitions for Dorcas. She shall marry the
man I choose for her,—and he will not be a baker! Nor,” and her face
was drawn with sudden anger, “nor will he be Richard Bates!”
“Indeed he will not!” and Miss Prall rose and flounced out of the place.
In his own small but attractive apartment, Sir Herbert Binney was
dressing for dinner. Always a careful dresser, he was unusually
particular this evening. His man, Peters, thought he had never seen his
master so fussed over the minor details of his apparel. Also, Sir
Herbert was preoccupied. Usually he chatted cheerily, but to-night he
was thoughtful, almost moody.
“A cab, sir?” said Peters, half afraid that he’d be snapped at for
asking an unnecessary question, yet not quite certain that a cab was
desired.
“Yes,” was the absent-minded response, and Peters passed on the word by
telephone to the doorman below.
Then, satisfactorily turned out, Sir Herbert left his rooms and touched
the elevator bell.
Once in the car, and seeing the pretty elevator girl, his mood
brightened.
“Good evening, Daisy,” he said, “give me one kiss for good luck. This is
my busy day.”
He carelessly put an arm round her, and kissed her lightly on the lips,
even as he spoke. The girl was taken by surprise, and anger surged up in
her soul.
“You coward!” she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and
mindful of her elevator gear. “Take shame to yourself, sir, for
insulting a defenseless girl!”
“Oh, come now, chicken, that didn’t hurt you! I’m only a jollier. Forget
it, and I’ll give you a big box of candy.”
“I’ll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again——”
The dire threat was not pronounced, for just then the car reached the
ground floor, and the girl flung the door open.
Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up
curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the
angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without
knowledge of his ways herself.
But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at
the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney’s estimation, born
to be waved at.
He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with
a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.
“Taxi ready?” he said to the obsequious doorman.
“Yes, sir,—yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are.”
“And here you are,” the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of
silver.
“To the Hotel Magnifique,” he said, and his cab rolled away.
During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile shifted. The
elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator
was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight
no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.
After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o’clock
Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the
door, telephone and elevator all by himself.
This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The
Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were
rarely out later than one or two in the morning.
On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back
home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time
uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand
of fiction.
At two o’clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth
floor.
Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was
Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore,
full of his story, said:
“Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?”
“Occasionally; but I haven’t much time for reading. Business men like
more active recreation.”
“Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I’m swallowing is a corker!”
“What’s it called?”
“‘Murder Will Out,’ by Joe Jarvis. It’s great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim
was killed,—killed, mind you,—in a room that was all locked up——”
“How did the murderer get in?”
“That’s just it! How did he? And he left his revolver,——”
“Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a
secret passage——”
“No, sir, there wasn’t! That is, the author says so, and all the
people,—the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can’t! Oh,
it’s exciting, I’ll say! I can’t guess how it’s coming out.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t peek over to the last page?”
“No, that spoils a story for me. The fun I get out of it is the trying
to ferret out the solution, on my own. That’s sport for me. Why, you
see, Mr Vail,—but, excuse me, sir, I’m keeping you.”
The elevator had stopped at the tenth floor, and Vail had left the car,
but he stood waiting till the enthusiastic Moore should pause.
“Oh, well, go on,—what were you saying?”
“Only this, sir. To me, a good detective story is not the one that keeps
you guessing,—nor the one that keeps you in fearful suspense as to the
outcome, but the one that gives you a chance to solve the riddle
yourself. The one that puts all the cards on the table, and gives you a
chance at it.”
“And you can usually work it out?”
“Sometimes,—not always. But the fun is in trying.”
“You ought to have been a detective, Moore. You’ve the taste for it
evidently. Well, good-night; hope you discover the clue and solve the
mystery. Shall you finish your book to-night?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’m more than half way through it.”
“Well, tell me in the morning if you guessed right. Good-night, Moore.”
“Good-night, Mr Vail.”
The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his
book.
But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to
him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a
figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way
between himself and the entrance.
He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near.
“Dead!” he breathed softly, to himself, “no, not dead!—oh, my God, it’s
Sir Herbert Binney!”
In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled
columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood
was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony,
from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were
framing inarticulate words.
Bob Moore’s wits did not desert him. Instead, his thoughts seemed to
flash with uncanny quickness.
“Binney’s dying,” he told himself, “he’s been murdered! Gee! what an
excitement there will be! He’s babbling,—he’s going to tell who killed
him! If I scoot for Doctor Pagett, this chap’ll be dead before I get
back,—if I wait,—I’ll be called down for not going—but I must get it
out of him,—if I can—what is that, Sir, try to tell me——”
Bending over the stricken man, Moore listened intently, and
caught the words,—or words which sounded like,—“Get—them—get
J—J—anyway,—get—J——”
With a sudden gasping gurgle, the man was dead.
Bewildered, but striving hard to grasp the situation and do his exact
duty, Moore looked about, and quickly concluded his next move was to
call the doctor.
Pagett, on the second floor, was the physician of the house, and Moore
raced up the stairs to his apartment.
Ringing the bell continuously brought the doctor to the door.
“What’s happened?” he said, sleepily.
“Murder!” answered Moore, briefly. “Hike into some clothes and get
downstairs. Sir Herbert Binney’s been done for!”
Not waiting, Moore ran back down the stairs, and took his station
guarding the dead man. He resolved to touch nothing, but his attention
at once fell on a bit of paper, on which Binney had evidently been
scrawling some message, with the pencil that had at last fallen from his
nerveless fingers.
Careful not to touch the paper, Moore devoured it with his eyes.
This is what he read:
[Illustration (handwritten note): women did this get [unreadable]]