Word from the Fugitive
I glanced at my watch; it wanted still half an hour of eleven o'clock.
"Let's walk on together," I said; "this needs talking over. A
special-delivery letter from New York, then, causes Marcia Lawrence, a
well-poised, self-possessed, happy woman, to flee from the man she
loves, to wreck her life, throw away her future----" I stopped in
despair. Really, I felt for the moment like tearing my hair.
"It seems incredible, doesn't it?" asked Godfrey, smiling at my
bewildered countenance.
"Incredible? Why, it's more than that--it's--it's--I don't know any word
strong enough to describe it. Godfrey, what is this secret?"
"I know what it isn't."
"Well, what isn't it, then?"
"It isn't about Curtiss. We've looked into his life--I just got a report
from Delaney--and he's as straight as a string."
"And the women?"
"With the women it isn't so easy. You see, they were in Europe for six
or seven years, and it's hard to follow them. However, we're on their
track, and I have hopes."
"Hopes?"
"Of proving my theory the right one. Depend upon it, Lester, there's
either a lover or a husband in the background somewhere."
But again I remembered the photograph.
"A lover, perhaps," I admitted, "but not a husband, Godfrey. There's no
stain like that on her--there's no stain at all. She's spotless--I'll
stake my soul upon it!"
He was gazing at me curiously.
"You seem mighty certain about it," he commented.
For an instant, I had an impulse to show him the photograph. But I
stifled it.
"I _am_ certain," I answered lamely. "Certain your theory's all wrong."
"Well, I'm going to stick to it till I find a better one."
"Are you going to make it public?"
"No, not till we've something more to back it. We've wired our European
correspondents to look up the record of the women while they were
abroad. We'll wait till we get reports from them, which will be
to-morrow or the day after. Let's see if we can find out which way Miss
Lawrence went last night."
We had reached the hotel, and, as he spoke, Godfrey turned into it.
"The ticket agent boards here," he said, "and I took care to make
friends with him. I thought perhaps he might be able to help me. Ah,
there he is now. Wait a moment."
He hurried forward and intercepted a well-dressed man who was just
leaving the office. I saw them stop for a moment's low-toned
conversation; then Godfrey turned back towards me.
"No," he said, "no luck. Miss Lawrence bought no ticket at the station
here last night, nor did either of the Kingdons. The agent was on duty
from six o'clock till midnight. But he suggests a very simple way in
which she could have escaped notice, had she wished. She had merely to
enter the train without buying a ticket, and pay her fare direct to the
conductor. I'm inclined to think that's what she did--providing, of
course, that she left town at all."
"I think she's left," I said; "and that's no doubt the way she did it."
"Now, I'll have to say good-bye," he added. "I don't think I shall stay
here much longer--the case isn't worth it. When do you go back?"
"I don't know, yet," I answered. "I've got to have something to take to
Curtiss. I can't go back empty-handed."
"I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said. "Our correspondent here
will be on the lookout for developments. My sympathies are all with
Curtiss. I want to help you."
"Thank you," I said. "Good-bye."
I watched him for a moment, as he hurried down the street; then I turned
back towards the Lawrence house. Yes, Godfrey evidently wished to help
me; and yet, while he had given me a lot of what he called "interesting
information," and had treated me to a no-less-interesting theory, he had
only made the mystery more impenetrable than ever.
"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice, and somebody ran into me.
I glanced up to see that it was a pert-looking boy, wearing a cap with
"W. U." on the front. We were just at the Lawrence gate.
"All right," I said. "No harm done," and entered.
Not till I was half-way up the walk, did it occur to me that the boy had
probably come out of the gate--that he had brought a message--from whom?
for whom?
I rang the bell, and a girl admitted me; but it was not Lucy Kingdon,
whom I had hoped to see. She showed me into the library, and took my
card. She must have met her mistress in the hall, for it was only a
moment before the rustle of approaching skirts announced her. As she
entered, I noticed with a quick leap of the heart that she held crushed
in her hand a sheet of yellow paper.
"Good-morning, Mr. Lester," she said, quite composedly, and it was
evident that she had entirely conquered the agitation which had racked
her the evening before. "Sit down, please," and she herself sank into a
chair. "I've been thinking over what you said to me yesterday
afternoon," she continued, "and I believe that you were right. Mr.
Curtiss unquestionably has the right to know what it is that takes his
promised wife away from him, and to decide if he shall permit it to take
her away forever."
"Then it's not _impossible_ that she should be his wife?" I questioned
quickly. "Your daughter was mistaken?"
"She perhaps thought it impossible at first; but I don't see it so. She
has been moved, I should say, by a sense of faithfulness to the dead. I
don't think--I can't think--that he will take it so seriously as she
does. He will look at it from a man's point of view; he won't shrink
from it as she did; besides, he'll see that it is no fault in her, that
she's just as she always was, sweet, pure, and lovable. She herself will
take it less seriously when she has time to think it over."
"Yes," I agreed, striving to conceal from her the fact that I did not in
the least understand. "No doubt of that. The first shock when she read
the letter----"
"The letter?" she broke in. "Which letter?"
"But I thought you knew!"
"I knew nothing of any letter," she said, her face suddenly white.
"Yesterday morning," I said, "just as Miss Lawrence was going upstairs
after looking at the decorations, a boy came to the door with a
special-delivery letter from New York. It was addressed to her--marked
'Important, read at once.' She took it and came into this room, and it
was here she learned this secret----"
But Mrs. Lawrence was no longer listening. She was sitting there,
staring straight before her, her face livid.
"A letter!" she repeated hoarsely. "A letter! I don't understand. I
thought she had been told--I thought that woman had told her--I was sure
of it. Yes--that must have been it--I cannot be mistaken--the letter had
nothing to do with it. It was that woman. She had waited all these
years, and then----"
There was a step at the door, and Lucy Kingdon's dark face appeared. She
was going past, but at the sight of us, she hesitated, and then stopped
on the threshold.
"Did you call, ma'am?" she asked, shooting me at the same time a glance
so venomous that I recoiled a little.
"No!" said Mrs. Lawrence, and it seemed to me that there was abhorrence
in the look she turned upon the other woman. "Yet stay," she added
quickly. "Go to your sister. Tell her I wish to see her--here--at once."
I saw the girl's start of surprise; she half-opened her lips to speak,
then glanced at me again and closed them.
"Very well, ma'am," she said, and left the room.
Mrs. Lawrence turned to me, still breathing quickly under the stress of
the emotion which shook her.
"You must leave me to solve this mystery, Mr. Lester," she said rapidly,
"by myself and in my own way. I must find who it is that has dared to
meddle in my family affairs. I was prepared to forgive--but there are
some things which can never be forgiven--however deeply one may
pity----"
She checked herself; perhaps she saw the intentness of my interest.
"But that is no concern of yours," she went on more calmly, and I could
not but admit the justice of the rebuke. "You're seeking Marcia. In that
I would help you, if I could, but I don't know where she is. As soon as
I do know, I will summon Mr. Curtiss; I promise you that. Perhaps you
will find her without my help. If you do, tell Mr. Curtiss to go to her
and demand an explanation; it is due him, and she has my full permission
to tell him everything. Then let him decide whether she shall be his
wife. We will both bow to his decision."
"But you've heard from her?" I persisted.
"Only this," she answered, and thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my
hand, then turned and left the room.
I smoothed it out and read the message at a glance, noting that it was
dated from New York:--
"I am safe. Do not worry. Will write.
"Marcia."