The Secret
The dusk of evening was falling as we were ferried across to the city. I
bade Godfrey good-bye, and took a cab direct to my rooms, for I was
weary in body and spirit. But a bath and dinner improved both, and at
eight o'clock I was ringing at Mr. Royce's door, for I knew how anxious
he would be to hear my story, and besides, I owed him some reparation
for leaving him alone at the office.
He opened the door himself, and his face brightened at sight of me.
"Why, Lester!" he cried, and shook hands warmly. "Come in. I'm mighty
glad to see you."
"I thought you'd like to hear about it," I said.
"Of course I shall. It was like you to think of it."
"I wanted to talk it over with you. It may help to straighten things
out. I was afraid there wouldn't be time at the office."
"We are rushed there, and that's a fact. Suppose we go up to the den. We
can talk our talk out, there. Though," he added, as he led the way up
the stair, "we could do that anywhere to-night. I'm keeping bachelor's
hall. That affair at Elizabeth so upset my wife that she's gone away to
the mountains to get braced up. Here we are," and he threw open a door.
It was a cheery room, where he had gathered together the impedimenta
which had marked his progress through bachelordom, mementoes of his
college days, and such other possessions as were peculiarly his.
"Now," he said, when we were settled, "let's have the story. Of course
I've read the papers, but I hope you won't take that into account."
So I told it step by step, while he listened silently, save for an
occasional exclamation of astonishment.
"It's the most remarkable thing I ever heard," he said, when I had
finished. "I don't wonder that you believed at first that it had some
connection with the Lawrence affair."
"It was certainly a remarkable coincidence that they should happen
together as they did."
"And the first affair is as deep a mystery as ever?"
"Godfrey says it's deeper than ever. I showed him Miss Lawrence's
photograph as we came in on the train together, and after he'd looked at
it, he said it was the strangest puzzle he'd ever encountered. It's
absolutely unexplainable."
Mr. Royce smoked for a moment in silence.
"Of course there must be some explanation," he said, "and an adequate
one. Marcia Lawrence wouldn't have run away without good and sufficient
reason."
"No," I agreed, "but there's one thing certain--whatever the reason, it
isn't of a nature to render the marriage impossible. She was probably
overwrought when she wrote that note to Curtiss--something had upset her
so suddenly and completely that she couldn't see clearly."
"How do you know that?"
"Don't you remember her mother's last words to me? She said it would be
for Curtiss to decide."
"Yes, I remember. And I think there's no question as to what his
decision will be."
"No," I agreed. "Most men would be glad to get Marcia Lawrence upon any
terms."
"Not Curtiss--but then he's desperately in love. Maybe he'll be willing
to recede a shade or two from his ideal."
"He won't have to recede," I asserted confidently. "She's spotless,
whatever the secret."
"I hope so," agreed our junior slowly. "Well, they'll have to fight it
out together when they meet on the other side. If I were Curtiss, I'd be
mighty shaky about that meeting."
"And I. Of course," I added, "the whole mystery hinges on that letter
from New York. Godfrey imagined he knew the contents, but the event
showed how wide he was of the mark. He had a theory that the letter was
written by a disreputable, blackmailing husband of the girl, whom she'd
believed dead. That was his theory from the first--the only possible
explanation, he called it. Then, when he found that a picturesque
stranger had asked the way to the Kingdon cottage, he immediately
concluded that the letter had appointed a rendezvous, and that Miss
Lawrence had kept it. All of which was afterwards shown to be mere
moonshine."
"Not the first part of it," Mr. Royce objected. "There's been nothing to
disprove that."
"Nor anything to prove it."
"True--but it has a certain speciousness."
"Yes--all of Godfrey's theories have that. Do you remember what a
perfect one he built up in the Holladay case, and how it fell to pieces?
Well, I believe this is wilder yet. A look at Miss Lawrence's face will
show you she hasn't any past of that kind. Godfrey himself admits that
now."
