THREE BEEHIVES
MIRIAM looked at her watch--two o'clock. The brilliant sunlight and
the out of doors exerted an appeal she could not resist. Stopping only
long enough to put on her hat and coat, she started down the corridor
and, when passing Mrs. Nash's door, paused irresolutely. Mrs. Nash had
recovered, when she left her at eight o'clock that morning, from her
fright at discovering the disguised man in her room, but Miriam was
troubled about her heart condition. She felt that she should speak to
Somers before she went for her walk. She had told the maid to call her
at any time if she needed assistance. If Mrs. Nash was asleep she could
slip out without disturbing her.
Miriam softly turned the knob of the door and pushed it gently open,
intending to beckon to Somers to come into the hall. She had opened it
but a few inches when she heard Alexander Nash address his wife.
"I have just received a telegram from Canada, Dora," he said, and added
more quickly as his wife looked up, a question on her lips, "from Frank
Chisholm telling me of the sudden death of Boris Zybinn."
Mrs. Nash's reply was unheard by Miriam. She leaned limply against the
doorjamb, her strength stricken from her. Their voices sounded far
distant--unreal. It was fully two minutes before her brain cleared and
she had a realizing sense of what Nash was saying.
"A remarkable will," he commented. "Alan receives practically nothing
from his cousin, while Guy Trenholm is given twenty-five thousand
dollars, a scarf-pin, and those wonderful old hunting prints. It is
really extraordinary."
Miriam waited to hear no more. Closing the door as softly as she had
opened it, she stole back to her room, unlocked her bag, and drew from
it the letter she had found in Mrs. Nash's bedroom the night before.
For a time she stood quite still, balancing the unopened letter in her
hand; once she took up a hairpin, then laid it down, unused. Boris
Zybinn! She shook her head and glanced about as if awakening from a
nightmare.
A sound of voices coming through her open window caused her to look
outside. Anna, her work done for the time being, was, as she expressed
it to Martha later, "joshing" one of the constable's assistants--a
young deputy whose susceptible heart had made him a willing victim to
her wiles. The deputy's presence gave Miriam a sudden idea. Carefully
placing the unopened letter in her hand bag, she went downstairs and
hastened through the dining room, intending to go out of the door of
the sunparlor and from there to the back of the house.
Martha--a rejuvenated Martha--looked up from changing the tablecloth
at her approach, and Miriam, in spite of her absorption in her own
affairs, noticed her changed appearance.
"Have ye heard, Miss--Ma'am," she began incoherently. "Mr. Paul, God
rest his soul, has left me and Charles one thousand dollars each."
"Is that so? I congratulate you, Martha." Miriam shifted her hand bag
and held it more firmly against her. There was an intangible something
about Martha which invited distrust. "Mr. Abbott was most generous."
"Yes Miss--Ma'am; he had call to be," Martha's voice had assumed its
old complaining whine. "Us took good care of him. I don't mind telling
you Miss--Ma'am, that my husband ain't quite satisfied. He wants more."
"Oh!"
"Yes." Martha's grievances were displacing her first feeling of elation
at the, to her, large sum of money. "Charles, he's mad, clean through.
He says he's goin' to Sheriff Trenholm."
"And why to the Sheriff?" questioned Miriam in surprise.
"Oh, he's kinder good at giving advice--when ye got something to tell
him." Martha's slow, expressive wink annoyed Miriam and without paying
further attention to the woman, she went through the sunparlor and
outside the house.
Martha, in no wise disturbed by Miriam's cool reception of her
confidences, went slowly on with her work, her mental process of
"thinking" betrayed by her facial contortions.
The young deputy was just starting his engine when Miriam appeared at
the side of his car.
"Can you tell me where I will find Sheriff Trenholm?" she asked.
Ben Riley touched his hat and a pleased smile stole over his freckled
face. He had admired Miriam at a distance for several days, although
she had been utterly oblivious of his existence. That she might be
under surveillance never entered her head. The indefatigable Martha
had complained to her of the presence about Abbott's Lodge of a number
of deputies, and Riley had been pointed out to her by Somers as one of
them.
"The sheriff's at his home," Riley explained, then, as her face showed
plainly her disappointment, he added, "Can I take a message to him? I'm
on my way there now."
With Miriam to think was to act. It was imperative that she see
Trenholm.
