The Girl in Gray
The following afternoon I had an engagement for tea with Mrs. Furneau.
She had told me to come early, ostensibly because we were to have a
quiet talk over some plans for amateur theatricals. But since our
second meeting I had made a good deal of an effort to please her, and
our friendship was on a more or less intimate basis at this time.
It had not been necessary to pretend to much admiration, for Mrs.
Furneau was a charming woman. But where Margaret’s fate might be even
slightly concerned I had none of the scruples I might otherwise have
felt. Therefore, I had made my admiration for the lady more evident
than was perhaps necessary, hoping for the time when our growing
intimacy might give me the opportunity to question her suddenly about
my sister and possibly learn something, if there were anything to
learn, for my former suspicion of her had somehow faded, as I knew her
better.
So, about half-past three, I pulled myself together, assumed a most
cynical and disillusioned expression, and set forth for her house.
Our conversation that afternoon, before the arrival of her other
guests, was of a more or less personal nature and consisted mainly of
subtleties, of which the lady was a past mistress.
Once, however, she referred to the subject never absent from my
thoughts: “Jack,” she said, after a pause and speaking a little
wistfully, I thought, “have you really given up all hope of finding
your sister?”
She reached out and touched my hand delicately, to soften the reminder
if she could.
I nodded. “What’s the use? I’ve looked everywhere and it’s hopeless.
Don’t let’s talk about it. Don’t worry about it, but let me go to the
devil in my own way.” I smiled bitterly.
I glanced away from her, but when I looked back again her eyes were on
me with a keenness of scrutiny that I had never seen before in them.
There was a little furrow between her pretty brows too. But she
contented herself with—“It doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”
“Perhaps not!” I retorted. “But when there isn’t a single shred of a
trace to go on, what can I do?”
She hesitated a moment. “I didn’t ask just to hurt you. I expect Mrs.
Fawcette here this afternoon, later on. It was at her house that I
took Margaret to luncheon that wretched day, you remember. And I did
not know whether you would rather see her again and perhaps question
her further, or go away before she comes. She went away, you remember,
soon after that, on one of her globe-trotting jaunts or something. And
I thought, perhaps——”
“Oh, I don’t mind seeing her again, if that’s what you mean,” I
answered, though I had never even thought of questioning Mrs. Fawcette
very closely, except to verify the fact that Margaret had left with
Mrs. Furneau a little after five. And I realized at that moment that
perhaps I had been careless there.
“But as for questioning her again,” I added, “what’s the use?”
Helen Furneau shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I thought I’d tell you,
anyway.”
“I appreciate that,” I told her.
“She’s a queer woman,” Mrs. Furneau went on. “She used to be
ultra-conservative, before her husband died. But since she’s been
wandering around the globe, with nothing in particular to occupy her,
she’s taken on a crowd that even I would call queer. And I don’t
believe anybody ever accused me of conservatism.” She laughed
whimsically.
Naturally I pricked up my ears at that, though I don’t think I showed
it. Anyway, I turned the conversation back to my charming hostess a
moment later.
Presently the guests began to arrive. They were the usual mixed lot of
artists and professionals, with a rich sprinkling of foreigners, for
whom Helen Furneau had a particular _penchant_.
I was deep in cynical platitudes with a round-bodied and rat-eyed
little cubist who looked as if he needed scrubbing, when Helen called
my name.
She stood at my elbow and, turning, I found myself facing the
loveliest girl I had ever seen. She was dressed in gray—clinging,
filmy stuff—with a big gray floppy hat. I took that much in before
Mrs. Furneau completed the introduction. Then the girl’s big gray eyes
met mine gravely, lingered a moment taking me in, and fell away from
mine with just a hint of shyness. She was obviously quite young and
obviously out of place in that _galère_.
I was introduced in turn to her aunt, a fussy and voluble person, by
all external signs; of the kind that rushes in and so forth. That
over, I turned to the girl again with an inward sigh of relief. If I
must talk to rat-eyed cubists for the sake of my search, there could
be no harm in a few moments off duty in such obviously wholesome
company.
