THE SINISTER MARK
BY LEE THAYER
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
_First Edition_
TO
H. W. T.
IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT
OF HIS FINAL APPROVAL
CONTENTS
I. "MARY BLAKE"
II. AN UNSTAMPED LETTER
III. PETER CLANCY
IV. A VIEWLESS ROOM
V. CAMOUFLAGE?
VI. "MY SISTER, ANNE----"
VII. A SPLASH OF BLOOD
VIII. THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE
IX. WHAT THE CABMAN KNEW
X. A BIG TRUNK
XI. FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS
XII. A SIGNATURE CARD
XIII. THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA HOTEL
XIV. ONE CLUE
XV. THE DUPLICATE KEY
XVI. ROSAMOND CURWOOD
XVII. ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH
XVIII. ROSAMOND'S SECRET
XIX. IN THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY
XX. PETER CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS--
XXI. --AND ASKS A QUESTION
XXII. "ON MONDAY--THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY----"
XXIII. A MIDNIGHT ERRAND
XXIV. "HANDS UP!"
XXV. A HIGH WALL
XXVI. THE WOMAN SHULTZE
XXVII. 111 WEST FORTY ---- STREET
XXVIII. DONALD MORRIS UNDERSTANDS
XXIX. KATE RUTHERFORD RELIEVES HER MIND
THE SINISTER MARK
CHAPTER I
"MARY BLAKE"
"Tell me, Mary!"
The woman stirred slightly, and with her strong, fine hand pushed her
coffee cup away. She hesitated and looked down at the heavily shaded
light which threw a rosy gleam upon the white tablecloth. Then her
troubled glance travelled swiftly about the room, scarcely noting,
at the other tables, the eager or bored faces, dimly lit; here and
there a splash of colour on a salient jaw and chin, a flush on a bare,
powdered shoulder, the rest melting into carefully designed obscurity,
in which soft-footed waiters passed back and forth, ubiquitous, silent,
and attentive. Her eyes came to rest, at last, on the face of her
companion, but her firm red lips remained closed.
"Something is troubling you, Mary. I can see it plainly," the man
insisted. His voice was low and deep, thrilling with an emotion which
was reflected in his strong bronzed face. "Tell me about it. Let me
help you. I----"
She interrupted him with a motion of her hand.
"It's nothing that you can help, Donald," she said, slowly, bitterly.
"'Fate stacks the cards,' my father used to say, 'and few of us have
the courage to overturn the table.' I wonder----"
She paused. There was a strange light in her fathomless eyes. The man
opposite her leaned intently forward and strove in vain to plumb their
depths. They had fascinated him from the first--those strange gold-gray
eyes--more than her beautiful, mobile face, more, even, than her
wonderful voice. There had always been in them a veiled expression of
mystery, a something unexplained and unexplainable, a hint of tragedy
which consorted oddly with her amazing success on the stage, before the
most critical audience, perhaps, in the world.
The fact that, in spite of her great achievements, in spite of her
immense popularity, he alone, so far as he knew, had gained any degree
of intimacy, thrilled Donald Van Loo Morris, cosmopolitan man of the
world as he certainly was, more than, up to this time, he would have
cared to admit even to himself. The long line of his stiff Dutch
ancestry fought with the artistic temperament which he had inherited
from a sporadic _mésalliance_, late in the last century, and so far had
had the upper hand. Though he had realized for some time that all his
senses were intrigued and all his mind filled with the fascination of
her charm and the loveliness of her spirit, the thought of an alliance
with a woman, world-famed, and yet in a sense unknown, had held his
ardour in check. She was called Mary Blake by the world at large. He
had surprised her into admitting that this was only her stage name,
but when he eagerly sought to push this slight advantage, she had
withdrawn, almost visibly, into that realm of silence which habitually
enshrouded her.
That was months ago, and since then, though he had seen her as often
as she would permit, he had learned nothing of her antecedents nor
of her life preceding her first appearance on the stage. He was too
conventional, too considerate, perhaps, to question openly, and though
her manner was spontaneous and direct, so far as the present was
concerned, there was no scaling the wall of her reserve, in which he
had been able to find not the smallest loop-hole or crevice.
Always there had been a shadow in her eyes, and of late Donald Morris
was sure that the shadow had strengthened and deepened. Always he had
felt hers to be a sensitive, high-strung nature, overwrought. The
demands of her profession and the emotional rôles which she played
would account for much, but there was a tenseness about her always,
and especially to-night, a note almost of hysteria, which in a person
of her vitality was scarcely explainable even by the strain of a long
season, culminating in the closing triumphs of the evening.
