No sooner had Miss Maclaire vanished than Keith's thoughts turned toward
Hope Waite. She would need someone in her loneliness to take her
mind from off her brother's death, and, besides, much had occurred of
interest since the funeral, which he desired to talk over with her.
Beyond even these considerations he was becoming aware of a pleasure in
the girl's company altogether foreign to this mystery which they were
endeavoring together to solve. He yearned to be with her, to look
into her face, to mark how clearly the differing soul changed her from
Christie Maclaire. He could not help but like the latter, yet somehow
was conscious of totally different atmospheres surrounding the two.
With one he could be flippant, careless, even deceitful, but the other
aroused only the best that was in him, her own sincerity making him
sincere.
Yet there was reluctance in his steps as he approached the door of “15,”
a laggardness he could not explain, but which vanished swiftly enough at
Hope's greeting, and the sudden smile with which she recognized him.
“I was sure you would come,” she declared frankly, “and I took an early
lunch so as to be certain and be here. It has seemed a long time since.”
“And you might have even thought I had forgotten,” he answered,
releasing her hand reluctantly, “if you could have looked into the
dining-room since, instead of staring out of these windows.”
“Why? How forgotten?” her eyes opening wide in surprise.
“I had the pleasure of taking supper with Miss Maclaire.”
“Oh!” the exclamation decidedly expressive.
“Yes, I come at once to you with the confession. However, our meeting
was purely accidental, and so I hope for pardon.”
“Pardon from me? Why, what difference can it possibly make to me?”
“Would you have me consort with the enemy?” he asked, scarcely daring to
press his deeper meaning.
“Oh, no, of course not. What did you talk about? Do you mind telling?”
“Not in the least; our conversation was entirely impersonal. She was
telling me about Hawley; what a wonderfully good man he is. I have begun
to suspect the fellow has fascinated the poor girl--he is a good looking
devil, possessed of a tongue dripping with honey.”
“Surely you do not mean she has fallen in love with him,” and Hope
shuddered at the thought. “Why--why that would be impossible for--for a
good woman.”
“Standards of morality are not always the same,” he defended gravely.
“Miss Maclaire's environment has been vastly different from yours, Hope.
She is a variety hall singer; probably, from her own account, a waif
since childhood; and Hawley has come to her in the character of a
friend, appealing both to her interest and sympathy. I do not know she
is in love with him, I merely suspect she may be; certainly she is ready
to do battle on his behalf at the slightest opportunity. She believes in
him, defends him, and resents the slightest insinuation directed against
him. He even escorts her back and forth from her work.”
“You know this?”
“I certainly do,” and he laughed at the recollection. “Fairbain met
us coming out of the dining-room,--you know what a delightful, blunt,
blundering old fellow he is! Well, Miss Christie must have made an
impression even on his bachelor heart, for he actually requested the
privilege of escorting her to the Trocadero, and back to the hotel
after the performance to-night--hinted at a lunch, the gay old dog, and
pranced about like a stage-door Johnnie. It was a treat to watch her
face when he blurted it all out, snapping his sentences as if he swung a
whip-lash. She excused herself on the score of a previous engagement.”
“But that was not necessarily with Hawley.”
“I asked her directly, after the doctor had disappeared.”
“You must have become very familiar,” questioning once again in her
voice.
“So Miss Maclaire evidently thought, judging from her manner. However
she answered frankly enough, and, even defiantly, added the information
that the gentleman had something to impart to her of the utmost
importance, sarcastically asking me if I didn't wish I could be
there and overhear. But sit down, Hope, until I tell you all that has
occurred.”
He went over the various events in detail, watching eagerly the
expression upon her face as she listened intently, only occasionally
interrupting with some pertinent inquiry. The light fell so that she
sat partially in the shadow, where her eyes could not be read, yet he
experienced no difficulty in comprehending the various moods with which
she met his narrative, the color changing in her cheeks, her supple
form bending toward him, or leaning backward in the chair, her fingers
clasping or unclasping in nervous attention. He began with Neb's report,
repeating, word by word, as nearly as he could recollect, what had
passed between Hawley and her father. He paused to inquire if she had
ever heard the name Bartlett, but her reply was merely a negative
shake of the head. When he described their missing the train, she
was, apparently, not convinced as to the General's departure upon it,
although finally agreeing that, if he really believed the report that
the man sought was elsewhere, it would be characteristic of him to
accept the first means of getting there. “If he only knew I was here,”
she exclaimed wearily, “it might be so different, but, oh, we are all
of us just groping in the dark.” Then Keith turned to his chance meeting
with Miss Maclaire, and repeated carefully their conversation, dwelling
particularly upon the few admissions which had slipped through her lips.