During my introduction to her aunt, Miss Van Cleef had stood close to
our hostess, and while I made the remark or two to her aunt which
convention required, the girl was talking to Mrs. Furneau. She was
speaking as I joined them.
“. . . most wonderful stuff I ever tasted. You must go and get them to
give you some. They _were_ funny people, though. I don’t believe I
like them very——”
She stopped as I came up to them. Clearly she and my hostess were on
the best of terms.
The three of us talked about nothing in particular for a moment, and
then Mrs. Furneau hurried away to greet newer arrivals and I led the
girl to a seat.
She came from Utica, I learned, had never been in New York before this
visit to her aunt, and before long I had her embarked on a description
of her impressions of the people she had met in her aunt’s circle. In
the meantime I studied the lovely face. From the point of view of a
painter of portraits the features were almost perfect. And with all
the beauty of wide gray eyes, straight, delicate nose and crimson,
sweetly curving lips, she had that added something—expression, spirit,
feeling, call it what you will—that made the lovely features really
beautiful. I could hardly credit her, even as I sat and watched her.
Presently she faltered and colored faintly and I drew my eyes hastily
away. Then, more to cover the momentary embarrassment than anything
else, I reverted to the remark which I had overheard.
“Won’t you tell me what was the most wonderful stuff you ever tasted?”
I inquired.
She laughed gayly. “Oh, my aunt took, me to a funny party this
afternoon, before we came here. There were all sorts of queer people
there, and I—I didn’t care for it very much. But they gave me some of
the most wonderful tea you can imagine. It almost reconciled me to the
people for a while. I felt sort of dreamy, as though I loved the whole
world. And then afterwards”—she laughed a little shyly—“I liked them
all less than ever. There must have been something queer in it.”
My first thought was delight at the girl’s entire ingenuousness. But a
moment later the full significance of her words came to me, and I
realized that here might be the clew for which we had been searching
for so long.
“How extraordinary!” I laughed. “But are you sure that it was the tea
and not just a sudden mood?”
My companion shook her head. “No,” she answered positively, “I know
the sort of mood you mean, But this was something much more distinct
and engrossing. Why, for a little while everything seemed to expand or
contract in the queerest way. I’m afraid I can’t explain very well.
But everything there—all the people and even the things in the
room—seemed to have delightful and wonderful qualities, and—— I’m
afraid that doesn’t sound very coherent?” she broke off, laughing.
“It is quite coherent,” I responded, “though strange enough, surely.
But——” I broke off and looked into her eyes.
“But what?”
I was silent a moment. “But I wonder,” I went on, “whether I might
become socially impossible for a moment and say something serious?”
The lovely eyes met mine in frank surprise and inquiry.
“. . . and I wonder whether that sort of thing is good for one?” I
finished.
She laughed. “That’s not very serious, Mr. Clayton. No, I don’t
suppose that sort of thing is at all good for one. But you New Yorkers
do not make that a criterion of your actions, surely?”
“Perhaps _we_ do not!” I answered gravely.
“But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t?” she demanded, smiling. “There
you go, trying to keep all the privileges for yourselves. I think I
like New York and I want lots of privileges!”
I laughed. “Do you expect to be here long?” I asked.
“About a month, I think.”
“Well, you ought to see about enough of New York in that time. And I
hereby extend you the freedom of the city with all its privileges. But
I hope you will extend me one in return?”
At this moment her aunt bustled up to us. “Natalie, my dear, you must
come and meet the Jordans. Such dear people and _so_ unusual. Two of
my best friends, you know.”
She turned to me, beaming. “You will excuse us, Mr. Clayton?”
Miss Van Cleef rose gracefully to her feet. In spite of a little
momentary trick of shyness now and then, she was clearly a young lady
with a good deal of natural poise. She turned to me for an instant,
before following her aunt.
“And the boon you ask?” she inquired, laughing.
“Just to see something of you while you are here,” answered I gravely.
Again the lovely eyes met mine in surprise. I tried to make my glance
express nothing more than a friendly interest, but it is possible that
a little of my growing wonder and admiration showed for an instant.
“Natalie!” her aunt called her a little impatiently.
My companion colored adorably and dropped her eyes. “I—why, of course,
if you—wish it,” she murmured.
