Next morning Angela said nothing to Kate of what had happened in the
night. Her thoughts were full of the affair, but since the true version
was to be suppressed, it would be better to have no confidant. She asked,
however, to see a morning paper, and when it came was disappointed to find
no paragraph concerning the thief at the Hotel Valmont. She did not know
anything about the making of newspapers, but took it for granted that the
story had been too late for press, and became very eager to meet her
neighbour, that she might hear all at first hand from him.
She passed him hurriedly the day before, her head bent, because she was
afraid he meant to speak, and she would have to snub him. But now the
tables were turned. She dressed and went down early, making an excuse to
glance over a quantity of magazines and papers in the big hall, hoping
that he might appear. But he did not. It was almost, she told herself, as
if he were punishing her for avoiding him yesterday, by paying her back in
her own coin. Not that she believed he was really doing so. Yet it was
extremely aggravating that he should keep out of the way. He ought to have
understood that she would want to know what happened after the first
chapter of the story was brought to a close by the shutting of the door.
Because she was waiting for him (whether she acknowledged this or not) and
because he did not come, Angela thought of the man every moment, without
being able to put him out of her mind. He had shown such astonishing tact
as well as pluck last night, and was so good-looking, that his very lack
of cultivation made him more interesting as a study. She would have liked
to ask the hotel people about him; whence he came and what was his name;
but, of course, she did nothing of the sort. All she did was to make
various pretexts for lingering in the hall till nearly luncheon time; and
then the arrival of evening papers partly explained to her mind the
mystery of the man's absence. Also they made her a present of his name,
and a few other personal items.
"Nick Hilliard of California Makes Hotel Thief Feel Small," was the
heading of a conspicuous half-column which caught her eye.
The said thief, it seemed, was known to friends and enemies as "Officer
Dutchy." He had "worked" with success in Chicago and the Middle West, but
was a comparative stranger in New York. He "claimed" to have been an
officer in the German army, but probably lied, though he had evidently
been a soldier at one time. He had numerous aliases, and spoke with a
German accent. His name appeared on the register of the Valmont as Count
von Osthaven, and he admitted an attempt to enter the room occupied by Mr.
Hilliard, having reached it by a daring passage along a stone cornice,
from his own window, four rooms to the left, on the twelfth storey.
The case against "Officer Dutchy" would be an interesting one, as his
previous career was--according to the reporter--full of "good stories."
Mr. Hilliard was hoping, however, that it might be hurried on and off,
taking up as little time as possible, as he had use for every moment other
than hanging about a court-room giving evidence. Born in New York, he had
gone West while a boy, and had never since been in the East till a day or
two ago, when he had arrived from the neighbourhood of Bakersfield,
California, with the avowed intention of enjoying himself. Naturally he
did not want to have his enjoyment curtailed by business.
Angela felt guilty. It was her fault that the poor young man's holiday was
spoiled. She ought not to have let him take her burdens on his shoulders;
but it was too late to repent now. She could not come forward and tell the
real story, for that would do him harm, since it would differ from his
version. She could atone only by showing her gratitude in some way.
Because he came from California, she longed to show how friendly and kind
she could be to a man of her father's country--a man worthy of that
country and its traditions she began to think.
She lunched in a quiet corner of the restaurant; but Mr. Nickson Hilliard
of California did not show himself, and at last Angela went up to her own
rooms disappointed. Hardly had she closed the door, however, when a knock
sent her flying to open it again. A bellboy had brought a note, and she
sprang to the conclusion that it must be from Mr. Hilliard. He had found
out her name, and had written to tell what had happened behind the closed
door--the loose end of the story which the newspapers had not got, never
would get, from any one concerned. But the bright pink of excitement and
interest which had sprung to her face died away, as she opened the
envelope and glanced down the first page of the letter, which was headed,
"Doctor Beal's Nursing Home." She read:
Madam:
I am requested by Mr. Henry Morehouse of San Francisco to express
his regret at not being able to meet your ship and offer his
services as he hoped to do, at the request of his elder brother,
Mr. James Morehouse, of the Fidelity Trust Bank, San Francisco. Mr.
H. Morehouse was coming East on law business, when his brother
suggested that he make himself useful to you, and he was looking
forward to doing so, having known the late Mr. Franklin Merriam. On
starting, however, Mr. Morehouse was far from well, and found
himself so much worse on reaching New York, that he was obliged to
consult a doctor. The result was an immediate operation of
appendicitis. This was performed successfully yesterday and Mr.
Morehouse feels strong enough to express (through me) his regret,
wishing to explain why he failed, in case his brother may have let
you know that he intended to meet you.
Yours faithfully,