These did not seem important to either, although they treasured them
up and talked them over. Then, having exhausted the topic, silence fell
between them, Keith asking the privilege of lighting a cigar. Hope,
after watching him apply the match, thinking what a fine face he had as
the ruddy flame brought it forth with the clearness of a cameo, leaned
back, drawing aside the semblance to a lace curtain, and staring forth,
without seeing, into the street.
Somehow it was hard for her to fully realize the situation, and how
closely it affected her. The swiftly passing events, the complication
arising so suddenly, apparently out of nothing, left her feeling as
though she must surely awake from a dream. She could not comprehend what
it was all about; the names Bartlett and Phyllis had no clear meaning,
they represented nothing but shadows; and this other woman--this music
hall singer--what could there be in common between them? Yet there must
be something--something of vital importance to her father--something
which had already cost her brother's life. That was the one thing which
made it seem an actuality--which brought it home to her as a rugged
fact. But for that--and Keith--Keith sitting there before her--she
would have doubted it all. And yet even Keith had come into her life
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as to leave her dazed and uncertain. So
strongly did this feeling grip her in the silence, that she extended her
hand and touched him, as though to make sure of his actual presence.
“What is it, Hope?”
“Oh, nothing--nothing,” her voice breaking in a little sob. “It is so
silly, but I was just wondering if you were real--everything seems so
impossible. I cannot bring my mind to grasp the situation.”
He did not smile, but only took the groping hand into both of his own.
“I think I understand, little girl,” he said gravely. “You are totally
unused to such life. Almost without a moment's warning you have been
plunged into a maelstrom of adventure, and are all confused. It is
different with me--since the first shot at Sumter my life has been one
of action, and adventure has grown to be the stimulus I need, and upon
which I thrive. But I assure you,” pressing the soft hand warmly, “I am
real.”
“Of course I know that; it makes me glad to know it. If I could only do
something myself, and not just sit here, it would all become real enough
to me.”
She rose suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, her face
changing with new animation.
“Why couldn't I? I am sure I could. Oh, Mr. Keith, it has just come to
me how I can help.”
He looked at her questioningly, thinking of her beauty rather than of
what she said.
“Do--do I really appear so much like--like that woman?” she asked
anxiously.
“Very much, indeed, excepting for the slight difference in age.”
“That would never be noticed in the dark, or a poor light. Am I the same
height?”
“Practically, yes.”
“And my voice?--could you distinguish me from her by my voice?”
“I might; yet probably not, unless my suspicions were aroused. What is
it you are thinking about?”
She took a deep breath, standing now directly facing him in the light.
“Of playing Miss Maclaire to-night,” she said quickly. “Of taking her
place, and learning what it is of so much importance Hawley has to
report. Don't you think it might be done?”
The sheer audacity of this unexpected proposal left him speechless. He
arose to his feet, gripping the back of the chair, almost doubting if
he could have heard aright, his eyes searching the girl's face which was
glowing with excitement. Of course he could not permit of her exposure
to such a risk; the scheme was impracticable, absurd. But was it? Did
it not offer a fair chance of success? And was not the possible result
worthy the risk assumed? He choked back the earlier words of protest
unuttered, puzzled as to what he had best say. A quick-witted
resourceful woman might accomplish all she proposed.
“It looks so simple,” she broke in impulsively, moving nearer him.
“Don't you think I could do it? Would it be unwomanly?”
“The result, if accomplished, would abundantly justify the means, Hope,”
he acknowledged at last. “I was not hesitating on that account, but
considering the risk you would incur.”
“That would be so small--merely the short walk alone with him from
the theatre to the hotel,” she pleaded. “Once here it could make no
difference if he did discover my identity, for there would be plenty of
men near at hand to come to my defence. Oh, please say yes.”
