DISTURBING NEWS
He walked home swiftly through the early night, his brain seething
with tumultuous thoughts. The revelations of the day were staggering;
the whole universe seemed to have turned topsy-turvy since that
devastating hour at Burton's Inn. Somehow he was not able to confine
his thoughts to Hetty Castleton alone. She seemed to sink into the
background, despite the absolution he had been so ready, so eager
to grant her on hearing the story from Sara's lips. Not that his
resolve to search her out and claim her in spite of everything was
likely to weaken, but that the absorbing figure of Sara Wrandall
stood out most clearly in his reflections.
What an amazing creature she was! He could not drive her out of his
thoughts, even when he tried to concentrate them on the one person
who was dearest to him of all in all the world, his warm-hearted,
adorable Hetty. Strange contrasts suggested themselves to him as he
strode along, head bent and shoulders hunched. He could not help
contrasting the two women. He loved Hetty; he would always love her,
of that he was positive. She was Sara's superior in every respect,
infinitely so, he argued. And yet there was something in Sara that
could crowd this adored one, this perfect one out of his thoughts
for the time being. He found it difficult to concentrate his thoughts
on Hetty Castleton.
How white and ill Sara had looked when she said good-night to him
at the door! The memory of her dark, mysterious eyes haunted him;
he could see them in the night about him. They had been full of
pain; there were torrents of tears behind them. They had glistened
as if burnished by the fires of fever.
Even as he wrote his long, triumphant letter to Hetty Castleton,
the picture of Sara Wrandall encroached upon his mental vision. He
could not drive it out. He thought of her as she had appeared to
him early in the spring; through all the varying stages of their
growing intimacy; through the interesting days when he vainly tried
to translate her matchless beauty by means of wretched pigments;
up to this present hour in which she was revealed, and yet not
revealed, to him. Her vivid face was always before him, between
his eyes and the thin white paper on which he scribbled so eagerly.
Her feverish eyes were looking into his; she was reading what he
wrote before it appeared on the surface of the sheet!
His letter to Hetty was a triumph of skill and diplomacy, achieved
after many attempts. He found it hard not to say too much, and
quite as difficult not to say too little. He spent hours over this
all-important missive. At last it was finished. He read and re-read
it, searching for the slightest flaw: a fatal word or suggestion that
might create in her mind the slightest doubt as to his sincerity.
She was sure to read this letter a great many times, and always
with the view to finding something between the lines: such as pity,
resignation, an enforced conception of loyalty, or even faith! He
meant that she should find nothing there but love. It was full of
tenderness, full of hope, full of promise. He was coming to her
with a steadfast, enduring love in his heart, he wanted her now
more than ever before.
There was no mention of Challis Wrandall, and but once was Sara's
name used. There was nothing in the letter that could have betrayed
their joint secret to the most acute outsider, and yet she would
understand that he had wrung everything from Sara's lips. Her secret
was his.
He decided that it would not be safe to anticipate the letter by a
cablegram. It was not likely that any message he could send would
have the desired effect. Instead of reassuring her, in all probability
it would create fresh alarm.
Sleep did not come to him until after three o'clock. At two he got
up and deliberately added a postscript to the letter he had written.
It was in the nature of a poignant plea for Sara Wrandall. Even as
he penned the lines, he shuddered at the thought of what she had
planned to do to Hetty Castleton. Staring hard at the black window
before him, the pen still in his hand, he allowed his thoughts
to dwell so intimately on the subject of his well-meant postcript
that her ashen face with its burning eyes seemed to take shape in
the night beyond. It was a long time before he could get rid of
the illusion. Afterwards he tried to conjure up Hetty's face and
to drive out the likeness of the other woman, and found that he
could not recall a single feature in the face of the girl he loved!
When he reached Southlook in the morning, he found that nearly all
of the doors and windows were boarded up. Wagons were standing in
the stable-yard, laden with trunks and crates. Servants without
livery were scurrying about the halls. There was an air of finality
about their movements. The place was being desolated.
"Yes, sir," said Watson, in reply to his question, "we ARE in a
rush. Mrs. Wrandall expects to close the 'ouse this evening, sir.
