THE MYSTERY OF THE SATIN SLIPPERS
STEWART, awakening from the contemplation of this poignant drama--one
of thousands such enacting at that moment all over Europe--realized
that he was lingering unduly and hastened his steps. At the end of five
minutes, he was again in the wide Franzstrasse, and, turning the last
corner, saw his landlady standing at her door, looking anxiously up and
down the street.
Her face brightened with relief when she saw him--a relief so evidently
deep and genuine that Stewart was a little puzzled by it.
“But I am glad to see you!” she cried as he came up, her face wreathed
in smiles. “I was imagining the most horrible things. I feared I know
not what! But you are safe, it seems.”
“Quite safe. In fact, I was never in any danger.”
“I was foolish, no doubt, to have fear. But in times like these, one
never knows what may happen.”
“True enough,” Stewart agreed. “Still, an American with a passport in
his pocket ought to be safe anywhere.”
“Ah; you have a passport--that is good. That will simplify matters. The
police have been here to question you. They will return presently.”
“The police?”
“There have been some spies captured, it seems. And there are many who
are trying to leave the country. So everyone is suspected. You are not
German-born, I hope? If you were, I fear not even your passport would
be of use.”
They had walked back together along the hall as they talked, and now
stopped at the foot of the stair. The landlady seemed very nervous--as
was perhaps natural amid the alarms of war. She scarcely listened
to his assurance that he was American by birth. Little beads of
perspiration stood out across her forehead----
“The police visited your room,” she rattled on. “You will perhaps find
your baggage disarranged.”
Stewart smiled wryly.
“So it seems they really suspect me?”
“They suspect everyone,” the landlady repeated.
She was standing with her back toward the door, and Stewart wondered
why she should watch his face so closely.
Suddenly, over her shoulder, he saw the ugly waiter with the hang-dog
air approaching along the hall.
“Such anxiety is quite natural,” said the landlady rapidly in
German, raising her voice a little. “I can understand it. But it is
not remarkable that you should have missed her--the trains are so
irregular. I will send her to you the moment she arrives. Ah, Hans,”
she added, turning at the sound of the waiter’s footsteps, “so you are
back at last! You will take up some hot water to the gentleman at once.
And now you will excuse me, sir; I have the dinner to attend to,” and
she hurried away, carrying the waiter with her.
Stewart stood for an instant staring after her; then he turned and
mounted slowly to his room. But what had the woman meant? Why should
he be anxious? Who was it he had missed? “I will send her to you
the moment she arrives.” No--she could not have said that--it was
impossible that she should have said that. He must have misunderstood;
his German was very second-rate, and she had spoken rapidly. But what
_had_ she said?
He was still pondering this problem, when a knock at the door told him
that the hot water had arrived. As he opened the door, the landlady’s
voice came shrilly up the stair.
“Hans!” she called. “There is something wrong with the stove. Hasten!
Hasten!”
Stewart took the can which was thrust hastily into his hand, turned
back into the room, and proceeded to make a leisurely toilet. If the
landlady had not told him, he would never have suspected that his
baggage had been searched by the police, for everything seemed to be
where he had left it. But then he was a hasty and careless packer, by
no means precise----
That vague feeling of uneasiness which had shaken him in the church
swept over him again, stronger than before; there was something wrong
somewhere; the meshes of an invisible net seemed closing about him.
More than once he caught himself standing quite still, in an attitude
of profound meditation, though he was not conscious that he had really
been thinking of anything. Evidently the events of the day had shaken
him more deeply than he had realized.
“Come, old man,” he said at last, “this won’t do. Pull yourself
together.”
And then a sudden vivid memory rose before him of those praying women,
of that wrinkled mother gazing despairingly after her youngest born
as he was marched away perhaps forever, of the set faces of the crowd
shuffling silently homeward----
He had been absently turning over the contents of one of his bags,
searching for a necktie, when he found himself staring at a pair
of satin ball-slippers, into each of which was stuffed a blue silk
stocking. For quite a minute he stared, doubting his own senses; then
he picked up one of the slippers and looked at it.
It was a tiny affair, very delicate and beautiful--a real jewel in
footwear, such as Stewart, with his limited feminine experience,
had never seen before. Indeed, he might have doubted that they were
intended for actual service, but for the slight discoloration inside
the heel, which proved that these had been worn more than once. Very
deliberately he drew out the stocking, also a jewel in its way, of a
texture so diaphanous as to be almost cobweblike. Then he picked up the
other slipper and held them side by side. Yes, they were mates----
“But where on earth could I have picked them up?” he asked himself. “In
what strange fit of absent-mindedness could I have packed them with my
things? But I couldn’t have picked them up--I never saw them before----”
He sat down suddenly, a slipper in either hand. They must have come
from somewhere--they could not have concealed themselves among his
things. If he had not placed them there, then someone else had. But
who? And for what purpose? The police? His landlady had said that they
had searched his luggage; but what possible object could they have
had for increasing it by two satin slippers and a pair of stockings?
Such an action was farcical--French-farcical!--but he could not be
incriminated in such a way. He had no wife to be made jealous! And even
if he had----
“This is the last straw!” he muttered to himself. “Either the world has
gone mad, or I have.”
Moving as in a dream, he placed the slippers side by side upon the
floor, contemplated them for a moment longer, and then proceeded slowly
with his dressing. He found an unaccustomed difficulty in putting his
buttons in his cuffs, and then he remembered that it was a tie he had
been looking for when he found the slippers. The slippers! He turned
and glanced at them. Yes--they were still there--they had not vanished.
Very coquettish they appeared, standing there side by side, as though
waiting for their owner.
And suddenly Stewart smiled a crooked smile.
“Only one thing is necessary to complete this pantomime,” he told
himself, “and that is that the Princess should suddenly appear and
claim them. Well, I’m willing! A woman with a foot like that----”
There was a knock at the door.
“In a moment!” he called.
“But it is I!” cried a woman’s voice in English--a sweet, high-pitched
voice, quivering with excitement. “It is I!” and the door was flung
open with a crash.
A woman rushed toward him--he saw vaguely her vivid face, her shining
eyes; behind her, more vaguely still, he saw the staring eyes of the
hang-dog waiter. Then she was upon him.
“At last!” she cried, and flung her arms about him and kissed him on
the lips--kissed him closely, passionately, as he had never been kissed
before.