THE BLACK-EDGED CARD
THE hall clock was just striking three on Thursday afternoon when
Murray stopped before the room occupied jointly by Mrs. Hall and Vera
and rapped smartly on the closed door. It was opened by Vera.
“You are wanted at the telephone, miss,” the footman announced, and she
stepped into the hall.
“Who wants me, Murray?”
“The party wouldn’t give his name.”
“Oh!” Vera’s footsteps lagged. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No, miss. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s another ’tec,” he added gloomily.
Two whole days had passed and Mrs. Porter had not inquired for his
state of health, and even Vera had failed him as a confidante for his
latest symptoms; truly his world was out of joint. “I asked him for his
message and he said he had to speak to you personally.”
A second “Oh!” slipped from Vera, then she went downstairs in
thoughtful silence and was proceeding toward the library when Murray,
of whose presence she had grown oblivious, addressed her.
“I hopes, miss, you don’t hold yesterday’s doings in Mr. Brainard’s
room against me,” he said earnestly. “I feel very badly about it--very.”
“I realize that you were not to blame,” answered Vera. “But the
others--” Her small hand clenched. “I’d rather forget the scene,
Murray; some day, perhaps, I’ll get square with those men for the
fright they gave me.”
“I hope you will, miss.” Murray threw open the library door. “I’m
wishing Mrs. Porter would give orders not to admit them. Me and Selby
are waiting our chance.” And he smiled significantly.
“Perhaps she will.” And Vera glanced earnestly at the footman. “You
are not looking very well today, Murray; have you tried that tonic Dr.
Noyes advised?”
The footman brightened. “I have, miss, but it don’t agree with me, and
the neuralgia’s getting worse.”
“That’s too bad. Come upstairs later and I will give you a tube of
_Baume Analgésique Bengué_.” As the French name tripped off her tongue
Murray regarded her with respectful admiration.
“It sounds great, miss; I’d like to use it, thank you.” And he departed
for his pantry, his manner almost cheerful.
Left to herself Vera closed the library door and approached the
telephone with some hesitancy; she could think of no friend who would
have a reason for not giving his name to the footman and concluded
Murray was right in imagining the “party” to be a detective. Her
interview with Mitchell the day before was still fresh in her mind and
she resented the idea of further impertinence. It occurred to her, as
she toyed with the receiver, that it was a simple matter to ring off if
she found it was Mitchell at the other end of the wire; then a thought
stayed her--suppose it was Dr. Beverly Thorne waiting to speak to her?
Her expression hardened, and her voice sounded clear and cold as she
called into the mouthpiece:
“Well?”
An unknown voice replied: “Is this Nurse Vera Deane?”
Vera’s expression altered. “Yes, what is it?”
“This is Police Headquarters,” went on the voice crisply, and Vera
started. “Inspector North speaking. Have you lost anything, Miss Deane?”
“I? No.”
“Are you sure you have not lost your handbag?”
“My handbag!” Vera’s raised accents testified to her astonishment. “No,
certainly not.”
“Quite sure, Miss Deane?” insisted the inspector.
“Yes; but as a matter of form I’ll run upstairs and look. Hold the
telephone, please.” And Vera dashed up to her room and unlocked her
trunk; there lay her handbag, and pulling it open she found its
contents intact.
She was out of breath when she again reached the telephone, and had to
pause a second before speaking to the inspector.
“My handbag is upstairs, safe and sound,” she called.
“Thank you.” The inspector cleared his voice. “I called you up, Miss
Deane, because we found a handbag in a Mt. Pleasant car yesterday
afternoon containing your visiting-card, and we located you through the
Central Directory for Graduate Nurses.”
“My visiting-card?” echoed Vera, astonished. “Are you sure it was mine?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Deane, your name is engraved in full on a black-edged
card. Good afternoon.” And he rang off.
A black-edged visiting-card? Vera sat clinging to the telephone
receiver in bewilderment--it had been fully five years since she had
had a black-edged visiting-card! Suddenly her ear detected the click
of a receiver being hung up, and the faintness of the sound aroused
her. Who had been listening in on the branch telephone in Mrs. Porter’s
boudoir?
Vera went straight to the boudoir, but before she reached it Millicent
walking down the hall paused in the act of entering her own room and
called her name softly.
“Mother is lying down,” she said as Vera drew nearer. “Dorothy and
I have just left the boudoir. Come and join us in my room.” And
she held out her hand with a little affectionate gesture which was
characteristic of her. Vera smiled, and under sudden impulse kissed
her; there was something very winsome about Millicent, mere child as
she was.