We all go up this afternoon. I suppose you know, sir, we 'ave
taken a new apartment in town."
"No!" exclaimed Booth.
"Yes, sir, we 'ave, sir. They've been decorating it for the pawst
two weeks. Seems like she didn't care for the old one we 'ad. As
a matter of fact, I didn't care much for it, either. She's taken
one of them hexpensive ones looking out over the Park, sir. You
know we used to look out over Madison Avenue, sir, and God knows it
wasn't hinspirin'. Yes, sir, we go up this afternoon. Mrs. Wrandall
will be down in a second, thank you, sir."
Booth actually was startled by her appearance when she entered the
room a few minutes later. She looked positively ill.
"My dear Sara," he cried anxiously, "this is too bad. You are making
yourself ill. Come, come, this won't do."
"I shall be all right in a day or two," she said, with a weary little
gesture. "I have been nervous. The strain was too great, Brandon.
This is the reaction, the relaxation you might say."
"Your hand is hot, your eyes look feverish. You'd better see your
doctor as soon as you get to town. An ounce of prevention, you
know."
"Well," she said, with a searching look into his eyes, "have you
written to her?"
"Yes. Posted it at seven o'clock this morning."
"I trust you did not go so far as to--well, to volunteer a word in
my behalf. You were not to do that, you know."
He looked uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I did take your name in vain,"
he equivocated. "You are a--a wonderful woman, Sara," he went on,
moved to the remark by a curious influence that he could not have
explained any more than he could have accounted for the sudden gush
of emotion that took possession of him.
She ignored the tribute. "You will persuade her to come to New York
with you?"
"For your sake, Sara, if she won't come for mine."
"She knows the cage is open," was her way of dismissing the subject.
"I am glad you came over. I have a letter from Leslie. It came this
morning. You may be interested in what he has to say of Hetty--and
of yourself." She smiled faintly. "He is determined that you shall
not be without a friend while he is alive."
"Les isn't such a rotter, Sara. He's spoiled, but he is hardly to
be blamed for that."
"I will read his letter to you," she said, and there was no little
significance in the way she put it. She held the letter in her
hand, but he had failed to notice it before. Now he saw that it
was a crumpled ball of paper. He was obliged to wait for a minute
or two while she restored it to a readable condition. "He was in
London when this was written," she explained, turning to the window
for light. She glanced swiftly over the first page until she found
the place where she meant to begin. "'I suppose Hetty Castleton has
written that we met in Lucerne two weeks ago,'" she read. "'Curious
coincidence in connexion with it, too. I was with her father, Col.
Braid Castleton, when we came upon her most unexpectedly. I ran
across him in Paris just before the aviation meet, and got to know
him rather well. He's a fine chap, don't you think? I confess I was
somewhat surprised to learn that he didn't know she'd left America.
He explained it quite naturally, however. He'd been ill in the
north of Ireland and must have missed her letters. Hetty was on
the point of leaving for Italy. We didn't see much of her. But,
by Jove, Sara, I am more completely gone on her than ever. She is
adorable. Now that I've met her father, who had the beastly misfortune
to miss old Murgatroyd's funeral, I can readily see wherein the
saying "blood will tell" applies to her. He is a prince. He came
over to London with me the day after we left Hetty in Lucerne, and
I had him in to meet mother and Vivian at Clarridge's. They like
him immensely. He set us straight on a good many points concerning
the Glynn and Castleton families. Of course, I knew they were among
the best over here, but I didn't know how fine they were until we
prevailed on him to talk a little about himself. You will be glad
to hear that he is coming over with us on the Mauretania. She sails
the 27th. We'll be on the water by the time you get this letter.
It had been our intention to sail last week, but the Colonel had
to go to Ireland for a few days to settle some beastly squabbles
among the tenants. Next year he wants me to come over for the
shooting. He isn't going back to India for two years, you may be
interested to hear. Two years' leave. Lots of influence, believe me!
We've been expecting him back in London since day before yesterday.
