"Thank you," she said. "Then please do exactly what I tell you. Go to
the hotel desk and ask the clerk for the key to my suite. I left it
with him. Then go up to my bedroom. On my dressing-table you'll find
an open letter I dropped there--or perhaps it's on the floor. Conceal
it in your bosom, the way they do in books, and keep it for me till we
meet."
I gasped. With a rush, my mind leaped at some of the possible results
of carrying out this startling suggestion.
"Really, Miss Morris," I protested, "I can't do that. Suppose some one
caught me in the act? It's likely to happen. We're at dessert, and I
heard your mother order the coffee brought up to her sitting-room.
Isn't the letter safe till you get home?"
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the line. Then Miss
Morris's voice came to me again, in the controlled accents of
desperation.
"Miss Iverson," she urged, "you've simply got to help me out! If my
mother goes into my room and sees that letter, she'll read it. She'll
think it's her duty. If she reads it--well, in plain words, there will
be the devil to pay. Now do you understand?"
"But why not come home and get it yourself?" I persisted.
"I can't. There isn't time. I'm away down at the Lafayette. Heavens! I
didn't mean to let that slip out, I'm so nervous I don't know what
I'm saying. Don't tell a soul where I am. Don't even let any one know
I've talked to you. And you _must_ get that letter. There isn't a
minute to lose!"
It began to look as if I had to get that letter. And since the thing
must be done, I wanted it over.
"Very well," I said, between my teeth, and hung up the receiver,
shutting off the stream of thanks that gushed forth from the other end
of the wire. In the same mood of grim acceptance I went to the hotel
desk. I did not intend to make this part of my task more difficult
than it need be, so I paid the clerk the compliment of truth.
"I want to get something from Miss Morris's room," I told him,
casually. "Will you give me the key, please? I am dining with Mrs.
Morris to-night."
He gave me a swift glance, then took the key from its rack and handed
it to me with a little bow. In another moment I was in the elevator
and on my way to the tenth floor, on which, as I had learned, each
independent member of the Morris family occupied a separate apartment,
though the suites of Mrs. Morris and her daughter had a connecting
door. The tag on Miss Morris's key gave me the number of her suite,
and I found her door without difficulty. My fingers shook with
nervousness as I inserted the key in the lock. I felt like a
housebreaker, and probably looked like one, as I glanced anxiously
over my shoulder and up and down the long hall, which, fortunately,
was empty.
Once inside the apartment I regained my courage. I went swiftly
through the entrance-hall and the sitting-room, turning, by instinct
as it seemed, to the door that opened into the bedroom. This, like the
sitting-room, was dark, and I could not immediately find the switch
that turned on the electric light. There was, however, an open fire
burning behind a brass fender, and by its uncertain light I made my
way to the dressing-table, my eyes racing ahead in their eager search.
There, among a litter of silver and glass toilet articles,
powder-puffs, and shell-pins, was the letter I was after--an unfolded
sheet, lying face downward. An envelope, obviously that from which it
had been taken, had fallen to the floor.
I picked up the letter. Just as I did so the door at the other end of
the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Morris entered. For an instant, startled,
we faced each other in the gloom. The next second, acting on an
impulse which seemed to flex the muscles of my arm before it touched
my brain, I flung the letter into the fire. At the same moment Mrs.
Morris touched an electric switch beside the door and filled the room
with light. Then she came toward me, easily and naturally.
"Oh, here you are," she said. "The elevator-boy told me you had come
this way. Is anything wrong? Are you ill?"
Her manner was perfect. There was exactly the right degree of
solicitude in her voice, of quiet assurance that everything would be
at once and satisfactorily explained. But as she spoke she turned and
fixed her eyes on the blazing letter in the fire. All but one corner
was burned, but the thick paper kept its perfect outline. Bending, she
picked up the envelope from the floor, glanced at the address, and
nodded as if to herself, still holding it in her hand.
For a second I remained speechless. It was a hideous situation to be
in. Still, even confronted by Godfrey Morris's mother, I felt that I
had done right, and before the pause was too deeply underlined I
managed to reply naturally that nothing was wrong and that I was quite
well. When my hostess realized that I did not intend to make any
explanation, she threw her arm across my shoulder and led me from the
room. It was not until we were again in her sitting-room, and side by
side on her big davenport, that she spoke.