An instant later she had joined her aunt. But I stood still, conscious
of quickening pulses. And for an instant, before I was drawn into the
general conversation about me, I forgot my mission there and the work
I had set myself to do and became enmeshed in a day-dream, full of
vague thoughts and fancies, leading I knew not whither.
But not for long. In the middle of a discussion on Freud, my hostess
moved past me with a smile that held something of meaning in it, and I
looked up to see her welcoming a tall woman, strikingly handsome,
whose face I recognized at once.
But I should not have recognized her if her face had not been engraved
on my memory by the force of association with tragedy. For I
remembered Mrs. Fawcette as an ultra-conservative, conventional
woman—a woman who was socially powerful and knew it, and one whose
speech and attire were as conservative as her views. And now!
She wore a long flowing “art” gown of the most amazing shade of orange
fading into lavender. She wore long green earrings, hanging nearly to
her shoulder. Her chestnut hair, once so beautifully coiffured, now
escaped in wisps from beneath her big, flopping hat, and from her head
to her heels she was “of art, arty”!
But after a second glance I realized that the change in her attire was
perhaps not the most striking change after all. The handsome face was
still hard—still held something of dominance in its level glance—but
the mouth had sagged a little, there were heavy lines under the eyes,
the eyes themselves were less clear, and the whole face had
deteriorated. It was much like approaching a house, handsome in the
distance, only to find it deserted and falling into ruins on closer
inspection.
As a portrait painter, I have naturally studied faces. But I have
never before or since seen so great a change in a face without a
definite cause to which the change could be ascribed. It was not a
good face, at all events, of that I was very certain.
Mrs. Furneau smilingly signed to me to join her, and I was presently
shaking hands with Mrs. Fawcette. Her manner was most cordial, but I
did not feel that she was particularly glad to see me.
“I hear you have been round the world since last we met,” I told her.
“Oh, no! Just a fairly long stay in Egypt, a little off the beaten
track.”
“What enthusiasm!” I remarked. “Life is a poor shabby thing at best,
so I don’t see that it matters much where we spend it. But I dare say
you enjoyed yourself?”
My manner was languid and my words evoked a glance of surprise from my
hostess. But I imagine that she took it into her head that my attitude
had some sort of a purpose—as indeed it had, though not the humorous
one she suspected—for she smiled slightly and moved away.
Mrs. Fawcette had found a seat on a sofa while we were talking, and I
sat down beside her without an invitation.
“Oh, yes, thank you, I enjoyed myself,” she answered a little sharply.
“How extraordinary,” I answered; “I thought that faculty was—dead, in
most of us.”
She turned and stared at me, suspiciously. “Well, it isn’t dead in me,
at all events!” she snapped; “although your remarks might imply that
you think it ought to be!”
I was secretly delighted to find that she had so quick a temper. For I
hoped that reaction might loosen her tongue, if there was anything to
learn from her.
I sat up as though stung. “My dear lady, I had no thought of implying
any such thing. If my words sounded discourteous I beg that you will
pardon them. To tell you the truth, you may remember that I suffered a
terrible loss some months ago, and I’m afraid that that has made me
self-centered as well as costing me my own capacity for enjoyment. You
remember?”
It seemed to me that my companion started slightly, and for an instant
my heart stood still with a sudden fierce hope. But she answered
smoothly enough:
“You poor man, of course I remember it. But surely you found your
sister again. I have been away, you see, and——”
I shook my head. “No, I never found her—and now I am trying to
forget.”
I glanced at my companion, but she was looking down at her hands. “You
have stopped trying to find her?” she inquired, without looking up.
“What is the use?”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then: “I think, perhaps, you are wise!” said my companion. “After all,
she probably ran away with some one and is quite happy.” She looked up
at me at last. “And I am sure you will regain your capacity for
enjoyment.”
Her glance lingered a moment, and for the first time I became aware of
a queer fascination of which she seemed to have the power. She was
undoubtedly a handsome woman, and her long, narrow eyes could express
a great deal in a queer, elusive way.
“I feel that I am regaining it momentarily,” I answered. I could have
taken her and cheerfully choked her for the callous way in which she
had referred to my sister, fascination or no fascination, but that
would not have advanced my cause at all. I was beginning to be
suspicious of every one, and Mrs. Fawcette had been one of the last
people to see Margaret.
