THREE ERRANDS ASHORE
If Aunt Caroline had been bred to the sea, and familiar with its customs
that have practically crystallized into an unwritten law, she would have
written in her log:
Aboard the yacht _Sunshine_--Latitude, 40° 43' North; Longitude,
74° 0' West. Weather, clear; wind, SSW., moderate; sea, smooth.
Barometer, 29.6.
But not being a seafaring lady, she phrased it in this way in the course
of a remark to her nephew:
"William, isn't it lovely to be sitting here aboard our own yacht in the
Hudson, and isn't the weather superb?"
The _Sunshine_ still lay at her anchorage, with every prospect
auspicious, except for the fact that nothing had been heard from Mrs.
Rokeby-Jones. The sun had set somewhere in New Jersey and the lights of
New York were shining in its stead. There was a soft coolness in the
air, so that Aunt Caroline found comfort in a light wrap.
Bill had decided that they would not sail until later in the evening.
This was not because of Aunt Caroline's anxiety concerning the missing
guest, but for the reason that he had an errand ashore which he had been
unable to discharge during the busy hours of the day. It was an errand
he could trust to nobody, not even to Pete Stearns. In fact, he did not
consider it wisdom to take Pete into his confidence.
Aunt Caroline had, indeed, discovered a telephone aboard the _Sunshine_.
It was in the owner's stateroom, which had been set apart for her
because it was the most commodious of all the sleeping apartments. Three
times she had talked into this telephone, on each occasion giving the
correct number of the Rokeby-Jones house, of which she had made a
memorandum before leaving shore. But each time she was answered by the
voice of a man, always the same voice. The second time he laughed and
the third time he hung up with a bang! So Aunt Caroline, after vainly
trying to lodge a complaint with "Information," made a personal
investigation and discovered that the other end of the telephone system
was in the cabin of the sailing-master.
She made an instant complaint to Bill, and Bill referred her to Pete.
The latter explained it very easily.
"You see, madam, through a mistake the telephone company was notified
that we were sailing several hours ago, so they sent a man out in a boat
to disconnect the shore wire. I'm very sorry, madam."
Aunt Caroline accepted the explanation, as she had come to accept
anything from Pete Stearns, although it did nothing to allay her anxiety
as to Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
Dinner had been over for more than an hour and darkness had settled upon
the river when Bill Marshall announced that he was going ashore. He said
that it was expressly for the purpose of pursuing Aunt Caroline's
thwarted telephone inquiry and that he would not come back until he had
definite news. His aunt thanked him for his thoughtfulness, settled
herself for a nap in a deck-chair and Bill ordered the launch.
He was about to embark upon his errand when it occurred to him that
perhaps his secretary would also like to go ashore. Bill had it in the
back of his head that there might be time to pay a short visit to a
roof-garden or seek some sequestered place for a chat. He had been
trying for some time to have a confidential chat with Mary Wayne, but
she had an annoying way of discovering other and prior engagements.
"You mean the young lady, sir?" said the second officer. "She went
ashore an hour ago, sir. I sent her across in the launch."
Bill became thoughtful. Why hadn't she mentioned the matter to him? And
who was the boss of this yacht, anyhow? Could people order up the
launch just as if they owned it?
He made a search for Pete Stearns and could not find him. Again he spoke
to the second officer.
"Oh, the young man, sir? Why, he went ashore at the same time. I believe
I heard him say that he had a few purchases to make."
Bill gritted his teeth. Here was a piece of presumption that no owner
could tolerate. They had gone away together, of course; they had been
very careful not to say a word to him. What for? What sort of an affair
was in progress between his valet and his secretary? The more he thought
about it the higher rose his temper.
"I'm going ashore myself," he said shortly. "Please hurry the launch."
Ten minutes later he was hunting for a taxi along the Manhattan
waterfront, deeply disturbed in mind and with a fixed resolution to
demand explanations.
But the suspicions of Bill Marshall did injustice at least to one of the
missing persons. Mary Wayne had gone ashore on a purely private
mission, and she was not only surprised, but annoyed when her employer's
valet also stepped into the launch.
"If you don't mind, miss," said Pete, apologetically, as the launch was
headed for the wharf, "I have some purchases to make for Mr. William."
Mary answered, of course, that she did not mind, and after that she kept
her thoughts to herself. Where the wharf entrance opened on Twelfth
Avenue, Pete lifted his hat respectfully, bid her good evening, and went
off in an opposite direction.
But he did not go far; merely far enough to conceal himself in a shadow
from which he could watch without fear of discovery. Mary was without
suspicion; she walked briskly eastward, glad to be so easily rid of her
fellow passenger. When he had permitted her to assume a safe lead, Pete
stepped out of his shadow and followed.
