THEY DRESS FOR DINNER
Breitmann watched them as long as he could. There was no jealousy in
his heart, but there was bitterness, discontent, a savage
self-pillorying. He was genuinely sorry that this young woman was so
pretty; still, had she the graces of Calypso, he must have come. She
would distract him, and he desired at that time distraction least of
all diversions. Concentration and singleness of purpose--upon these
two attributes practically hung his life. How strangely fate had
stepped with him. What if there had not been that advertisement for a
private secretary? How then should he have gained a footing in this
house? Well, here he was, and speculation was of no value, save in a
congratulatory sense. The fly in the amber was the presence of the
young American; Fitzgerald, shrewd and clever, might stumble upon
something. Well, till against that time!
His room was pleasant, a corner which gave two excellent views, one of
the sea and the other of the orchard. There was no cluttering of
furniture; it was simple, substantial, decently old. On the plain
walls were some choice paintings. A landscape by Constable, a water
color by Fortuny, and a rough sketch by Détaille; and the inevitable
marines, such as one might expect in the house of a fighting sailor.
He examined these closely, and was rather pleased to find them valuable
old prints. And, better to his mind than all these, was the deft,
mysterious touch or suggestion of a woman's hand. He saw it in the
pillows on the lounge, in the curtains dropping from the windows, in
the counterpane on the old four-poster.
Did Americans usually house their private secretaries in rooms fit for
guests of long and intimate acquaintance? Ah, yes; this sailor was a
rich man; and this mansion had not been erected yesterday. It amused
him to think that these walls and richly polished floors were older
than the French revolution. It seemed incredible, but it was true.
"Pirates!" His laughter broke forth, not loudly but deeply, fired by a
broad and ready sense of humor--a perilous gift for a man who is
seeking fine hazards. It was droll, it was even fantastic. To cruise
about the world in search of pirate treasures, as if there remained a
single isle, shore, promontory, known to have been the haunt of
pirates, which had not been dug up and dug up again! And here, under
the very hand---- He struck his palms. "Why not?"
He ran to the window. The sleek white yacht lay tugging at her cables,
like an eager hound in the leash. "Seaworthy from stem to stern. Why
not? No better cloak than this. I may not make you a good secretary,
admiral; but, the gods propitious, I can, if needs say must, take you
treasure hunting. It will be a fine stroke. Is it possible that
fortune begins to smile on me at last? Well, I have had the patience
to wait. The hour has come, and fortune shall not find me laggard. It
has been something to wait as I have, never to have spoken, never to
have forgotten. France knows and Germany knows, but only me, not what
I have. They have even tried to drive me to crime. Wait, fools, wait!"
He drew his arms tightly over his heaving breast, for he was deeply
moved, while over his face came that indefinable light which, at times,
illuminates the countenance of a great man. It came and went; as a
flash of lightning betrays the oncoming storm.
The chimney! His heart missed a beat. He had forgotten the chimney.
The reaction affected him like a blow. A snarl twisted his mouth.
What was this chimney to any other man? Only he of all men, knew. And
yet, here was some one stealthily at work, forestalling him, knocking
the bottom out of his great dream. There was nothing pleasant in the
growing expression an his face; it was the tiger, waking. There could
be only one way.
Swiftly he dashed to his trunk, knelt and examined the lock, unscrewed
it, and took out the documents more precious to him than the treasures
of a hundred Captain Kidds. Instantly, he returned to the window.
Nothing was missing. But here was something he had never noticed
before. On the face of the slip of parchment--a diagram, dim and
faded--was an oily thumb-mark. The oil from the lock; nothing more;
doubtless he himself had touched it. How many times had he found an
unknown touch among his few belongings? How often had he smiled?
Still, to quell all rising doubts, he rubbed his right thumb on the
lock, and made a second impression. The daylight was now insufficient,
so he turned on the electricity, and compared them. Slowly, the scars
deepened till they were the tint of cedar. Death's head itself could
not have fascinated him more than the dissimilarity of these two
thumb-prints. He said nothing, but a queer little strangling sound
came through his lips.
Who? Where? His heart beat so violently that the veins in his throat
swelled and threatened to burst. But he was no weakling. He summoned
all his will. He must act, and act at once, immediately.
Fitzgerald? No, not that clever, idling fool. But who, who? He
replaced the papers and the lock. A hidden menace. Question as he
would, there was never any answer.
He practised the pleasant deceit that the first mark had been there
when the diagram had been given to him. It was not possible that any
one had discovered his hiding-place. Had he not with his own hands
contrived it, alone and without aid, under that accursed mansard roof?
Not one of his co-adventurers knew; they had advanced him funds on his
word. His other documents they had seen; these had sufficed them.