I dare say he found matters worse than he suspected and has
been delayed. He has been negotiating for the sale of some of his
property in Belfast--factory sites, I believe. He is particularly
anxious to close the deal before he leaves England. Had to lift a
mortgage on the property, however, before he could think of making
the sale. I staked him to four thousand pounds, to tide him over.
Of course, he is eager to make the sale. 'Gad, I almost had to beg
him to take the money. Terribly proud and haughty, as the butler
would say. He said he wouldn't sleep well until he has returned the
filthy lucre. We are looking for him back any hour now. But if he
shouldn't get here by Friday, we will sail without him. He said he
would follow by the next boat, in case anything happened that he
didn't catch the Mauretania.'"
Sara interrupted herself to offer an ironic observation: "If Hetty
did not despise her father so heartily, I should advise you to look
farther for a father-in-law, Brandon. The Colonel is a bad lot.
Estates in the north of Ireland! Poor Leslie!" She laughed softly.
"He'll not show up, eh?"
"Not a bit of it," she said. "He may be charged to profit and loss
in Leslie's books. This part of the letter will interest you,"
she went on, as if all that had gone before was of no importance
to him. "'I hear interesting news concerning you, my dear girl.
My heartiest congratulations if it is all true. Brandy is one in
a million. I have hoped all along to have him as a full-fledged
brother-in-law, but I'm satisfied to have him as a sort of
step-brother-in-law, if that's the way you'd put it. Father writes
that every one is talking about it, and saying what a fine thing
it is. He has a feeling of delicacy about approaching you in the
matter, and I fancy it's just as well until everything is settled. I
wish you'd let me make a suggestion, however. Wouldn't it be wise
to let us all get together and talk over the business end of the
game? Brandy's a fine chap, a corker, in fact, but the question is:
has he got it in him to take Challis's place in the firm? You've
got to consider the future as well as the present, my dear. We
all do. With his artistic temperament he might play hob with your
interests, and ours too, for that matter. Wouldn't it be wise for
me to sound him a bit before we take him into the firm? Forgive
me for suggesting this, but, as you know, your interests are mine,
and I'm terribly keen about seeing you get the best of everything.
By the way, wasn't he a bit gone on Hetty? Passing fancy, of course,
and not deep enough to hurt anybody. Good old Brandy!'"
"There is more, Brandon, but it's of no consequence," she said,
tossing the letter upon the table. "You see how the land lays."
Booth was pale with annoyance. "By Jove, Sara, what an insufferable
ass he is!"
"The shoe pinches?"
"Oh, it's such perfect rot! I'm sorry on your account. Have you
ever heard of such gall?"
"Oh, he is merely acting as the family spokesman. I can see them
now in solemn conclave. They think it their indisputable right to
select a husband for me, to pass upon him, to accept or decline
him as they see fit, to say whether he is a proper man to hang up
his hat and coat in the offices of Wrandall & Co."
"Do you mean to say--"
"Let's not talk about it, Brandon. It is too silly."
They fell to discussing her plans for the immediate future, although
the minds of both were at work with something else.
"Now that I have served my purpose, I suppose you will not care to
see so much of me," she said, as he prepared to take leave of her.
"Served your purpose? What do you mean?"
"I should have put it differently. You have been most assiduous in
your efforts to force the secret from me. It has been accomplished.
Now do you understand?"
"That isn't fair, Sara," he protested. "If you'll let me come
to see you, in spite of what the gossips and Mr. Redmond Wrandall
predict, you may be sure I will be as much in evidence as ever. I
suppose I have been a bit of a nuisance, hanging on as I have."
"I admire your perseverance. More than that, I admire your courage
in accepting the situation as you have. I only hope you may win
her over to your way of thinking, Brandon. Good-bye."
"I shall go up to town to-morrow, kit and bag. When shall I see
you? We have a great deal left to talk about before I sail."
"Come when you like."
"You really want me to come?"
"Certainly."
He studied her pale, tired face for a moment, and then shook his
head. "You must take care of yourself," he said. "You are unstrung.
Get a good rest and--and forget certain things if you can. Everything
will come out all right in the end."
"It depends on what one is willing to accept as the end," she said.
The next morning she received an expected visitor at her apartment.