“Thanks, Millicent, I’ll come and sit with you later; but first I must
take my ‘constitutional’--I haven’t had a walk for several days, and I
need the fresh air.”
Millicent stroked her cheek with tender fingers. “Perhaps the wind will
put color there,” she said. “You are not getting proper rest, Vera; for
your pallor and heavy eyes tell the story.”
Vera shook her head in dissent. “I only need fresh air; don’t let that
foolish sister of mine put ideas into your head.” She stopped abruptly
as Hugh Wyndham stepped out of his aunt’s bedroom and joined them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Deane,” he commenced cordially, but she returned
his greeting so perfunctorily that Millicent’s eyes opened wide in
surprise, and, reddening, Wyndham turned to his cousin. “Are you going
to motor in to Washington with us, Millicent? Better come; you don’t
have to leave the car or talk to anyone,” guessing the cause of her
hesitancy.
“True--” but still Millicent paused.
“I think you had better go,” put in Vera quietly, and barely glancing
at Wyndham she went to her own room.
Wyndham smiled reassuringly as he caught Millicent’s puzzled frown.
“Vera’s nerves are on edge,” he said. “I quite understand her seeming
rudeness.”
“Well, I don’t,” confessed Millicent. “Dorothy has a much sweeter
disposition than her sister, and on her account I overlook Vera’s
occasional tempers. Go and get the limousine, Hugh; Dorothy and I will
be ready in ten minutes.”
However, it was less than the prescribed ten minutes when Millicent and
Dorothy stood waiting in the lower hall for the arrival of the car, and
the latter, going into the library to collect some notes she had left
there, encountered her sister on her way out of the side entrance to
Dewdrop Inn.
“I wish you were going with us, Vera,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Do
come, there’s plenty of room in the limousine.”
“Not today, dear.” And Vera tempered the refusal with a kiss. She
glanced at the yellow copy paper Dorothy was busy stuffing inside
her muff. “Did you use the telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir about
fifteen minutes ago?”
Dorothy shook her head. “No, but Mrs. Porter and then Hugh tried to
get Central.” Her sister’s reference to the boudoir recalled a recent
conversation, and she added briskly: “Vera, why are you so stand-offish
with the Porters? They are fond of you, yet you never spend any time
with them, and I think they feel it.”
Vera drew back from Dorothy’s detaining clasp. “I am here in my
professional capacity, Dorothy, and I don’t wish to intrude upon them,”
she said gently. “Better that they think me ‘stand-offish’ than say I
take advantage of ‘auld lang syne’ and push myself forward.”
“What nonsense! I declare, Vera, you are downright provoking, not to
say morbid,” protested Dorothy. “It’s the result of never getting away
from the atmosphere of the sick room. I don’t see how you stand it;
the mere sight of suffering drives me wild, and to think of poor Craig
Porter, whom I used to dance with, lying there inert--I just could not
go to his room today when Mrs. Porter asked me to do so,” she wound up.
“His changed appearance would break me down completely. How can you
watch him night after night?”
“You and Craig were great friends, whereas I never knew him in those
days.” Vera lowered her voice. “Let me see, did you first meet him when
we were in mourning?”
“No, before that, when Millicent and I were at Catonsville together. We
were great chums.” And she smiled, then winked away a sudden rush of
tears. “Poor Craig!”
“Don’t call him ‘poor’--he is rich in accomplishment,” rapped out Vera.
“Think what he has done for the Allies; get Mrs. Porter to tell you of
the honors paid Craig by the gallant Frenchmen, and never call him poor
again.”
“I wasn’t alluding to his past, but his present,” explained Dorothy,
somewhat startled by the gleam in her sister’s eyes. “I understand he
can’t utter a sound or move a muscle.”
“He can’t.” She paused as Millicent’s voice echoed down the hall. “Go,
dear, they are calling you.”
But Dorothy lingered. “Have you any errands I can attend to for you in
town?”
“N-no--wait.” Vera spoke hurriedly as steps approached. “See if you
can find my package of visiting-cards--”
“I told you months ago, Vera, that you hadn’t any left,” interrupted
Dorothy.
“Perhaps you can find an old one, even if it’s black-edged, in my
desk--”
Dorothy shook her head violently. “I can’t; I looked there at Christmas
and could not find any kind of a card. Coming right away, Murray,” as
the footman appeared. “Do you wish me to order some cards struck off?”
“Yes,” called Vera. “Pay for it with the money I gave you yesterday.”
