DIANA REVOLTS
Charlie Mershone had no difficulty in securing his release when Parker
came on duty at six o'clock. He called up a cab and went at once to his
rooms at the Bruxtelle; and Fogerty followed him.
While he discarded his dress-coat, took a bath and donned his walking
suit Mershone was in a brown study. Hours ago Louise had been safely
landed at the East Orange house and placed in the care of old Madame
Cerise, who would guard her like an ogre. There was no immediate need of
his hastening after her, and his arrest and the discovery of half his
plot had seriously disturbed him. This young man was no novice in
intrigue, nor even in crime. Arguing from his own stand-point he
realized that the friends of Louise were by this time using every
endeavor to locate her. They would not succeed in this, he was positive.
His plot had been so audacious and all clews so cleverly destroyed or
covered up that the most skillful detective, knowing he had abducted the
girl; would be completely baffled in an attempt to find her.
The thought of detectives, in this connection, led him to decide that he
was likely to be shadowed. That was the most natural thing for his
opponents to do. They could not prove Mershone's complicity in the
disappearance of Louise Merrick, but they might easily suspect him,
after that little affair of Weldon's arrest. Therefore if he went to the
girl now he was likely to lead others to her. Better be cautious and
wait until he had thrown the sleuths off his track.
Having considered this matter thoroughly, Mershone decided to remain
quiet. By eight o'clock he was breakfasting in the grill room, and
Fogerty occupied a table just behind him.
During the meal it occurred to Charlie to telephone to Madame Cerise for
assurance that Louise had arrived safely and without a scene to attract
the attention of strangers. Having finished breakfast he walked into the
telephone booth and was about to call his number when a thought struck
him. He glanced out of the glass door. In the hotel lobby were many
loungers. He saw a dozen pairs of eyes fixed upon him idly or curiously;
one pair might belong to the suspected detective. If he used the
telephone there would be a way of discovering the number he had asked
for. That would not do--not at all! He concluded not to telephone, at
present, and left the booth. His next act was to purchase a morning
paper, and seating himself carelessly in a chair he controlled the
impulse to search for a "scare head" on the abduction of Miss Merrick.
If he came across the item, very well; he would satisfy no critical eye
that might be scanning him by hunting for it with a show of eagerness.
The game was in his hands, he believed, and he intended to keep it
there.
Fogerty was annoyed by the man's evident caution. It would not be easy
to surprise Mershone in any self-incriminating action. But, after all,
reflected the boy, resting comfortably in the soft-padded cushions of a
big leather chair, all this really made the case the more interesting.
He was rather glad Mershone was in no hurry to precipitate a climax. A
long stern chase was never a bad chase.
By and bye another idea occurred to Charlie. He would call upon his
cousin Diana, and get her to telephone Madame Cerise for information
about Louise. It would do no harm to enlighten Diana as to what he had
done. She must suspect it already; and was she not a co-conspirator?
But he could not wisely make this call until the afternoon. So meantime
he took a stroll into Broadway and walked leisurely up and down that
thoroughfare, pausing occasionally to make a trifling purchase and
turning abruptly again and again in the attempt to discover who might be
following him. No one liable to be a detective of any sort could he
discern; yet he was too shrewd to be lulled into a false belief that his
each and every act was unobserved.
Mershone returned to his hotel, went to his room, and slept until after
one o'clock, as he had secured but little rest the night before in his
primitive quarters at the police station. It was nearly two when he
reappeared in the hotel restaurant for luncheon, and he took his seat
and ate with excellent appetite.
During this meal Mr. Fogerty also took occasion to refresh himself,
eating modestly at a retired table in a corner. Mershone's sharp eyes
noted him. He remembered seeing this youth at breakfast, and
thoughtfully reflected that the boy's appearance was not such as might
be expected from the guest of a fashionable and high-priced hotel.
Silently he marked this individual as the possible detective. He had two
or three others in his mind, by this time; the boy was merely added to
the list of possibilities.
Mershone was a capital actor. After luncheon he sauntered about the
hotel, stared from the window for a time, looked at his watch once or
twice with an undecided air, and finally stepped to the porter and asked
him to call a cab. He started for Central Park; then changed his mind
and ordered the man to drive him to the Von Taer residence, where on
arrival Diana at once ordered him shown into her private parlor.
The young man found his cousin stalking up and down in an extremely
nervous manner. She wrung her delicate fingers with a swift, spasmodic
motion. Her eyes, nearly closed, shot red rays through their slits.
"What's wrong, Di?" demanded Mershone, considerably surprised by this
intense display of emotion on the part of his usually self-suppressed
and collected cousin.
"Wrong!" she echoed; "everything is wrong. You've ruined yourself,
Charlie; and you're going to draw me into this dreadful crime, also, in
spite of all I can do!"
"Bah! don't be a fool," he observed, calmly taking a chair.
"Am _I_ the fool?" she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. "Did _I_
calmly perpetrate a deed that was sure to result in disgrace and
defeat?"
"What on earth has happened to upset you?" he asked, wonderingly. "It
strikes me everything is progressing beautifully."
"Does it, indeed?" was her sarcastic rejoinder. "Then your information
is better than mine. They called me up at three o'clock this morning to
enquire after Louise Merrick--as if _I_ should know her whereabouts. Why
did they come to _me_ for such information? Why?" she stamped her foot
for emphasis.
"I suppose," said Charlie Mershone, "they called up everyone who knows
the girl. It would be natural in case of her disappearance."