"Can I drive over with you?" she asked, and her charming smile
completed Riley's conquest.
"Yes, Miss Ward," he stammered, with gratifying emphasis, and opened
the door of his roadster. "Hop in."
They had gone half the distance to Upper Marlboro and were about to
turn from the main road to the one leading to Trenholm's bungalow, when
they were passed by Mrs. Nash's Rolls-Royce which continued down the
main road at such a speed that Miriam had only a glimpse of Alexander
Nash seated by the chauffeur. The fur collar of Pierre's heavy
chauffeur's overcoat was turned up about his face and his most intimate
friend would have failed to recognize him as he drove along, under
Nash's instructions, breaking the speed laws of Maryland.
Pablo, the Filipino, answered Miriam's ring of the door bell at the
bungalow with a promptness that suggested that he had observed Riley's
car when it turned into the driveway.
"Come inside, Mees," he said with hospitable intent. "My master will
return in one little moment. He is in de garage and I will go at once
and tell him that you are here. It is cold, yes?" as the rising wind
blew the daily papers off the hall table. He closed the door with
alacrity and led the way into the library. "Sit down, Mees, and be
comfortable."
Miriam hardly noticed his departure. The long drive over had brought
reflection in its train and she was regretting her hasty action. She
glanced about the library, taking in, as Alan had done the night
before, its suggestion of cultivation, its homelike atmosphere. Guy
Trenholm's personality permeated the room. She did not sit down, as
Pablo had suggested, but remained by the table in deep thought, and
Trenholm, about to enter the room, stopped in the doorway and studied
her intently. The proud poise of her head, her becoming toque, her
plain, but well-fitting coat, her vivid coloring, made more brilliant
by her drive in the wind, all were a fitting complement to the setting
in which she stood. Trenholm caught his breath and his heart beat more
quickly, but his expression and voice conveyed no feeling beyond a
courteous welcome as he stepped forward to greet her.
"Won't you sit down?" he asked, pulling forward a chair. "I am sorry to
have kept you waiting. Let me help you with your coat."
Miriam thanked him, then sat down and waited for him to take the chair
opposite hers. As he looked at her inquiringly, she came directly to
the point. Opening her hand bag, she took out the letter bearing the
Canadian postage and held it up.
"I found this letter," she said, "when on duty last night. It was
tucked in one of the chairs in Mrs. Nash's bedroom. I bring it to you
as I found it--unopened."
Trenholm took the letter from her outstretched hand, and turned it over
several times before making any comment.
"And what is there about the letter to have attracted your attention,
Miss Ward?" he finally asked, and wondered at the look in her eyes.
"The seal," she said simply. "It matches this," and she drew out of her
bag the half-burnt envelope and turned it over so that he could view
the flap with its black crest. "It is that crest of which you found
drawings in my bag."
"Yes, I recognize the three beehives," he replied. Leaning back in
his chair he reached over and took up a heavy volume from a smoking
stand where he had flung it earlier that day. "I borrowed this book on
heraldry from the Congressional Library," he explained, and turned the
leaves with lightning rapidity until he found the page he wished. "See,
the three beehives," pointing to a fine colored engraving, "and the
proud motto of the Paltoffs of Russia--'Always without Fear.'"
Miriam stared at the printed page and then at Trenholm, and respect and
admiration were in her glance.
"That was clever of you," she exclaimed. "So you guess--"
"Much," quietly, "except your connection with the Paltoffs."
Miriam looked about the library. There was no likelihood of their
conversation being interrupted.
"Dmitri Paltoff, Grand Maitre de la Cour, married my aunt," she said
simply. "He was the last of his race, and when he was killed, the
right to use that crest died with him. Its use on these envelopes
was consequently a shock, and aroused my keenest interest at once,
for"--she hesitated and spoke more slowly--"this black crest has a
peculiar indentation and varies in no particular from the seal on my
uncle's watch fob, which I saw snatched from his dying grasp by a
Bolshevik in Vladivostok."
Trenholm was regarding her with absorbed interest. "So that was it," he
murmured, then raised his voice slightly. "Do you, by chance, know the
Bolshevik who took the seal?"
"Yes. It was my uncle's secretary, Boris Zybinn." Miriam leaned forward
in her earnestness. "Just before I left Abbott's Lodge, I accidentally
overheard Doctor Nash tell his wife that he had a telegram from Canada
stating that Boris had died suddenly."
