It was on my arm. When I rolled up my sleeve, S. K. gasped.
“I’ll give up,” he said. “There _is_ something supernatural about it!”
“No,” I replied, trying to quote from him, “there is always some logical
and sane explanation of things of this sort. You see, I put it there.”
He said, “You little devil!” and then he smiled unwillingly. “Think
you’re funny, don’t you?” he continued.
I said I hoped so, for I was trying to be, and then I told him why I had
deceived him; about Mr. Bilkins, and how, if he were not around, there
would be no one to smooth things if they were rough. And I added that I
couldn’t possibly spare him, that anxiety would have kept me awake all
that night, and that I was sorry I fibbed.
“You’re forgiven,” he answered. “I like the story--especially the last
part. . . . But--what gets me is the fact that I put off seeing a
detective until this morning, when last night might have got the chap.”
“S. K.,” I said loudly, “I beg you not to get one, because that note
said that if I told I’d be hurt. If you have the slightest regard for my
feelings, you will do nothing, and let events care for themselves. In
fact, I forbid your doing so, and it is, after all, my matter.” I ended
this coolly and as if I meant it. Then I stood up, rubbed my hand across
my forehead, and said: “I’ve got to get out in the fresh air. Can’t we
motor?”
He said we could, and he was very baffled and upset by my manner, which
was not natural.
“You’re upset by this,” he said, as he buttoned my coat for me, “and I
simply won’t have it. You shan’t be made nervous and jumpy, and I----”
“You will not do anything I ask you _not_ to, I presume?” I questioned,
turning to him.
“But Nat----” he protested.
“S. K.,” I said, “if you do, it will end our friendship--that is all.”
He said, “Well, I’ll be _darned!_” and followed me out. S. K.’s man was
in the hall dusting some old brasses that S. K. had picked up in the
little hill towns of Italy, and I was not surprised. S. K. was annoyed,
for he likes the work of his establishment to go on when no one is
around.
In the outer hall I paused. I said I wanted a drink, and we went in
again. Debson wasn’t in the hall, and I wouldn’t let S. K. ring. “I’ll
go to the kitchen----” I said, and, as he protested, I ran out. Ito was
there, talking to Debson. I was not surprised at that either.
Then I went back, and we went driving.
“I didn’t mean to speak that way, but I had to,” I explained after we
started. “You see, your man was listening. I found Ito in the kitchen,
and both Debson and Ito wear duds that come from Rogers Peet, and last
week I went in there and matched the sample, and it came from one of
their suits. . . . It was quite easy to match, for it has a purple cast
and the weave is unusually tight.”
“Ito!” said S. K.
“Possibly,” I replied, “but I don’t believe it. . . . You engaged this
man just after I was so annoyed and troubled by being followed, and when
I saw the blind man so often. That ceased, and someone began to creep in
my room--get in somehow--at night.”
“I will never forgive myself----” said S. K., through set teeth.
“Don’t worry; it’s over,” I answered. “All we have to do now is to
arrange to bag him or them, and that ought to be simple. If I go in with
you, when we return, and tell you where I am going to hide it to-night,
we’ll catch him, she, or them; I know it!”
S. K. thought it was a good idea, but we stopped to see a man who is
noted for solving crimes and finding who did them. In his office we made
all plans, and then we started on.
“Better have lunch with me,” said S. K., and then, for the first time, I
remembered Willy. S. K. was not pleased to hear that he had come. He
acted quite peevish, and I was surprised.
“Why does he come here?” he asked. “Lots of good Southern colleges. All
you people are always talking about the supremacy of the South, and then
you lope off and leave it----”
“But if I hadn’t----” I put in.
“That,” he said sharply, “is quite different. Don’t be silly, Nat. . . .
How old is this young pup?”
I told him.
“And I suppose very handsome?” he questioned further.
I admitted it.
“And has already asked you to marry him? . . . Should be _locked
up_. . . . Like to _thrash_ him!”
“Why, S. K.,” I protested. “I don’t think you’re nice. I’m very fond of
Willy!” And for two blocks we didn’t say a word.
“Can’t you see,” he explained after that long silence, “that no man has
any right to bother a youngster, or ask her to marry him, no matter how
much he wants to, until she’s past the doll’s stage? . . . Here you are,
having tea in the nursery, and he butts in where angels would bare their
heads, and says you can ‘_have_ him,’ if I recollect correctly. ‘Have
him!’ My heavens!”
