111 WEST FORTY ---- STREET
Gertrude Shultze listened attentively while Donald instructed the
cabman to go to number 111 West Forty ---- Street, but to stop on
the way and pick up another passenger on the northwest corner of
Thirty-ninth Street. She looked at him shrewdly from the corner of her
eye as the cab started forward, and after a moment she said:
"Who's your friend, Mr. Morris? I shouldn't think Miss Blake would be
any too crazy to have a crowd----"
"It's a friend of Miss Blake's," said Morris, shortly. "Someone who is
almost as interested in finding her as I am."
"Oh," said the woman, and remained silent for several minutes, much to
Donald's relief.
She started talking again (it was obvious that she could not be
silent for long), but she said nothing of any consequence to Donald.
Her chatter annoyed him because it gave him no time to think, and he
was relieved when he saw O'Malley's bulky old figure standing at the
appointed place.
O'Malley jumped in, with surprising agility for one of his age and
figure, almost before the cab came to a standstill, and after being
introduced to Mrs. Shultze, he bore the brunt of the conversation. Even
then, Donald had little opportunity for concentrated thought for his
attention was distracted by the clever way in which the old man drew
the woman out, making an excellent impression by the interest he showed
in her personal concerns. The adaptable old fellow had no difficulty,
apparently, in meeting her on her own ground, and in the few minutes
which elapsed before the cab stopped in front of her house he had
gained such headway that she made no difficulty whatever about his
accompanying Mr. Morris.
With her own latch-key she opened the door of the big, somewhat shabby
house, and requested the gentlemen to follow her upstairs.
Donald hesitated to go up unannounced, but she imperatively overruled
his objections.
"Your best bet is to go in sudden, Mr. Morris," she said. "It may be a
shock, but if you ask me, I think a shock is just what the poor thing
needs."
O'Malley cast a sharp, questioning look from one to the other, and
Mrs. Shultze told him at once of Miss Blake's loss of memory. When he
understood:
"I think she's right, Mr. Morris," he said. "I've had some
experience--I mean I've seen a case of this sort, and it was just the
shock of seeing someone well known in the past that brought the memory
back. It's worth trying."
Donald agreed to that, and all three, Mrs. Shultze in the lead, went
up the heavily carpeted, dusty stairs. When they reached the top floor,
she pointed to a door and placing her finger on her lips, knocked
softly.
"Who's there?"
Donald started forward at the sound of the voice within the room.
O'Malley put his hand on Donald's arm.
"Wait," he said, in a low whisper.
"It's only me, dearie," said Mrs. Shultze in honeyed accents. She tried
the door, and finding it locked, added more sweetly still, "Won't you
let me in?"
There was no answer except the sound of a key turning in a lock. Mrs.
Shultze cast a warning glance at the two men, opened the door and
stepped quickly inside, leaving it ajar.
"How are you to-night, dearie?"
"I'm very well, I think. I'm not sure. What is it you want? You've been
here before about something, but what is it, I can't remember."
At the first words Donald started again, convulsively. He stepped close
to the door and listened intently to that voice, that beloved voice,
now so uncertain, so strangely altered, yet the same--the same.
"Oh, forget it, dearie," Mrs. Shultze had responded at once, with
exaggerated cheerfulness. "We won't talk about that now. I've brought a
friend to see you, sweetie. That's the way little Trudie looks out for
them she takes a fancy to. I've brought an old friend----" There was a
low murmur and the woman, evidently replying to it, said: "You look all
right, dearie. He won't mind." Donald knew that she had turned toward
the door, for her voice was louder as she added, "Come in, Mr. Morris."
"I'll stay here," whispered O'Malley in Donald's ear. "Leave the door
open. I'll keep out of sight."
Scarcely hearing, with heart beating wildly, Donald pushed open the
door.
"Mary," he cried, chokingly. "Mary! At last!"
She was seated on the other side of a small table, leaning slightly
forward, her cheek resting on her right hand, in a position poignantly
familiar; but the exquisite face--oh, how changed and ravaged it was!
Only the great, gold-gray eyes burned with the old fire.
Donald cried out again, "Mary!" and threw himself on his knees beside
her. Mrs. Shultze, keeping herself well in the background, watched with
calculating eyes.
O'Malley, in the hall, saw the woman at the table draw back, turning
sidewise in her chair.
"I--I don't understand----" The voice was sweet, low, and troubled,
"Ought I to know you? I can't think----" She passed her hand across her
forehead, pushing back the lovely curves of soft dark hair.
"Oh, Mary," there was heart-break in the tone, "don't you remember?