Expecting him, she made a desperate effort to appear as strong and
unconcerned as she had been on the occasion of a former meeting.
There was little in her appearance to suggest worry, illness
or alarm when she entered the rather unsettled little library and
confronted the redoubtable Mr. Smith.
The detective had dropped her a line earlier in the week asking
for an audience at the earliest possible moment.
"You are worried, madam," he said, after he had carefully closed
the door leading to the hall, "and so am I."
"What do you want now?" she demanded. "You have received your money.
There is nothing else that we--"
"Beg pardon, Mrs. Wrandall, but there is something else. I'm not
after more money, as you may suspect. The size of the matter is,
I'm here to put you wise to what's going on without your knowing
anything about it. Right or wrong, I'm still interested in this
case of yours. Understand me, I haven't lifted a finger since that
day in the country. I've quit cold, just as I said I would. The
trouble is, other people are still nosing around."
"Sit down, Mr. Smith. Now, tell me what you are here for."
Smith followed her example and sat down, drawing a chair quite
close to hers. He lowered his voice.
"Well, I've got next to something I think you ought to know. Maybe
old man Wrandall is back of it, but I don't think he is. You see,
so far as outsiders are concerned, that reward still stands. A
murder's a murder and that's all there is to it. There are men in
this business who are going to hunt for that woman until they get
her. See what I mean?"
"Please go on. I suppose some one else suspects me, and may have to
be bought off," she said so significantly that he turned a bright
red.
"Now don't think that of me, Mrs. Wrandall. I am not in on this,
I swear. You paid me of your own free will and I laid down on the
job. I don't deny that I expected you to do it. I'm not what you'd
call a model of virtue and integrity. I served time in the pen a
good many years ago. They say it takes a thief to catch a thief.
That's not true. A detective has to be dead honest or the thief
catches him. I think most of the men in my business are honest.
They have to be. You may not agree with me, but I thought I was
doing the square thing by you last summer. I had a theory and I
was honest in believing it was the right one. I thought you'd pay
me to drop the matter. I'm now dead sure I was wrong in suspecting
you for a minute. I'm no fool. I--"
Sara interrupted him.
"Will you be good enough to come to the point, Mr. Smith?" she said
coldly.
"Well," he said, leaning forward and speaking very deliberately,
"I've come here to tell you that the police haven't quit on the
job. They're about to make a worse mistake than I made."
She felt herself turn pale. It required a great effort of the will
to suppress the start that might have betrayed her to the keen-eyed
observer.
"That would be impossible, Mr. Smith," she said, shaking her head
and smiling.
"They've been watching that Ashtley girl you sent out West just
after the--er--thing happened. The show-girl, you'll remember."
He must have observed the swift look of relief that leaped into
her eyes.
"What arrant stupidity," she cried, unable to choose her words.
"Why, that unhappy girl is dying a slow and awful death. Surely they
can't be hounding her now. Her innocence was clearly established at
the time. That is why I felt it to be my duty to help her. She went
out to her old home, to die or to get well. They must be fools."
"I'm just telling you, Mrs. Wrandall, that's all. Maybe you can
call 'em off, if you know for a certainty that she's innocent."
There was something accusing in his manner.
She became very cautious. "My opinion was formed upon the girl's
story, and by what the police said after investigating it thoroughly."
"It's a way the police have, madam. They were not satisfied at
the time. They simply gave her the rope, that's all. All this time
they've had men watching her, day by day, out there in Montana.
They say they've got new evidence, a lot of it."
"It is perfectly ridiculous," she cried, very much distressed. "And
it must be stopped. I shall see the authorities at once."
"You may be too late. I heard last night that she is to be re-arrested
out there and put through a fierce examination. They believe she's
weakening and will confess if they go after her hard enough."
"Confess? How can she confess when she knows she is innocent?" she
said sharply.
"You don't know much about the third degree, Mrs. Wrandall. I've
known innocent people to confess under the bullying--"
"It must be stopped! Do you hear me? This: thing cannot go on."
She began to pace the floor in her agitation. "Yes, I have heard
of those third degree atrocities. You are right, they may brow-beat
the poor, sick thing into a confession. Does she know they have
been watching her?"