And Dorothy disappeared with Murray in attendance.
Vera waited until convinced that the limousine must have driven off,
then, tossing the blue cape with its small picturesque red cross about
her shoulders, she opened the side door and, skirting the back of the
house, walked swiftly past the garage. Passing down a lane she crossed
a field and went up a path leading to the “side hill,” as that part of
the Porter plantation was called.
The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took deep
breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path,
she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a clearing
high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was invisible from
the path she had quitted some moments before. A huge mica rock, known
locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of the clearing, and Vera
exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the rainbow effects produced by
the winter sunshine on its surface. Stepping in clefts in the rock she
slowly mounted to the top and made herself comfortable. Once settled
on her perch, she turned her attention to the panoramic view of the
Potomac River far below her and the surrounding countryside.
But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated upon
the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted that she
had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington. But when her
sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had swept over her at
the prospect of being inclosed in a small space and listening to their
chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by herself had gained the
mastery; for an hour at least she could wrestle with her problems and
decide on the future. She resolutely determined to put all thought
of the past out of her mind, but it was a greater task than she had
imagined--the past would not bury its dead!
Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the
past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard
in bed Monday night--the tragedy--the inquest--the detectives-- Vera
plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead and her
cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of the past;
the future concerned her more intimately.
She must decide on a course of action before Detective Mitchell devised
other methods to trap her, and remembrance of the scene in Brainard’s
bedroom twenty-four hours before brought a hot flush of resentment in
its train. She would square accounts with the detective before many
days had passed, and her pretty teeth met with a determined snap. What
troubled her was Beverly Thorne. She wished that she might dismiss him
from her mind; then shivered involuntarily as she grudgingly admitted
to herself that she feared his quick intelligence, his ever-searching
eyes and cynical smile. It was an evil fate that had thrown him across
her path. As the thought crossed her mind, she saw someone moving in
and out among the trees to her right. The newcomer was making his way
down the hillside, and she watched him idly.
The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good look at
his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the collar of
his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning the ground,
pausing now and then to watch a switch which he carried loosely before
him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and, facing in her direction
looked up long and earnestly into the bare branches of a tall tree.
Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized Beverly Thorne. Had she
conjured him to appear?
After testing a lower branch of the tree with his weight Thorne
transferred his attention to the cleft stick in his hand and strode
onward. He was within a few yards of Vera before he discovered her
presence. There followed a momentary hesitation on his part, then he
advanced to the rock and bowed gravely.
“You have caught me trespassing,” he began. “What is the forfeit?”
Vera pointed in the direction he had come where a wire fence could
be seen in the distance; she knew that placards placed at intervals
announced: “No trespassing under penalty of the law.”
“As a ‘J. P.’ you must be aware of the penalty exacted for trespass,”
she answered, preparing to rise.
He noticed her movement, and raised his hand. “Don’t let me drive you
away,” he begged, appreciating to the full the charming picture she
made perched on the rainbow-hued rock, her blue cape and its red cross
in striking contrast to the dull colors of the woods. “I am going.”
His announcement, however, while it had the effect of inducing Vera to
remain where she was, proved a mere figure of speech, as he did not
move from his place by the rock. At the end of a long silence Vera
could not restrain her impatience, and he caught the antagonism she
strove but faintly to conceal.
“Miss Deane”--Thorne skirted the rock and came closer to her--“I am
afraid you harbor resentment against me. I assure you that I had no
hand in the trick played on you by Detective Mitchell yesterday.”
“Your presence with the detective in the spare bedroom leads me to
think otherwise,” she replied coldly.
“I can explain,” he began, but her raised hand stayed him.
“Why attempt an explanation, doctor?” she asked, and her disdain showed
so plainly that he colored with indignation.
“Because I desire to set myself right in your eyes,” he answered.
“With what object?”
His eyes did not fall before the challenge in hers, while a warm, sunny
smile lightened the severe lines of his stubborn chin and determined
mouth.
“Object--matrimony,” he retorted, and she detected the twinkle
in his eyes and the faint mockery discernible in his voice. Her
resolve was instantly taken; she would meet him on the ground he had
chosen--woman’s wit against man’s intelligence was a game old when
Methuselah was young. She rose and dropped Thorne a half courtesy,
balancing herself on the rock with graceful ease.
“On so short an acquaintance your jest is flattering, but ill-timed.”
She paused, then added, “I thank you--and decline.”
“Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our
acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New York.”
Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and
paused uncertainly.
Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and,
searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged
visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words:
February 14--In grateful remembrance.