It's Donald. Donald. You must----"
"I can't remember," she said, gently drawing her rather worn silk
négligée closer about her. "There was someone--someone once, who spoke
to me like that.... But it was long ago--long ago, I think." She looked
at the upturned face steadily, trying to thread her way back through
the darkness of her mind. "Who was it? There have been so many--so
many faces.... They come and go--in dreams--but they have no names....
They're like scenes in a play. The curtain comes down ... and it's all
dark--all dark----" The beautiful voice trailed off into silence, and
again she dropped her cheek on her hand.
"But, Mary, Mary----" Donald strove, in agony, to regain her attention
by the reiteration of her name.
She roused herself a little, and looked at him again.
"Why do you call me that?" she asked, confusedly. "My name is Rosamond,
Rosamond Curwood."
"I know, dear," he replied, gently. "But you were called Mary on the
stage. Try to remember. Mary Blake. That was the name you used. Can't
you----"
She shook her head, slowly, wearily.
"Don't--don't confuse me," she said. "I can remember that my name is
Rosamond Curwood. It's all I can remember. Don't take that away from
me."
But Donald could not give up. Again and again he tried to call back to
her remembrance something out of the past. But she only shook her head,
blankly, becoming more and more troubled and uncertain, until at last
he dared not go on. With a hopeless gesture he rose to his feet, and
before he had reached the door, she had relapsed into the old position,
her eyes staring absently before her.
In passing, Donald made a sign to Mrs. Shultze, and together they left
the room, softly closing the door upon the sad and apparently hopeless
figure.
Without a word, O'Malley put his kind old hand under Morris's arm, and
realizing the young man's need of physical as well as moral support, he
led him quickly down the stairs, Mrs. Shultze following close behind.
As soon as they reached the ground floor O'Malley said:
"There's just one thing to be done, Mr. Morris, and the quicker,
the better. What we want is a doctor--an alienist"--he felt Donald
wince--"I know it's hard, but it's got to be faced. And you know
there's always hope in a case of this kind. Most of 'em recover sooner
or later, I think. But we want a specialist, the best in town, and I
would suggest----"
"Stevens," Donald interrupted, with eagerness. "I'd rather have John
Stevens than any one else."
"The very man I was thinking of," agreed O'Malley. "There's nobody like
him in the country."
"And he's a personal friend of mine, too," said Donald. "There's hardly
anything we wouldn't do for each other, and----"
"Got a telephone here?" O'Malley turned sharply to Mrs. Shultze, who
had been silently listening.
"Oh, yes, sir. Just at the back of the hall." She pointed, and O'Malley
started toward the instrument which could be dimly seen in the shadow
of the stair.
Donald checked him. "It would be better for me. It's late, but he'll
come for me," he said, and went quickly to the telephone.
While he was talking, Mrs. Shultze came up close to O'Malley, and spoke
in a soft, wheedling voice.
"You won't let Mr. Morris forget that it was me that found Miss Blake
for him, will you?" she said. "A gentleman like him would be sure to be
grateful, I should think. And there's the matter of a week's rent, too.
Of course, there's no hurry about it, now I know who her friends are,
but you'll see he doesn't forget, like an old dear, won't you? I'd hate
to be speaking to him myself, when the poor young man's in such trouble
and all."
"You needn't worry, Mrs. Shultze," said O'Malley, gruffly. "You'll be
paid and paid well, if you're good to the poor young thing upstairs."
"Oh, you can be sure of that, sir," she said, beaming at him. "I'll
treat her's if she was my own dau--sister, I mean. Yes, sir. Anything
that Trudie Shultze can do for her is the same as done. I'll----"
"Stevens is coming right down. He'll be here in a few minutes," said
Donald, advancing quickly from the other end of the hall.
"Won't you gentlemen come into my parlour and wait there?" said Mrs.
Shultze, hospitably. "It's right here handy, on the ground floor."
Donald shook his head and O'Malley declined politely.
"We'll be all right here," he said, motioning to a plush-covered settle
which stood against the wall. "And we won't keep you any longer, Mrs.
Shultze."
He said this pointedly, and the woman, realizing that she had no
further excuse for lingering, only said sweetly, "If you need me, I'll
be right on the job"; and went down the hall, disappearing through a
door at the back.
They were forced to recall her, however, when the doctor came.
"Better have some woman, Don. I hadn't time to get hold of a nurse," he
said. "Better have the woman of the house, especially since the patient
is used to seeing her."
So it was that Mrs. Shultze, as well as Donald and O'Malley,
accompanied the doctor to the top floor. The woman knocked softly and
went in alone. Presently she came back to the door, and beckoned to
Doctor Stevens. Morris and O'Malley remained in the hall. The door was
partly open, and they could hear the doctor's quiet, assured voice
and an occasional low reply. In a little while they heard him speak
quickly to Mrs. Shultze, and both of them came into the hall. The
doctor was frowning, angrily.