"My dear," she said, then, very quietly, "won't you trust me?"
I looked at her, and she smiled back at me, but with something in her
face that hurt. She seemed suddenly to have grown old and care-worn.
"Do you imagine I don't understand?" she went on. "I have not lived
with my daughter Grace for almost a quarter of a century without
knowing her rather well. Of course it was she who telephoned you. Of
course she asked you to find and burn that letter. What else did she
say? Where is she now? There is a vital reason why her brother and I
should know. We have been anxious about her all evening. I am afraid
you noticed it."
I admitted that I had. "I'm sorry," I added. "But I can't explain. I
really can't say anything. I wish I could. I'm sure you will
understand."
Mrs. Morris studied me in silence for a moment. The glint in her gray
eyes deepened. Her jaw-line took on a sudden firmness, oddly like that
of her son.
"Of course I understand," she said. "It's girlish loyalty. You think
you must stand by Grace--that you must respect her confidence. But
can't you believe that Grace's mother and brother may be wiser than
she is?"
This, to one only two years emancipated from family rule, had a
familiar sound. Instinctively I resented it.
"Aren't you forgetting," I asked, gently, "that Miss Morris is really
a woman of the world? It isn't as if she were merely a school-girl,
you know, with immature judgment."
Mrs. Morris sighed. "You don't understand," she murmured. "You may
feel differently when you talk to my son. I see that we must be very
frank with you."
With an effort she talked of other things for a few moments, until
Godfrey joined us. His face brightened as he entered, and darkened
when his mother told him briefly what had occurred. Without preface,
he went at the heart of the tangle, in as direct and professional a
manner as if he were giving me an assignment in the _Searchlight_
office.
"It all means just this, Miss Iverson," he said. "Grace has fallen in
love with an utterly worthless fellow. He has no family, no position;
but those things don't matter so much. Perhaps she has, as she says,
enough of them for two. What does matter is that he comes of bad
stock--rotten stock--that he's a bounder and worse."
That surprised me, and I showed it.
"Oh, he has some qualities, I admit," added Morris. "The most
important one is a fine tenor voice. He is a professional singer. That
interested Grace in the beginning. Now she is obsessed by him. She has
lost her head. Evidently he's in town to-night--you heard my mother
say that envelope was addressed in his handwriting. They're together
somewhere, and Heaven only knows what they're hatching up."
I resented that at first. Then it disturbed me. Perhaps they _were_
hatching up something.
"I'm sorry to bore you with all this," Mr. Morris apologized, "but
Grace seems to have dragged you into it. She and Dillon--that's the
fellow's name--have been trying to bring us 'round to their marriage.
Lately they've about given up hope of that. Now I believe Grace is
capable of eloping with him. Of course, as you say, we can't control
her, but I've been looking up his record, and it's mighty bad. If I
could show her proofs of what I know is true, she would throw him
over. With a little more time I can get them. I expect them this week.
But if in the mean time--to-night--"
He broke off suddenly, stood up, and began to stride about the room.
I rose. "I haven't any idea what she intends to do," I told him,
truthfully. "And I can't tell you where she is. But I'll do what I
can. I'll try to find her, and tell her what you say." I turned to his
mother. "Good night," I said. "I'll go at once."
They looked at each other, then at me. There was something fine in the
way their heads went up, in the quiet dignity with which they both
bade me good-by. It was plain that they were hurt, that they had
little hope that I could do anything; but they would not continue to
humiliate themselves by confidences or appeals to one who stood
outside the circle of anxiety which fate had drawn around them.
Arrived at the Lafayette, I went patiently from room to room of the
big French restaurant, glancing in at each door for the couple I
sought. It was not long before I found them. They were in a corner in
one of the smallest of the side rooms--one which held only four or
five tables. Grace Morris's back was toward me as I entered the room,
but her escort faced me, and I had a moment in which to look him over.
He was a thin, reedy person, about thirty years old, in immaculate
evening dress, with a lock of dry hair falling over a pale and narrow
brow, and with hollow, hectic eyes that burned into those of his
companion as he leaned over the table, facing her. They were talking
in very low tones, and so earnestly that neither noticed me until I
drew out a third chair at the table and quietly dropped into it. Both
started violently. The man stared; Miss Morris caught my arm.