She smiled into my eyes then, a strange, elusive smile that was yet
vaguely repellent. “You are pleased to be facetious,” she said.
“Indeed, no. Of all interests a human interest is the keenest. And
when that interest is beautiful——” I sighed.
I felt her hand touch mine for a fleeting instant. “Come,” she
answered, “you must not flirt with me on such short acquaintance!” But
she smiled into my eyes.
“And when our acquaintance is not so short?” I demanded.
She rose to her feet and I got up and faced her, “—If you will permit
me to lengthen it,” I added.
She laughed provocatively. “Why, then we shall see what we shall see,”
she answered.
She left me then, and presently I took leave of my hostess and came
away. I had learned little or nothing either from Mrs. Fawcette or
from any one. But I was anything but ill-pleased with my afternoon.
For at least I had paved the way for a closer acquaintance with that
rather dangerous-looking lady. And I had learned something of interest
from the Girl in Gray. My pulses quickened again reminiscently at the
thought and I shook myself impatiently. Such things and such thoughts
were not for me until I had solved my problem and found Margaret.
Larry met me at my door in high excitement. “Sure ’tis glad I am
you’re back agin, sor. That there private ’phone’s been ringing like
mad fer the last hour. Ivery minute, Misther Moore wants to know are
ye back yit. He must have something important to tell ye, sor. There!
There it goes again.”
I gave my hat, stick and gloves to Larry and hurried into my bedroom.
Yes, the tiny ’phone bell was ringing faintly.
“Hello, Moore? This is Clayton. You want me?”
“At last,” came Moore’s voice over the wire. “You bet I want you.
Clayton, I believe we’re on the right track at last!”
“How’s that?”
“You remember my telling you about the young drunk I met up on
Riverside Drive last night?”
“Of course!”
“Well, I went up to his place this afternoon—on West 44th Street—and
found everything at sixes and sevens. There were a lot of young
fellows of his type hanging around in the flat, to say nothing of
three or four peroxide blondes, and his man was nearly in tears. It
seems this chap can’t be found. He didn’t come home at all last night
and they haven’t heard from him. In short, he has disappeared. He had
appointments with a lot of them for the morning and afternoon and
evening, and one of the beauties remarked tearfully that it wasn’t
like Jimmy to break a date with a bit of fluff. But there it is. He’s
gone. His valet was just about to get in touch with the police when I
left.”
“What do you make of it?” I inquired.
“I’ll tell you, Clayton. Of course I may be wrong. The young rip may
have been worse soused than he looked, and may be sobering up in some
local police station. But I don’t think it was that. I didn’t like the
way the other fellow looked at him in the cloak-room last night while
he was talking about that party. The young fellow didn’t like it
either. And he told me that he had been forbidden to talk about that
party. I think that that had something to do with his disappearance.
Of course all this is only guess-work, but it looks queer, doesn’t
it?”
“Well,” I answered, “if he disappeared because he talked at that party
and he disappeared last night, the people he offended and who gave the
party must be fast workers.”
“That’s just it. If he has disappeared completely and doesn’t turn up,
I think that’s the most probable explanation. And only a
well-organized gang could work that fast. So it may be the same gang.”
“What about the other fellow? Did you trace him?” I asked.
“The man who overheard us? Yes. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to
him or get acquainted yet. His name is Vining, as I thought, and he’s
a young doctor with independent means. I guess he’s a better cocktail
mixer than a surgeon. Has an office on West End Avenue. They say he
limits his cases to attractive women. But every one agrees that he is
clever.”
“I hope he’s not too clever for us!” I answered. “But we can’t tell
much about it until we see whether the young man turns up or not. What
do you think?”
“Well,” Moore answered, “I hate to lose time, but I suppose it’s no
use jumping to conclusions. What’s your news?”
I told him what had happened to me that afternoon, including my own
clew, which I believed I had found in the description of the tea which
the Girl in Gray had had.
Finally we agreed to follow each his own line for the present, always
keeping the other informed of the progress made. Indeed there was
little else that we could do as yet.