"Sure. That's part of the game. They make it a point to get on the
nerves. Something is bound to give, sooner or later. They've got
her scared to death. She knows they're simply waiting for a chance
to catch her unawares and trip her up. I tell you, it's a fearful
strain. Strong men go down under it time and again. What must it
be to this half-dead girl, who hasn't much to be proud of in life
at the very best?"
"Tell me what to do," she cried, sitting down again, her eyes
suddenly filling with tears.
"I don't know, ma'am. You see, if we had a grain of proof to work
on, we might be able to turn 'em back, but there's the rub. We can't
say they're wrong without having something up our sleeves to show
that we are right. See what I mean?"
"But I tell you she is innocent!"
"Can you swear to that, Mrs. Wrandall?"
"I--I believe I can," she said, and then experienced a sharp sense
of dismay. What possessed her to say it? "That is, I could stake
my--"
"All that won't count for anything, if they get a signed confession
out of her. Now we both know she is innocent. I'm willing to do
what I can to help you. Turn about is fair play. If you want to
send me out there, I'll try to spike their guns. Maybe I can get
there in time to put fresh heart in the girl. She's safe if she
doesn't go to pieces and say something she oughtn't to say."
"Oh, this is dreadful," she cried, harassed beyond words.
"It sure is. You see, the police work on the theory that some
one's just got to be guilty of that crime. If it ain't the girl
out yonder, then who is it? They know her private history. She said
enough when she was in custody last year to show that she might
have had a pretty good reason for going after your husband--begging
your pardon. You remember she said he'd given her the go-by not
more than two days before he was killed. They'd been good friends
up to then. All of a sudden he chucks her, without ceremony. She
admits she was sore about it. She says she would have done him
dirt if she had had the chance. Well, that's against her. She did
prove an alibi, as you remember, but they're easy to frame up if
necessary. I don't think she was clever enough to do the job and
get away as slick as the real one did. She was a booze-fighter in
those days. They always mess things up. A mighty smooth party did
that job. Some one with a good deal more at stake than that poor,
reckless girl who didn't care much what became of her. But the
trouble is here: they've got her half crazy with fear. First thing
we know, she'll go clear off her head and BELIEVE she did it.
Then the law will be satisfied. She's so far gone, I hear, that
she won't live to be brought to trial, of course. There's some
consolation in that."
"Consolation!" cried Sara bitterly. "She is bad, as bad as a woman
can be, I know, but I can't feel anything but pity for her now."
"I guess your husband made her what she was," said Smith deliberately.
"I don't suppose you ever dreamed what was going on."
She regarded him with a fixed stare. "You are mistaken, Mr. Smith,"
she said, and it was his turn to stare. "Come back this evening
at six. I must consult Mr. Carroll. We will decide what action to
take."
"I'd advise you to be quick about it, Mrs. Wrandall. Something's
bound to happen soon. The time is ripe. I know for a positive fact
that they're expecting news from out there every day. It'd be a God's
blessing if the poor wretch could die before they get a chance at
her."
She started. "A God's blessing," she repeated dully.
"Pretty hard lines, though," he mused, fumbling with his hat near
the door. "Even death wouldn't clear her of the suspicion. Pretty
tough to be branded a murderess, no matter whether you're in the
grave or out of it. I'll be back at six."
She stood perfectly still, and, although her lips were parted,
she allowed him to go without a word in, response to his sombre
declaration.
Half an hour later Mr. Carroll was on his way to her apartment,
vastly perturbed by the call that had come to him over the telephone.
While waiting for him to appear, Sara Wrandall deliberately set
herself to the task of concocting a likely and plausible excuse
for intervention in behalf of the wretched show-girl. She prepared
herself for his argument that the police might be right after all,
and that it would be the better part of wisdom to shift the burden
to their shoulders. She knew she would be called upon to discount
some very sensible advice from the faithful old lawyer. Her reasons
would have to be good ones, not mere whims. He was not likely to
be moved by sentimentality. Moreover, he had once expressed doubt
as to the girl's innocence.
It did not once occur to her that it was Mr. Carroll's business to
respect the secrets of his clients.