Trenholm stared at her a moment. Rising with some abruptness, he went
over to the wall, touched a concealed spring and one of the wooden
panels slid aside and revealed the door of a small safe. When he came
back and resumed his old seat, he carried a package of letters.
"I watched you when you glanced over these letters," he confessed, "in
the hall at Abbott's Lodge. And I have read them a dozen times trying
to find out what there was about them which claimed such interest on
your part."
"I was looking for the black crest," she admitted. "You see the
envelopes are identical with this burnt one," holding it up again. "I
did not open any of the letters. Who wrote them?"
"They are signed by Boris Zybinn," Trenholm opened several and laid
them in her lap. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"
She shook her head. "No. Boris was clever; he might easily have learned
to disguise his writing. He was an excellent linguist, as most Russians
are. What was he doing in Canada?"
"Gentleman farming," answered Trenholm. "He had a place outside of
Toronto and adjoining Doctor Nash's country estate. It was while
visiting Nash that Paul Abbott and he became acquainted."
"And these letters, what are they about?" questioned Miriam eagerly.
"Farming," briefly. "And nothing else. Paul wished to model his place
here after Zybinn's, especially his fruit orchard. I suppose that he
kept them, for reference," and Trenholm tossed the remaining letters on
his desk table which stood almost at Miriam's elbow.
Miriam drew back in bitter disappointment. "And that is all," she
exclaimed. "I have indeed found a mare's nest."
"As far as the letters go," agreed Trenholm, with characteristic
frankness. "But there is another matter of vital importance," he
glanced carefully about the room, sprang up and closed both of the
doors, one of which led into the main hall and the other into a smaller
room, where he generally conducted business. When he came back to
Miriam he moved his chair closer to her side. "You know of the Paltoff
diamond?" he asked.
"Yes. I have heard its history often from my uncle," she replied. "It
was given by one of his ancestors to Peter the Great."
"To purchase royal favor," supplemented Trenholm "And forms one of the
Crown jewels."
"You are wrong," she corrected him swiftly. "It is not a Crown jewel,
but it has always been in the possession of the reigning Czar, handed
down from father to son."
"And where is it now, Miss Ward?" The swift question took her unawares
and she grew pale.
"I do not know," she stated, and her eyes did not falter before his
searching glance. "Frankly, I do not know its present whereabouts."
"There is a rumor that it was smuggled out of Russia." Trenholm never
took his eyes from her. "Can you tell me if that is true?"
She did not at once reply and he did not hurry her. "Why do you ask?"
she demanded finally. "What is your interest in the Paltoff diamond?"
"This!" Trenholm opened his leather wallet and took from it a folded
note. "Read it."
Slowly Miriam took in the sense of the written sentence:
Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott's death find the
lost Paltoff jewel.
"What!" She half rose from her chair, then dropped back again. Her face
was ghastly and Trenholm watched her in growing concern. "Who wrote
this note?"
"I do not know. I found it in the pocket of my overcoat when I returned
from Paul's funeral." Trenholm paused. "The handwriting is unfamiliar."
He doubted if Miriam heard his last sentence; she kept so quiet, so
immovable. Suddenly she pressed her fingers to her eyes and when
she took them away, the lids were wet. She looked at him long and
searchingly. Could she trust him? She _must_--there was no other course
open to her.
"I will tell you in confidence what I know of the Paltoff diamond," she
said. "But you must pledge me your word not to repeat it."
"I give you my word," Trenholm held out his hand, and as she felt
his strong, steady clasp her heart lightened and her sense of utter
loneliness grew less.
"I will be as brief as possible." She paused to clear her throat of
a suspicious lump. "My father, John Ward of Indianapolis, was in the
Diplomatic service, and stationed for a long time in Russia, where we
lived with my aunt and her husband. After father's death, mother and
I came to New York. She was a great invalid and did not long survive
him." She stumbled in her speech and stopped, and Trenholm gave her a
moment to collect herself.
"Yes?" he prompted gently. "Continue."
"Mother died just before the outbreak of the World War," she went on.
"It was necessary for me to find employment and I decided to become a
nurse. I trained at St. Luke's Hospital and went overseas at once upon
graduation. It would be too long to tell you of my experiences, but
finally I reached Russia and saw service in the hospitals there. Then
came the revolution." She drew in her breath sharply. "God! The horrors
that we lived through--the Bolsheviki were fiends in human form!"