I was mad. I have not played dolls for years, and I never had tea in the
nursery, because we hadn’t any; I always ate with Uncle Frank. I
maintained a frigid silence. And then I made talk, deliberately
manufactured the article on coldly impersonal lines, while S. K. glared
ahead and answered in monosyllables.
“I believe that there is a tablet on the wall of one of the buildings of
Columbia, which asserts that the Battle of Harlem Heights was enacted on
that spot,” I said. “I’d like to see it.”
“No doubt,” said S. K.
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but he meant something, for his
tone was full of implications.
“Perhaps Willy will take me down,” I went on.
“Possibly,” said S. K. dryly.
“He admires Hamilton,” I continued, “and I must take him to the
Metropolitan to see that portrait that was painted by Trumbull. What
made Burr challenge Hamilton?”
“Political jealousy.”
“Really?” I said.
“Um,” grunted S. K.
“What year did Burr kill Alexander Hamilton?” I questioned further.
“1804.”
“Why,” I exclaimed, “that was the year the Jumels were married. Wasn’t
that strange--I mean, considering that she married Aaron Burr later?”
“Yes.”
“It was a terrible thing for Burr to do, wasn’t it?” I said, and then I
added that I was glad duelling had gone out of style and wasn’t allowed
any more.
“If some of to-day’s politicians would shoot each other,” said S. K.,
“it would be a great thing for the country, and I don’t see how they
_could_ hit the wrong man.”
That was the longest speech he made all the way home. Something had made
him very cross and pessimistic. I gave up trying to make talk and
absorbed and made use of the prevailing silence. That worried S. K.,
who, I think, didn’t want to share the silence that he was using for an
umbrella to cover his grouch. He looked at me several times as we
whirled upstairs, but I pretended I was completely absorbed in the
little iron plack that says the elevator is inspected by inspectors
every two weeks. But of course I was not deeply interested in it, having
almost learned it by heart when riding in the elevator with people at
whom I didn’t want to stare.
In S. K.’s apartment we began to disagree about getting a detective once
more, for that was the plan. S. K. really did it well. He walked up and
down, using his cane very heavily, and once and again almost thumping
with it.
“But I tell you, Nat,” he shouted, “this has _got_ to be stopped!”
“Let it go a day or so, S. K.,” I pleaded. “I ask only that--and then,
if things don’t calm, you may do as you like. . . . But--because of that
note I _beg_ that you let it go for a couple of days, anyway. _Please_,
S. K.!” I entreated, and really I made my voice shake.
After ten minutes of my nervous insistence he gave in. Then he sat down
on the arm of a chair which faced me, and said: “Where are you going to
put it to-night?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I’ll hide it somewhere. There are
plenty of places, and I’m not afraid. I thought perhaps I’d slip out the
bottom drawer of the tall high-boy and put it on the floor, under that.”
“Um,” mused S. K. “Not bad. No one would think of looking there!”
“I thought not,” I agreed complacently.
Then he rang for Debson, and he came in and told us what he had heard in
the night. And he did it well. I wondered whether I was all wrong, as I
looked at him and heard his explanations. Then I thought of Jane’s
confusion and the extreme doubt about anyone’s icing beer. The whole
thing was confusing.
After that, I went off. I asked S. K. not to bother to come up with me,
and I did it coldly, for he had been unpleasant. But he came.
“What was the matter?” I asked, as we waited for the door to open. He
didn’t fence. He is always honest.
“I’ve been fiendishly cross, haven’t I?” he questioned, instead of
answering.
“Not fiendishly cross,” I said, “but sulky.” And I went on to say that I
cared too much for him to ever purposely hurt him, and that if I had I
was sorry.
“Will you forgive me, Nat?” he asked stiffly.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, “but I hate having you not like
me.”
“Not _like_ you?” he echoed. “Not _like_ you!” And then he laughed, but
not very happily. But I didn’t know what had troubled him until later.
When I got in I found that Willy had gone and Amy was telling Aunt
Penelope how nice he was. Evelyn was a little amused at Amy’s
description, but that didn’t bother Amy. She raved on in the most
elaborate way.