“If I do, then we must make the illusion perfect, and take as few
chances of discovery as possible. I must learn exactly how the other
dresses, and when she leaves the theatre. Fortunately for the success of
your plan the Trocadero permits no one but performers to come behind the
scenes, so that Hawley will be compelled to wait for the lady outside
the stage door. I had better go at once, and see to these details.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, “and I am so glad
you are willing. I will be most discreet. You are not sorry I made the
proposal?”
“Certainly not. At first it struck me as altogether wrong, but the more
I think of it the stronger it appeals to me. It may reveal to us the
whole conspiracy, and I cannot believe Hawley would venture upon any
gross familiarity likely to cost him the good opinion of his ally.
There is too much at stake. Wait here, Hope, and I will be back the very
moment I learn all that is necessary.”
A glance at the office clock convinced Keith that, in all probability,
Miss Maclaire had not, as yet, departed for the scene of her evening
triumph. Still, it could not be long before she would, and he lit a
cigar, sitting down in a corner partially concealed by the clerk's
desk to wait her appearance. This required longer than anticipated, and
fearing lest he might have missed the departure entirely, he was about
to question the busy Thomas, when he beheld Hawley enter hurriedly from
the street and run up the stairs. He then had been the laggard. All the
better, as he would now have no opportunity to unfold his tale to
the lady, as it would be necessary for them to hurry to the theatre.
Whatever the nature of the revelation it would have to wait until the
walk home. The excitement of the adventure was already creeping into
Keith's blood, his pulse quickening.
The two returned almost immediately, conclusively proving that Miss
Maclaire, fully dressed for the street, had been awaiting the arrival of
her gallant with some impatience. Hawley was busily explaining his delay
as they came down the stairs, and paid little attention to the seemingly
deserted office. Indeed, Miss Christie monopolized all his thoughts.
With quick scrutiny the watcher noted the more conspicuous articles of
apparel constituting her costume--the white mantilla thrown over
her head, the neatly fitting blue dress, the light cape covering the
shoulders--surely it would not be difficult to duplicate these, so as to
pass muster under the dim light of the streets. Far enough in their
rear to feel safe from observation he followed, noting with increased
pleasure the rapidity with which they covered the required distance.
Clearly Miss Christie was already nervous lest she have not sufficient
time remaining in which to properly dress for her act, and there would
be no exchange of confidences on the outward journey. Hawley left her,
as Keith anticipated, at the stage entrance, the lady hastening within.
Her escort strolled leisurely back to the front of the house, and
finally, purchasing a ticket, entered, the performance already having
begun.
Keith knew perfectly the arrangement of the theatre--the seats in front;
tables all through the centre; a gallery filled with benches; a noisy
orchestra beneath the stage; a crowded audience of men, with only here
and there a scattered representative of the gentler sex; busy waiters
dodging in and out among the tables, and down the aisles, filling orders
for liquids from the nearby saloon. The air would be pungent with the
odor of drink, thick with the fumes of tobacco, and noisy with voices,
except as some special favorite on the stage won temporary attention.
The Trocadero possessed but one redeeming feature--no doorway connected
stage and auditorium, and the management brooked no interference with
his artists. It had required some nerve to originally enforce this
rule, together with a smart fight or two, but at this period it was
acknowledged and respected. No sooner had Hawley vanished than Keith
found occasion to enter into casual conversation with the door-keeper,
asking a number of questions, and leaving impressed upon the mind
of that astute individual the idea that he was dealing with a “gent”
enamored of one of the stage beauties. A coin slipped quietly into the
man's hand served to deepen this impression, and unlocked discreet lips
otherwise sworn to secrecy. Out of much general information a little of
real value was thus extracted--Miss Maclaire's act began at 9:45 and was
over promptly at 10:10. It required about twenty minutes more for her
to change again into street clothes, and she usually left the theatre
immediately after, which would be about 10:30. Yes, there was a
vestibule outside the stage door, and on bad nights, those waiting
for the ladies could slip in there. But on such a night as this they
generally hung around outside. No, there was no watchman, but the
manager was frequently prowling around. He'd be busy, however, at 10:30,
getting the stage ready for the “Flying Hermanns.” Abundantly satisfied
and resisting the door-keeper's professional suggestion that he'd
better buy a ticket and take a look at the show, Keith slipped away, and
hastened back to the hotel. The more he investigated the more feasible
appeared the girl's plan, and he was now fully committed to it.