It was fortunate that there were two taxis at the stand which Mary
discovered after a journey of several blocks through lonely streets;
that is, Pete considered it was fortunate. He took the second one,
giving the driver the order and promise of reward that are usual in such
affairs. This nocturnal excursion on the part of Mary Wayne had piqued
his curiosity. He knew that she had not spoken to Bill Marshall about
it; he doubted if she had said anything to Aunt Caroline. The
clandestine character of Mary's shore visit impressed him as warranting
complete investigation.
The two taxis had not been in motion for many minutes when Pete became
convinced that he could name Mary's destination almost beyond a
question. They were headed down-town, with occasional jogs toward the
East Side. So certain was Pete of his conclusion and so anxious was he,
purely for reasons of self-gratification, to prove the accuracy of his
powers of deduction, that he halted his taxi, paid off the driver and
set off at a leisurely walk, quite content in mind as he watched the
vehicle that contained Mary Wayne disappear from view.
Twenty minutes later Pete found himself vindicated. In front of the
boarding-house where Nell Norcross roomed stood a taxi. Sitting on the
top step of the porch were two figures. As he strolled slowly by on the
opposite side of the street he had no difficulty in recognizing Mary
Wayne's smart little yachting suit of white linen. Of course, there was
no doubt as to the identity of the second person, even though the street
lights were dim and there was no lamp-post within a hundred feet of the
boarding-house. Pete walked as far as the corner and posted himself.
The conversation between Mary and Nell proceeded in low tones.
"We shall be in Larchmont to-morrow," Mary was saying. "I'll try to send
you a note from there. After that I'll keep you informed as well as I
can concerning the rest of the trip, so you can reach me, if it's
necessary. We are not traveling on any fixed time-table."
"I'll feel dreadfully lonely, Mary."
"I'd have brought you if I could, Nell; but there wasn't any legitimate
excuse. And besides, I don't think you're strong enough to attempt it."
"If there was only somebody staying behind that I knew," Nell sighed.
"I'll be so helpless."
"Nonsense. Besides, who would stay behind?"
Nell did not answer, but if Pete Stearns could have read a fleeting
thought from his point of observation on the street corner his
waistcoat buttons would doubtless have gone flying. Mary Wayne, however,
read the thought.
"You don't mean that valet who brought you home from the party?" she
demanded suddenly.
"Oh, I didn't mean anybody particularly," answered Nell, guiltily. "But
of course even he would be better than nobody."
"Nell Norcross, don't let that young man get into your head. There's
something mysterious about him. He may be only a valet, but I'm not
certain. I'm suspicious of him. He has a habit of forgetting himself."
"I know," assented Nell, nodding.
"Oh, you do, do you? I might have guessed it. Take my advice and give
him a wide berth."
Nell regarded her friend with a look of speculative anxiety.
"Of course, Mary, I don't want to interfere with you in any way.
But----"
"Interfere with me?" exclaimed Mary sharply. "Do you think I am
interested in valets?"
"But you thought he might be something else. At least, you hinted it.
He's a divinity student, isn't he?"
"Divinity!" Mary summoned all her scorn in that word. "Oh, very likely.
But what sort of a divinity is he studying? Perhaps you're a candidate
for the place."
"Mary Wayne, you're mean! I think that's a nasty remark."
"Oh, well; I didn't mean it. But you'd better take my advice, just the
same. I've seen much more of him than you have."
Nell sighed again.
"Now, my dear, I must be going back. They'll be sending out a general
alarm for me, I suppose. I didn't ask anybody's permission to come, you
see."
"There isn't much doubt Mr. Marshall will be alarmed," remarked Nell,
who was not above seeking a legitimate revenge.
"You're in a rather silly mood this evening," said Mary. "Well, good-by.
I'll send you some more money as soon as I'm paid again."
Nell looked gratefully at a small roll of bills that lay in her hand.
"You're awfully good to me," she murmured. "Good-by. And if you see----"
But Mary ran down the steps, popped into the taxi and was driven off.
Pete Stearns aroused himself, crossed the street, and walked briskly in
the direction of the boarding-house. He arrived in time to intercept
Nell, who had risen to go in. She sat down again in sheer surprise, and
Pete seated himself without invitation on the step below.
"It's a fine night, isn't it?" he said. "Now what's your real name?"
Nell gasped and could only stare.
"Is it Wayne?" he demanded.
"Of--of course, it is!"
"I just wanted to see if I'd forgotten. Sometimes my memory walks out on
me. Amnesia, you know. It's lucky I never suffered from aphasia. A
bishop with aphasia wouldn't be able to hold his job. Let's talk about
the bishops."
And he did, for ten solid minutes, until Nell began seriously to wonder
if he was in his right mind. Suddenly he dropped the subject.
"You said your name was Wayne, didn't you?"
"Why in the world do you keep asking that?" she parried.
"It's the amnesia. Excuse it, please. Now let's talk about ourselves."