"And the Paltoff diamond?" he asked.
"Oh, the diamond." She collected herself. "My uncle was for years Grand
Master of the Imperial Court and trusted absolutely by the Czar. Just
before he was made prisoner, the Czar took from the hilt of his dress
sword, worn only on state occasions, the Paltoff diamond, and charged
Uncle Dmitri, on his fealty to the Crown, to smuggle it out of Russia,
and raise money upon it so that, should the Imperial family have to
flee, something might be saved for them."
"What happened next?" demanded Trenholm as she paused.
Miriam sighed. "My uncle saw his gallant son crucified before his
eyes; his daughters, taken prisoners with other ladies of the Court,
were transported by steamer to a loathsome prison. Before the vessel
docked they threw themselves into the sea, oh, gladly"--she added,
seeing Trenholm's expression--"for the captain and his crew forced
them to leave their cabin doors unlocked at night." She paused and put
her hands before her eyes. When she looked up, Trenholm saw tragedy
mirrored in their dark depths.
"With other refugees Uncle Dmitri and I finally reached Vladivostok, in
rags and our money gone. Oh, Mr. Trenholm, pray God that you may never
know what starvation is!" She stopped to control her voice. "We lived
in a hovel in the filthiest part of the city. I had lost my passport
or it had been stolen from me. I applied to the American consul--he
promised help but none came."
"Poor girl!" Trenholm took her hand and pressed it warmly. "Would you
rather stop?"
"No. Uncle Dmitri still had the Paltoff diamond and despite our agony
would not part with it. When we dared to talk, for spies were all
around us, we tried to plan to get the jewel safely out of Russia, even
if we ourselves failed to reach the United States." Miriam stopped to
clear her throat, for her voice had grown husky with emotion.
"One morning I was half delirious from hunger and privation, when Uncle
Dmitri came inside the hovel followed by a man," she continued. "He
crawled over to the straw on which I lay and told me that his companion
was an American soldier who had saved his life in a brawl with drunken
peasants. He feared that he had been recognized as Paltoff, the trusted
friend of the Czar."
"I see," broke in Trenholm. "What next?"
"Our plight was desperate and my uncle took the American into his
confidence, and the latter agreed to carry the diamond to the United
States, provided he could smuggle it aboard the transport." She sighed
deeply. "I was too ill to follow all that was said, but uncle took the
diamond from its hiding place and the American sat down near me and
unwound a bandage from about a wound in the calf of his leg. At his
direction I opened the wound, placed the diamond inside it, and, having
a surgeon's field service kit which a doctor, like ourselves a refugee,
had left in the hovel the day before, I sutured the wound and replaced
the bandages."
Trenholm stared at her. "American brains and pluck!" he exclaimed, and
the admiration in his voice brought the swift color to her white cheeks.
"The American had not been gone five minutes before Boris Zybinn came
in, followed by a swarm of the Bolsheviki," she went on, keeping her
voice steady by an effort of will only, as the tragic scene rose
vividly before her. "A whisper had gotten around that Uncle Dmitri had
the Paltoff diamond. They put him to torture and he died as a brave man
should, without fear and without betraying the Czar's trust."
"And you? What did they do to you?" demanded Trenholm, his usually calm
tones betraying interest at fever heat.
"The American consul came in time to save me from all but this."
Drawing back her sleeve she showed a brand burned into the soft white
flesh. "Thank God! I had the strength to tell Boris nothing of the
diamond."
Trenholm leaned forward impulsively. "I'd like to shake hands with
you," he said, and the strong clasp of his fingers made her wince.
There was a brief pause before he asked: "And the name of the American
soldier?"
Miriam drew from around her neck a gold chain from which hung a locket.
Opening it she took out a tiny soiled paper.
"The soldier wrote down his name and address and handed it to Uncle
Dmitri," she explained. "But Boris got there before he could give it to
me and it was torn up--all but this."
Trenholm looked long and carefully at the one letter on the paper.
"'M'," he repeated. "'M'--it is Paul Abbott's peculiar formation of
his middle initial. I have seen it too often to be mistaken. And Paul
Abbott, I know, saw service with the A.E.F. in Vladivostok."