“He must have been a _dear_ little boy,” she said sentimentally.
“He wasn’t,” I responded truthfully. “He always had three teeth out and
his pockets full of frogs’ legs and garter snakes.”
Evelyn shuddered, but Amy chose to dress this with romance.
“How _brave_,” she said, “how manly!”
Then I went to the door, closed it, asked them to be quiet and not to
let out any surprised exclamations. After which I told them what had
happened and what was to happen.
Aunt Penelope had been gluing numbers on records, and had kept a firm
clutch on one of these. “Be calm, girls,” she warned, as I finished; “we
must be calm!” And then she tried to blow her nose on the record and fan
herself with the handkerchief which she held in her other hand. Amy kept
looking back of her as if she expected someone to steal up and thump her
at any moment, and Evelyn tried to darn the darning-egg, while the
stocking which should have been over it lay at her feet.
“And the plan?” said Aunt Penelope, as she carefully put the paste-brush
in the ink.
“The plan,” I said, “is to be worked out this evening. Two gentlemen,
Mr. Grange and Mr. Thompson (business friends of Uncle Archie, for Ito’s
benefit), are coming up to play cards. We will play in here--until
something happens; an absorbing game will keep anyone up, you know, and
I am to stuff a bolster for my bed.”
“Oh, isn’t this _thrilling_?” said Amy. “And to think that all this has
been going on and no one knew it. . . . _What was that?_”
“My darning-egg,” responded Evelyn with a glare toward Amy, “and if you
can tell me why you have to shout and scare everyone out of their senses
when anything drops---- Mother, do you realize that you are putting ‘The
New Republic’ among the Galli Curci records? . . . I see you have it
neatly numbered.”
“So I have,” said Aunt Penelope, “but be calm, Evelyn, be calm. We must
all be calm! Here, dear,” and she handed Evelyn an incense-burner, under
the impression that it was her darning-egg. They were excited.
Then I warned them about showing disquiet, after which I opened the
door. Ito was on his knees, picking up rose petals from the floor. The
table on which the vase of them had stood was by the library door. I
wondered. Anything like that made speculation.
“What are you doing here, Ito?” asked aunt. He opened his hand and
showed her the result of his labours.
“To be sure!” she said, looking nervously behind her, and then, lunch
being on, we went out and pretended to eat. Amy said she had asked Willy
to come back that evening. I was glad, for Uncle Frank was to go at
seven something, and Willy, as a piece of home, would help over his
leaving and the coming strain.
“Herbert will be here,” said Evelyn when Ito was in the kitchen and we
were alone. Then she looked at the centre-piece with a sort of moony
expression that made her look half-witted. You could see that it was
true love.
“He always is,” said Amy. Then she spilled salt and had about ten
thousand spasms. “Bad luck,” she said. “Oh, _dear_!”
“A nonsensical superstition!” said Aunt Penelope sharply, “but throw it
over your shoulder. Amy, _if you kick the table again you may go to your
room_!”
Then the telephone rang, and aunt pretended it was Uncle Archie. “Your
father says some friends of his are coming up to play cards,” she
announced as she returned. “He suggested that we ask Mr. Kempwood to
make a fourth.”
“When?” Evelyn asked.
“After dinner,” replied Aunt Penelope, as she settled. Ito had heard,
and after he left the room we heard voices from the kitchen. The door
swung; I heard Jane’s voice very clearly, and it said: “To-night?”
Somehow we got through the afternoon, but not happily. Everyone jerked
and jumped and said, “_Did you hear that?_ What _was_ it?” if a hair as
much as stirred. Amy said she would feel much better when Willy came in,
and Evelyn said: “I _wish_ Herbert would hurry!”
I dressed at seven, and after I’d got along to the hair-doing stage, ran
up my shade and my window a little way, as if I felt that the room was
close. Then, after looking around, I put my bracelet under the bottom
drawer of the tall high-boy. And after I did so I heard the tiniest
noise on the balcony.
Then I slipped from my kimono, put on my frock, hooked it, closed my
window, and left. Dinner was a very exciting affair, but it didn’t
compare with the developments of the later evening. Those--oh, my! Again
I need that word that hasn’t yet been made--the one that means fear in
all its various forms. Everyone was frightened, even the detectives; I
know it.