Eventually he said good night; he would be delaying the yacht, he
explained. But he promised to write, which was something that had not
even been hinted at during the conversation. He also shook hands with
her, begged her to have faith in him, urged her to believe nothing she
might hear, reaffirmed his purpose to become a bishop and perhaps even
an archbishop, told her that she inspired him to great things, as
witness--a kiss that landed on the end of her nose. Then he ran.
Nell Norcross was still sitting on the top step half an hour later,
trying to muster sufficient confidence for the climb up-stairs.
At about the same time Bill Marshall was taking leave of a friend in the
back room of a hostelry that had descended to the evil fortunes of
selling near-beer.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to be there, Kid," he said, "but go to it and
don't worry about any cops butting in to bust up the game."
"I'll run it strictly Q. T., Bill. Doncha worry about nothin'."
"I won't. But I owe you that much for the way they chucked you out of
the house the other night."
"'Sall right, 'sall right," said Kid Whaley with a generous wave of his
hand. "They didn't hurt me none."
Bill handed him something, and the Kid pocketed it with a wink.
"I'd like to take you with me, Kid; but you understand."
"Aw, sure. Sure--I'm wise. I ain't strong for yachtin', anyhow. That's
why I blew me roll in a buzz-wagon. Well, s'long, Bill. This here little
scrap's goin' t' be a bird. I'll tell y' all about it."
When Mary Wayne arrived at the wharf there was no sign of the launch.
She remembered that she had said nothing about the time of her return.
Out in the river she could see the riding lights of the _Sunshine_ and
the glow from the saloon windows. But she had not the least idea of how
to make a signal, nor any notion that they would understand a signal.
The wharf was lonely. It seemed to her, as she seated herself on the
string-piece, that she was as remote from civilization as though she
were sitting at the north pole, although she knew there were seven or
eight million people within a radius of a few miles. There was nothing
to do but wait, even if it was a creepy place for waiting.
She had been sitting there for what seemed like half the night when a
sound of footsteps startled her. Out of the murk a figure was
approaching. An instant later, to her relief, she perceived it to be the
valet.
He bowed in his mock deferential way and seated himself beside her.
"No launch?" he inquired.
"I forgot to speak to them."
"So did I. Well, the yacht's there, anyhow, miss. They won't leave
without us. Is Miss Wayne better?"
Mary experienced a shock. She leaned closer toward him and stared
through the gloom.
"You followed me!" she exclaimed.
"I'd hardly say that, miss. You see, I was quite certain where you were
going."
She had an impulse to sweep him off into the water.
"I shall speak to Mr. Marshall about this," she said hotly. "I do not
propose to be spied upon by a servant."
Pete made a gesture of deprecation.
"Why be nasty, miss? Let's talk about something pleasanter. You know, if
we both started telling all we knew there might be a great deal of
embarrassment."
"Just what do you mean by that?" she demanded.
"I leave it to your imagination," he said cryptically.
"I can tell things myself," she said savagely.
"Exactly, miss. So why shouldn't we be friends? Why can't we establish a
real democracy? I won't always be a valet; some day I'll be a bishop."
"I believe you're nothing but a fraud!"
"Well, now," observed Pete in a mild tone, "I might remark, on the other
hand--but I think the master is coming."
Mary jumped to her feet with a sense of confusion. There was no doubt
that the large figure emerging out of the darkness was that of Bill
Marshall. How was she to explain the valet?
"Oh, hello!" said Bill as he identified her. "Waiting here all alone,
eh? Well, that's a darn shame. Hasn't the launch--oh!" He discovered the
presence of Pete Stearns. "Didn't know you had company," he added, his
tone altering. "Beg your pardon."
"I--I haven't," said Mary, defiantly.
"I'll see if there's any sign of the launch." Bill walked to the end of
the wharf, where he stood staring at the river, raging with and almost
bursting with questions that he scorned to ask.
"Why didn't you explain to him?" snapped Mary, whirling upon Pete.
"I pass the question back to you, miss." And Pete lighted a cigarette,
the glow of the match illuminating for an instant a pair of eyes that
were regarding her with unveiled amusement.
When the launch came, after an uncomfortably long interval, Bill helped
her into it, with cold courtesy. The valet scrambled aboard and took
himself off to the bow. All the way to the _Sunshine_ the three sat in
silence--Bill smoldering with anger and curiosity, Mary humiliated and
resentful, Pete content because they were as they were.
The social secretary hastened to her stateroom as soon as she stepped
aboard; she did not pause to speak to Aunt Caroline, who was dozing in
her chair. Pete disappeared with like alacrity. It remained for Bill to
arouse his aunt and suggest that it was time for her to retire.
"But Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" asked Aunt Caroline.
"Had her on the wire; she can't come," said Bill. "Says she wrote a
note, but it must have gone astray. Very sorry and all that sort of
thing."
Aunt Caroline sighed.
"At any rate, I have done my duty, William. When do we sail?"
"Soon."
Bill went forward to give an order to the sailing-master.