"What happened?" she asked, quickly. "Mother didn't get that letter?"
"No," I said. "No one saw it. It's burned."
She relaxed in her chair, with a laugh of relief.
"Speaking of angels," she quoted. "I was telling Herbert about you
only a few moments ago." Her manner changed. "Miss Iverson," she said,
more formally, "may I present Mr. Dillon?"
The reedy gentleman rose and bowed. She allowed him the barest
interval for this ceremony before she continued.
"Herbert, listen to me," she said, emphatically. "If Miss Iverson will
stand by us, I'll do it."
The young man's sallow face lit up. He had nice teeth and a pleasant
smile. He had, also, the additional charm of a really beautiful
speaking-voice. Already I began to understand why Miss Morris liked
him.
"By Jove, that's great!" he cried. "Miss Iverson, Heaven has sent you.
You've accomplished in ten seconds what I've failed to do in three
hours." He turned to Miss Morris. "You explain," he said, "while I pay
the bill and get the car ready. I'm not going to give you a chance to
change your mind!"
He disappeared, and Miss Morris remarked, casually: "We're going to be
married to-night, with you as maid of honor. Herbert gave me all the
plans in his letter, and I came down fully determined to carry them
out; but I've been hanging back. It's frightfully dismal to trot off
and be married all by one's self--"
I stopped her, and hurriedly described what had occurred at the
Berkeley. She listened thoughtfully.
"The poor dears," she murmured. "They can't get over the notion that
I'm still in leading-strings. They'll feel better after it's all over,
whereas if mother knew it was really coming off to-night she'd have a
succession of heart attacks between now and morning, and Godfrey would
spend the night pursuing us. We're going to Jersey for the
ceremony--to a little country minister I've known since I was a child.
Herbert will drive the car, and we'll put you into the chauffeur's fur
coat."
It took me a long time to convince her that I would not play the
important rôle she had assigned to me on the evening's program. At
last, however, she seemed impressed by my seriousness, and by the
emphasis I laid on the repetition of her brother's words. She rose,
resumed her usual languidly insolent air, and led the way from the
room. In the main hall, near the door, we found Mr. Dillon struggling
into a heavy coat while he gave orders to a stout youth who seemed to
be his chauffeur. Miss Morris drew Dillon to one side, and for a few
moments the two talked together. Then they came toward me, smiling.
"All right," said the prospective bridegroom, with much cheerfulness.
"Since she insists, we'll take Miss Iverson home first."
He gave me a cap that lay in the tonneau, helped Miss Morris and me
into fur coats, settled us comfortably in the back seat, folded heavy
rugs over our knees with great care, sprang into the driver's place,
and took the wheel. In another moment the car leaped forward, turned a
corner at an appallingly sharp angle, and went racing along a dark
side-street at a speed that made the lamp-posts slip by us like
wraiths. The wind sang past our ears. Miss Morris put her lips close
to my face and laughed exultantly.
"You're going, after all, you see," she triumphed. "Herbert and I
aren't easy to stop when we've set our hearts on anything. Here--what
are you doing? Don't be an idiot!"
She caught me as I tried to throw off the rugs. I had some mad idea of
jumping out, of stopping the car, even if I paid for it by serious
injury; but her strong grip held me fast.
"I thought you had more sense," she panted. "There, that's right. Sit
still."
I sat still, trying to think. This mad escapade would not only cost me
my position on the _Searchlight_, where Godfrey Morris was growing
daily in power, but, what was infinitely worse, it would cost me his
interest and friendship. More than any one else, in my two years on
the newspaper, he had been helpful, sympathetic, and understanding.
And this was my return to him. What would he think of me? What must I
think of myself?
We were across the ferry now. Dillon stopped the car and got out to
light the lamps. During the interval Miss Morris held me by a
seemingly affectionate, but uncomfortably tight, pressure of an arm
through mine. I made no effort to get away. Whatever happened, I had
now decided I must see the thing through. There was always a chance
that in some way, _any_ way, I could prevent the marriage.
The great car sped on again, through a fog that, thin at first,
finally pressed against us like a moist gray net. Though we could see
hardly a dozen yards ahead of us, Dillon did not slacken his alarming
speed. From time to time we knew, by the wan glimmer of street lamps
through the mist, that we were sweeping through some town. Gradually
the roads grew rougher. Occasionally we made sharp turns, Dillon
stopping often to consult with Miss Morris, who at first had seemed to
know the way, but who now made suggestions with growing uncertainty.