"Come here!" cried Diana, seizing his arm and dragging him to a window.
"Be careful; try to look out without showing yourself. Do you see that
man on the corner?"
"Well?"
"He has been patrolling this house since day-break. He's a detective!"
Charlie whistled.
"What makes you think so, Di? Why on earth should they suspect you?"
"Why? Because my disreputable cousin planned the abduction, without
consulting me, and--"
"Oh, come, Di; that's a little too--"
"Because the girl has been carried to the Von Taer house--_my_ house--in
East Orange; because my own servant is at this moment her jailor, and--"
"How should they know all this?" interrupted Mershone, impatiently. "And
how do you happen to know it yourself, Diana?"
"Madame Cerise called me up at five o'clock, just after Louise's uncle
had been here for the second time, with a crew of officers. Cerise is in
an ugly mood. She said a young girl had been brought to her a prisoner,
and Mr. Mershone's orders were to keep her safely until he came. She is
greatly provoked at our using her in this way, but promised to follow
instructions if I accepted all responsibility."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I knew nothing of the affair, but had put the house and her
services at your disposal. I said I would accept no responsibility
whatever for anything you might do."
Mershone looked grave, and scowled.
"The old hag won't betray us, will she?" he asked, uneasily.
"She cannot betray me, for I have done nothing. Charlie," she said,
suddenly facing him, "I won't be mixed in this horrid affair. You must
carry out your infamous plan in your own way. I know nothing, sir, of
what you have done; I know nothing of what you intend to do. Do you
understand me?"
He smiled rather grimly.
"I hardly expected, my fair cousin, that you would be frightened into
retreat at this stage of the game, when the cards are all in our hands.
Do you suppose I decided to carry away Louise without fully considering
what I was doing, and the immediate consequences of my act? And wherein
have I failed? All has gone beautifully up to this minute. Diana, your
fears are absolutely foolish, and against your personal interests. All
that I am doing for myself benefits you doubly. Just consider, if you
will, what has been accomplished for our mutual benefit: The girl has
disappeared under suspicious circumstances; before she again rejoins her
family and friends she will either be my wife or Arthur Weldon will
prefer not to marry her. That leaves him open to appreciate the charms
of Diana Von Taer, does it not? Already, my dear cousin, your wishes are
accomplished. My own task, I admit, is a harder one, because it is more
delicate."
The cold-blooded brutality of this argument caused even Diana to
shudder. She looked at the young man half fearfully as she asked:
"What is your task?"
"Why, first to quiet Louise's fears; then to turn her by specious
arguments--lies, if you will--against Weldon; next to induce her to
give me her hand in honest wedlock. I shall tell her of my love, which
is sincere; I shall argue--threaten, if necessary; use every reasonable
means to gain her consent."
"You'll never succeed!" cried Diana, with conviction.
"Then I'll try other tactics," said he blandly.
"If you do, you monster, I'll expose you," warned the girl.
"Having dissolved partnership, you won't be taken into my confidence, my
fair cousin. You have promised to know nothing of my acts, and I'll see
you don't." Then he sprang from his chair and came to her with a hard,
determined look upon his face. "Look here, Di; I've gone too far in this
game to back out now, I'm going to carry it through if it costs me my
life and liberty--and yours into the bargain! I love Louise Merrick! I
love her so well that without her the world and its mockeries can go to
the devil! There's nothing worth living for but Louise--Louise. She's
going to be my wife, Diana--by fair means or foul I swear to make her my
wife."
He had worked himself up to a pitch of excitement surpassing that of
Diana. Now he passed his hand over his forehead, collected himself with
a slight shudder, and resumed his seat.
Diana was astonished. His fierce mood served to subdue her own.
Regarding him curiously for a time she finally asked:
"You speak as if you were to be allowed to have your own way--as if all
society was not arrayed against you. Have you counted the cost of your
action? Have you considered the consequences of this crime?"
"I have committed no crime," he said stubbornly. "All's fair in love and
war."
"The courts will refuse to consider that argument, I imagine," she
retorted. "Moreover, the friends of this kidnaped girl are powerful and
active. They will show you no mercy if you are discovered."
"If I fail," answered Mershone, slowly, "I do not care a continental
what they do to me, for my life will be a blank without Louise. But I
really see no reason to despair, despite your womanish croakings. All
seems to be going nicely and just as I had anticipated."
"I am glad that you are satisfied," Diana returned, with scornful
emphasis. "But understand me, sir; this is none of my affair in any
way--except that I shall surely expose you if a hair of the girl's head
is injured. You must not come here again. I shall refuse to see you. You
ought not to have come to-day."
"Is there anything suspicious in my calling upon my cousin--as usual?"
"Under such circumstances, yes. You have not been received at this house
of late years, and my father still despises you. There is another danger
you have brought upon me. My father seemed suspicious this morning, and
asked me quite pointedly what I knew of this strange affair."
"But of course you lied to him. All right, Diana; perhaps there is
nothing to be gained from your alliance, and I'll let you out of the
deal from this moment. The battle's mine, after all, and I'll fight it
alone. But--I need more money. You ought to be willing to pay, for so far
the developments are all in your favor."
She brought a handful of notes from her desk.
"This ends our partnership, Charlie," she said.
"Very well. A woman makes a poor conspirator, but is invaluable as a
banker."
"There will be no more money. This ends everything between us."
"I thought you were game, Di. But you're as weak as the ordinary
feminine creation."
She did not answer, but stood motionless, a defiant expression upon her
face. He laughed a little, bowed mockingly, and went away.