My companion ran his fingers savagely through his hair.
"Of course I don't know anything about it," he said, "but I've already
told you how the affair affects me. Trust me, Lester, there's some
terrible secret just below the surface. I wanted to say as much to
Curtiss, but didn't quite dare. That's why I shiver at the thought of
that meeting. I pity him when he comes face to face with it. That
reminds me--I found an old photograph of him the other day." He turned
to his desk and, after a moment's search, brought out a card. "He gave
it to me when we were chums together at college," he added, and handed
it over to me.
It showed Curtiss as he was at twenty or twenty-one. The face was
plumper than I knew it, and the skin much fairer. The hair was worn
longer and the absence of beard or moustache revealed fully the
singularly pure lines of the lower portion of the face--a poetic face,
yet full of fire and vigour.
"We used to call him 'The Beaut.'," went on my companion. "I told you
that he was rather girlish-looking. Well, see here--here he is as the
soubrette, in a burlesque we got up in senior year."
He handed me a group picture including the whole company. The central
figure was a charming girl, with admirable arms, hands, shoulders--an
inimitable way of holding the head....
"Great Scott!" I shouted, springing to my feet. "Don't you see it? Don't
you see it, man?"
"See it? See what, Lester?" repeated Mr. Royce, in amazement. "What's
the matter, old fellow?"
"No, I haven't gone mad," I laughed, as he put a restraining hand on my
arm. "It's the key to the mystery," I added, as calmly as I could. "I'm
not going to tell you--I want you to see it for yourself. Come along."
He followed me down to the street without a word, though I could see how
his hand trembled as he took down his hat. I myself was quivering from
head to foot with excitement--with triumph. What a blind fool I had been
not to suspect it long ago. Godfrey had never seen Curtiss, or he would
have known the instant his eyes rested on that photograph!
Luckily, the journey was not a long one, or I could not have kept the
secret.
"Sit there," I said, when we reached my room, and I motioned him to a
chair near the table. I turned down the light and arranged my
properties--let me confess at once to a secret liking for the
dramatic--the unexpected. Then I turned up the light.
"Now look at them," I said, and pointed to the three photographs placed
side by side before him.
He stared at them--at Marcia Lawrence; at Burr Curtiss, smooth-faced and
girlish; at the soubrette....
I knew by the sudden deep breath he drew that he understood. There could
be no mistaking. Feature for feature they would not match at all; but
there was a tone, an expression, that little way of holding the head....
"Of course," he said slowly, at last. "Of course."
How easily it explained Marcia Lawrence's panic, her flight--there could
be no marriage, no explanation--only flight!
"There's one crucial test," I said, glancing at my watch. "I'll make it
this very evening."
* * * * *
An hour later, I was shown for the third time into the study of Dr.
Schuyler at Elizabeth. He was sitting at his desk, just as I had found
him once before.
"Ah, Mr. Lester," he began.
"Dr. Schuyler," I interrupted, "I've a photograph here which I'm very
anxious for you to see. This is it--whose do you think it is?"
He took it with a glance of astonishment, moved over to the table, and
held it beneath the rays of the lamp.
"Why," he faltered, "why--it reminds me very strongly of young Boyd
Endicott, as he was when I knew him, thirty years ago."
My heart leaped.
"As a matter of fact, Dr. Schuyler," I said, "it's a photograph of Burr
Curtiss, as he was ten years ago."
He stared at me for a moment without understanding, then I saw the light
of comprehension in his eyes, and he sank heavily back into his chair.
"Poor woman!" he murmured hoarsely. "Poor woman!"
And all the way back to New York, I was wondering which of the women he
had meant. Which was the more to be pitied--the woman who, thirty years
before, had been whirled away from her lover by a trick of fortune; or
the younger one, innocent and unsuspecting, discovering, only at the
last moment, the horrible abyss yawning at her feet?
Which of the women had he meant?