"When did she have something to eat?" he asked, sharply, jerking his
head in the direction of the room they had just left. "Speak up, woman.
When did she eat last?"
"I--I don't know." Mrs. Shultze faltered under the doctor's steady
glare. "She isn't boarding here any longer. She just has the room, and
she owes me for that for more'n a week. I never thought----"
"I guess that's the truth, anyway," said Doctor Stevens, angrily. "I
don't believe you ever did before, but for God's sake, think now and
think quick. Have you any bouillon--any milk in the house? The child's
starving. I don't believe she's had a mouthful for days. We'll have to
see about the other trouble later. She must have food now, and quickly.
Don't stand there, woman. Get down to your kitchen as fast as the
Lord'll let you, and bring me milk, some raw eggs, a little sherry or
brandy----"
"My God!" groaned Trudie Shultze. "There ain't been a drop of sherry or
brandy in the house for two months--I got some gin----"
"Get the other things quick," said O'Malley.
"Gin won't do as well as----" With a funny little look he slipped his
hand into a rear pocket. "It's the best, Doctor." The hand came out,
holding a small flask. "I can vouch for it. The best French brandy in
New York."
"Good!" said the doctor, with a little gleam in the eye he turned on
O'Malley. "Now, Don, you go to the nearest restaurant and get----" He
reeled off a list of light and delicate but nourishing edibles. "You
won't need to hurry. She'll do with the egg-nog for an hour at least.
So get 'em good, and take your time."
"All right," said Donald, grateful for the opportunity for action.
"I'll be back as quickly as I can make it. But, John----"
"Yes?"
"Can't we take her out of this beastly hole? Now, at once! I can't bear
to think of her with that hyena of a woman--who left her to starve--to
starve! God! When I think of it----"
"The woman will treat her well if she's paid," said O'Malley. "I can
vouch for that, at least."
"Then pay her! For God's sake, pay her!" cried Donald, pulling a roll
of bills from his pocket and thrusting them into O'Malley's hands.
"Better leave her here, in any case, for to-night, Don," advised Doctor
Stevens, quietly. "I can get her into my sanitarium to-morrow, if you'd
like that." Donald nodded, eagerly. "And I'll get a nurse for her here,
right away, but I think you'd better sweeten up this woman----"
"This'll do it," said O'Malley, peeling off a bill of large
denomination, and handing the rest of the money back to Donald. "This
will do for a starter, with the hope of benefits to follow."
"So go ahead, Don, and don't worry about anything here," said the
doctor, comfortingly. "I'm not going to leave till I see things are
right."
Donald, after a grateful look at John Stevens and O'Malley, and an
anxious, longing glance at the closed door, ran rapidly down the stairs.
* * * * *
When O'Malley reached his comfortable, old-fashioned bachelor quarters,
late that night, there was an almost unacknowledged feeling of
half-amused satisfaction in his mind. The situation was painful enough,
to be sure, and he was full of sympathy for young Morris, but, in spite
of all, there was a certain compensation in the fact that he had put
one over on Pete. While he had not been exactly instrumental in finding
Mary Blake, he had been on the job when she was found--and that was
incontestably comforting to his sporty old heart. He was, therefore,
in a somewhat mixed frame of mind as he undressed, but above all other
considerations one thought was uppermost:
"I'll have news for you, Pete, my lad, when you get back from your
wild-goose chase," he said to himself, as he stooped, ponderously, to
untie his shoes.
And just then the telephone, which was installed in the corner of his
bedroom, rang out loudly in the midnight stillness.
He muttered an impatient word as he kicked off a shoe. "If it's the
wrong number again, I'll give that operator the devil," he thought,
hastily crossing to the telephone.
"Is this Captain James O'Malley?" asked the voice in the instrument,
and at his gruff response it continued, "Telegram for you."
"All right," said O'Malley. "Shoot."
"Got the goods----"
"What!" cried O'Malley. "Repeat that, please."
"'Got--the--goods'----" the voice reiterated, with bored distinctness.
"'Meet us, Penn. Station, Saturday, eleven-forty-five from Chicago. Say
nothing yet to D. M.' Signed 'Pete.' Got that?"
"Penn. Station, eleven-forty-five from Chicago, Saturday," repeated
O'Malley, slowly. "Yes. I've got it. Thanks."
He hung up the receiver. "Saturday--that's the day after to-morrow," he
considered, and sat down heavily on a chair.
"Us, meet _us_----"
"Now, what in hell has Pete turned up?" he went on, wonderingly, half
aloud. "What--in--hell----"