She had resolutely, and with fixed determination, refused the ovation
which her manager had planned, and after the final fall of the curtain,
before the last of the enthusiastic audience had left the theatre, she
had slipped quietly away with him--a triumph for him which he felt more
keenly than anything in his previous experience.
The blood ran hotly in his veins as he gazed across the narrow table
into her eyes. The tragedy and appeal, suddenly and completely
unmasked, which cried out to him from their depths swept every worldly
consideration from his heart.
He leaned farther forward and laid his brown hand upon the white one
which was clenched upon the table.
"What is it, Mary?" he questioned, almost fiercely. "There's something
new--some anxiety. What is it, dear? You must tell me. You must let me
protect----" He broke off suddenly and his voice dropped low. "I love
you, Mary. I love you. I'd do anything in the world to serve you. You
must----"
Abruptly Mary Blake drew back her hand and rose. With the same
trembling hand she drew closer the filmy white scarf which floated
about her throat, and before he could reach her side, she caught up the
light cloak which lay upon the back of her chair and wrapped herself
from head to foot in its soft folds.
"I must go," she whispered, trembling as with sudden cold. "It's late,
Donald, and I'm very tired. Don't--oh, don't say any more to-night. I
can't bear----"
They passed out through the crowded restaurant and automatically both
faces slipped on the mask which must be worn before the indifferent
herd. Many eyes followed them in their passage down the room. Though
their faces were somewhat obscured by the bizarre lighting of the
place, at least one of them had been recognized by more than a few.
"Mary Blake," whispered a heavy-featured man with a freshly scraped
jowl like that of a very clean pig, as he leaned across to his
vis-à-vis, whose bobbed hair shone like the evening primrose in the
dusk. "Been to see her three times in 'Dark Roads.' Closed to-night,
or I'd take you, girlie, though maybe you wouldn't like it anyway.
Pretty high-brow, even for me," and he smoothed his slippery dark hair
complacently. He felt, strenuously, that he knew what he knew. "Great
artist, that," he ruminated, gazing after the retreating figures. "Poor
old Quinn knew how to pick 'em out of the atmosphere, somehow. Pity he
had to kick-in after her first season, but Mary Blake was a lucky girl
to have him for a manager in the start-off. They say Fred Jones has
made a pot of money out of 'Dark Roads' and, of course, she's the whole
show. Quinn's training was worth everything to her, naturally, but the
girl has talent, genius even----"
The primrose one was scarcely listening.
"Who's the man?" she interrupted, a trifle impatiently. Even in her
not-too-discriminating eyes there was a sharp contrast between the man
who had just passed and the perfumed self-complacency who had done her
the honour of taking her to an after-theatre supper.
"That?" queried her companion. "Oh, that's Don Morris--Donald Van Loo
Morris." He rolled the name on his tongue. "Real class he is, girlie,
so don't get any little heart flutters about him. Belongs to all the
old families in New York. His sister is Mrs. Francis Atterbury--see
her pictures in all the society papers. Holds the record for being
the only person who has ever had the honour of showing off the Blake
in captivity. Yep! Mary gave a reading in Mrs. Atterbury's house in
Gramercy Park early last fall, and nobody else has been able to get
near the girl with a ten-foot pole before or since. Some exclusive,
she is! Clever little devil," he chuckled. "Knows how to enhance
her popularity. Bet Quinn shot it into her good and strong that a
successful beginner ought to be seen off-stage as little as possible.
Never have seen her myself except across the foot-lights, and once in
a while at some quiet restaurant, or a place like this which maybe
isn't any too quiet, but it's sort of dim and one doesn't attract too
much attention, eh, girlie? Else would I be here, what?" and he laughed
fatly.
The girl wrinkled up her baby nose.
"Oh, quit your kiddin'," she said, petulantly, "and tell me some
more about the tall, good-lookin' guy. He's my idea of what a real
gentleman ought to look like, he sure is. What does he do for a living,
or don't he do anything or anybody?"
"Not any," grinned the other. "At least, I believe he's a sculptor or
something on the side, but he has oodles of money--so he should worry!