Plainly, we had left the highway and were on country roads. The fog
lifted a trifle, and rain began to fall--lightly at first, then in a
cold, steady downpour. The car jolted over the ruts in the road,
tipped at a dangerous angle once or twice, but struggled on.
In varying degrees our tempers began to feel the effect of the cold,
the roughness, and the long-continued strain. Miss Morris and I sat
silent. At his wheel Dillon had begun to swear, at first under his
breath, then more audibly, in irritable, muttered words, and finally
openly and fluently, when he realized that we had lost our way.
Suddenly he stopped the car with a jerk that almost threw us out of
our seats.
"What dashed place is this?" he demanded, turning for the first time
to face us. "Thought you knew the way, Grace?"
With an obvious effort to ignore his manner, Miss Morris peered
unhappily into the gray mist around us. "I don't recognize it at all,"
she confessed, at last. "We must have taken the wrong turn somewhere.
I'm afraid we're lost."
Our escort swore again. His self-control, sufficient when all was
going smoothly, had quite deserted him. I stared at him, trying to
realize that this was the charming young man I had met at the
Lafayette less than three hours ago.
"This is an infernal mess," he exclaimed at last. "We're in some sort
of marsh! The mud's a foot deep!"
He continued to pull and tug and twist and swear, while the car
responded with eager throbs of its willing heart, but with lagging
wheels. At last, however, we were through the worst of the marsh and
out into a wider roadway, and just as we began to go more smoothly
there was a sudden, loud report. The car swerved. A series of oaths
poured from Dillon's lips as he stopped the car and got out in the mud
to inspect the damage.
"Cast a shoe, dash her," he snarled. "And on a road a million miles
from any place. Of all the fool performances this trip was the worst.
Why didn't you watch where you were going, Grace? You said you knew
the way. You knew I didn't know it."
His last words had degenerated into an actual whine. Looking at him,
as he stood in the mud, staring vacantly at us, I had a feeling that,
absurd and impossible as it seemed, in another minute the young man
would burst into tears! His nerves were in tatters; all self-control,
all self-respect, was gone.
Miss Morris did not answer. She merely sat still and looked at him, at
first in a white, flaming anger that was the more impressive because
so quiet, later in an odd, puzzled fashion, as if some solution of the
problem he presented had begun to dawn upon her. He meantime took off
his fur coat and evening coat, rolled up his sleeves, and got ready
for his uncongenial task of putting on a new tire. I took the big
electric bull's-eye he handed me, and directed its light upon his
work. By the time the new tire was on, his light evening shoes were
unrecognizable, his clothes were covered with mud, his face was
flushed with exertion and anger, and the few words he spoke came out
with a whine of exhausted vitality. At last he stopped work,
straightened up, reached into the car, and fumbled in the pocket of
his overcoat. Then he walked around to the side of the car farthest
from us, and bent forward as if to inspect something there. I started
to follow him, but he checked me.
"Stay where you are," he said, curtly. "Don't need you."
A moment later he came back to us, opened the door, and motioned us
into the tonneau. In the short interval his whole manner had changed.
He had stopped muttering and swearing; he seemed anxious to make us
comfortable, and he folded the rugs over our knees with special care,
casting at Miss Morris a series of anxious glances, which she quietly
ignored. Before he got in and took his place at the wheel he made a
careful inspection of the other tires, and several times, as I changed
the position of the light to fall more directly upon them, he smiled
and thanked me. Miss Morris was evidently impressed by his change of
mood. Quietly and seriously she studied him.
He was directly beside me now, bending over the rear right tire, and
suddenly, as his bare arm came into view, I saw on it something that
made me start and look at it again. I had not been mistaken. I glanced
at Miss Morris. Her eyes were on Dillon, but in her place on the left
side of the car she commanded a view of only his head and shoulders.
As if annoyed by a flicker in the light, I lifted the bull's-eye into
my lap and began to fumble with the snap, turning off the light. The
little manoeuver had the effect I expected. Mr. Dillon stood up at
once, and his bare arm came helpfully forward.
"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to take the bull's-eye. "Let me
see."