Mary Blake's a wise little gold-digger, all right, if she does pretend
that Violet is her middle name. Now there's nothing of the shrinking
flowerette about you, girlie, and that's what I could care for, believe
me! You're the only----"
Unmindful of the attention they had attracted, Mary Blake and her
escort passed out into the cool night air. The light rain which blew in
through the open end of the gay awning was refreshing after the close
atmosphere of the restaurant, and Donald Morris raised his head and let
the rain drift in upon his upturned face. Mary Blake's head was bent
and shadowed by her broad, drooping black hat, so that he could not see
the expression of her face when she said:
"Let me go home alone, Donald, please. Just put me in a taxi and----"
"Absolutely impossible, my dear girl, at this time of night," he said,
firmly, though his face was uncertain and anxious.
He motioned to one in gaudy uniform who stood close by, and instantly,
out of the darkness, a cab rolled up and stopped, and the gaudy one
threw open the door.
"I won't trouble you, Mary," Morris whispered, hastily. "But I must
come with you and see you safe. Mary, oh, Mary----" His lips closed,
but his eyes spoke on.
With a slight shrug and a deep intake of the breath, the woman bent her
tall head and preceded him into the waiting cab.
"Ninety-nine Waverly Place."
Morris gave the direction with almost the assured familiarity with
which one gives one's own, and yet the thought crossed his mind
briefly, as it had many times before, that he had never been beyond
the broad old door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place.... Why?... He
had suggested it more than once, as plainly as he dared, but the
suggestion had always been evaded or ignored. It was not on the score
of propriety, of that he was certain. She lived with her sister. They
would not have been alone. He had always felt that her apartment
would tell him something of her inner life, that inner life which he
knew now, at last, concerned him so deeply; for the phrase which had
come unbidden to his lips was true. He loved her--loved her more than
anything in the world. Nothing else mattered.
His gaze was fixed on the beautiful profile which could be seen now and
then as the misty street lights flashed past. There had been no sound
within the cab after the slamming of the door.
Mary Blake sat slightly forward on the cushions, gazing, with unseeing
eyes, straight ahead. Her small head was held erect now, but there was
something tense in its pose, something taut in her whole attitude which
suggested the drawn bow. Her hands were tightly clasped upon her knees.
After a long time, Donald Morris spoke.
"I won't trouble you, Mary. I won't ask any more questions, but--I
meant what I said. You must have seen it coming. You must have
known--oh, you beautiful, dear, wonderful girl, I love you. I want you
to be my wife, Mary. My----"
"No, no, Donald! Stop, oh, stop," she gasped. "Don't--don't--not
to-night----" Her breath came short and quick. "I'm to blame--to blame.
I--I don't know what to say to you. I don't know whether to----But no.
You could never ... oh, I can't talk! Not to-night! It's been a long
season, and I'm tired--so tired."
There was no hint of fatigue in her poised figure, but in her voice was
all the way-worn wistful weariness of the ages.
The cab reached Washington Square, turned to the left, and stopped, and
a grimy hand stretched leisurely back and opened the door.
"Wait," said Donald Morris, briefly, as he alighted and gave his hand
to the woman who quickly followed him.
Silently he received her keys, unlocked and opened the door of the dark
vestibule and the door of the hall. A faint light burned inside, and
by it he could just distinguish the white oval of her face, the wild,
bitter tragedy in the curving lips and great shadowed eyes.
He closed the door and caught both her hands in his.
"Let me come up with you, Mary," he cried, "if only for a moment. I
can't leave you like this. Your sister will be waiting up for you?"
"She--she hasn't gone to bed yet. It isn't that," Mary replied in a
shaken voice. There was always a strange note in her voice when she was
forced to speak of her sister. It was there now, stronger than ever.
Subconsciously, it registered itself on Morris's mind, though at the
moment he paid no heed. He was to remember it later.
"You're trembling, Mary! You're shivering as if you were frightened,"
he cried, anxiously. "What is it, dear?"
Again she shuddered, and drawing one hand away, covered her face.
"It's nothing, nothing, Donald." She tried to laugh. "Someone walking
over my grave, perhaps," she added, lightly. Then, under her breath,
"Over my grave ... I wonder...." She caught her lip between her teeth
and swiftly pulled herself together.
"Good-night, Donald. Thank you for all your kindness--your--everything.
And leave me now. If you--care--go now, at once, while I have----"
For a flash her eyes were upon him. What he saw in them took his
breath. With a cry he caught her close in his arms and held her fast.
Wildly heart beat against heart, conquering lips pressed lips which
yielded in passionate surrender.
But only for a moment, though that moment seemed a lifetime to both.
With shaking hand she pushed him from her, and without another word
sped up the shadowy stair.