Still, back it came, with deadly insistence; some one was digging at
the bricks in the chimney. The drama was beginning to move. Had he
waited too long?
Mechanically, he proceeded to dress for dinner. Since he was to sit at
the family table, he must fit his dress and manners to the hour. He
did not resist the sardonic smile as he put on his fresh patent
leathers and his new dinner coat. He recalled Fitzgerald's
half-concealed glances of pity the last time they had dined together.
In the room across the corridor, Fitzgerald was busy with a similar
occupation. The only real worry he had was the doubt of his luggage
arriving before he left. He had neither tennis clothes nor
riding-habit, and these two pastimes were here among the regular events
of the day. The admiral both played and rode with his daughter. She
was altogether too charming. Had she been an ordinary society girl, he
would have stayed his welcome threadbare perhaps. But, he repeated,
she was not ordinary. She had evidently been brought up with few
illusions. These she possessed would always be hers.
The world, in a kindly but mistaken spirit, fosters all sorts of
beliefs in the head of a child. True, it makes childhood happy, but it
leaves its skin tender. The moment a girl covers her slippers with
skirts and winds her hair about the top of her curious young head,
things begin to jar. The men are not what she dreamed them to be,
there never was such a person as Prince Charming; and the women embrace
her--if she is pretty and graceful--with arms bristling with needles of
envy and malice; and the rosal tint that she saw in the approach is
nothing more or less than jaundice; and, one day disheartened and
bewildered, she learns that the world is only a jumble of futile,
ill-made things. The admiral had weeded out most of these illusions at
the start.
"So much for suppositions and analysis," panted Fitzgerald, reknotting
his silk tie. "As for me, I go to the Arctic; cold, but safe. I have
never fallen in love. I have enjoyed the society of many women, and to
some I've been silly enough to write, but I have never been maudlin.
I'm no fool. This is the place where it would be most likely to
happen. Let us beat an orderly retreat. What the devil ails my
fingers to-night? M'h! There; will you stay tied as I want you? She
has traveled, she has studied, she is at home with grand dukes in Nice,
and scribblers in a country village. She is wise without being solemn.
She has courage, too, or I should not be here on a mere fluke. Now, my
boy, you have given yourself due notice. Take care!"
He slipped his coat over his shoulders--and passably sturdy ones they
were--and took a final look into the glass. Not for vanity's sake;
sometimes a man's tie will show above the collar of his coat.
"Hm! I'll wager the trout are rising about this time." He imitated a
cast which was supposed to land neatly in the corner. "Ha! Struck you
that time, you beauty!" All of which proved to himself, conclusively,
that he was in normal condition. "I should get a wire to-morrow about
Breitmann. I hate to do anything that looks underhand, but he puzzles
me. There was something about the chimney to-day; I don't know what.
This is no place for him--nor for me, either," was the shrewd
supplement.
There was still some time before dinner, so he walked about, with his
hands in his pockets, and viewed the four walls of his room. He
examined the paints and admired the collection of blood-thirsty old
weapons over the mantel, but with the indirect interest of a man who is
thinking of other things. At the end, he paused before the window,
which, like the one in Breitmann's room, afforded a clear outlook to
the open waters. Night was already mistress of the sea; and below, the
village lights twinkled from various points.
Laura tried on three gowns, to the very great surprise of her maid.
Usually her mistress told her in the morning what to lay out for
dinner. Here there were two fine-looking young men about, and yet she
was for selecting the simplest gown of the three. The little French
maid did not understand the reason, nor at that moment could her
mistress have readily explained. It was easy to dress for the critical
eyes of rich young men, officers, gentlemen with titles; all that was
required was a fresh Parisian model, some jewels, and a bundle of
orchids or expensive roses. But these two men belonged to a class she
knew little of; gentlemen adventurers, who had been in strange,
unfrequented places, who had helped to make history, who received
decorations, and never wore them, who remained to the world at large
obscure and unknown.
So, with that keen insight which is a part of a well-bred, intelligent
woman--and also rather inexplicable to the male understanding--she
chose the simplest gown. She was hazily conscious that they would
notice this dress, whereas the gleaming satin would have passed as a
matter of fact. Round her graceful throat she placed an Indian
turquoise necklace; nothing in her hair, nothing on her fingers. She
went down-stairs perfectly content.
As she came into the hall, she heard soft music. Some one was in the
music-room, which was just off the library. She stopped to listen.
Chopin, with light touch and tender feeling. Which of the two
wanderers was it? Quietly, she moved along to the door. Breitmann;
she rather expected to find him. Nearly all educated Germans played.
The music stopped for a moment, then resumed. Another melody followed,
a melody she had heard from one end of France to the other. She
frowned, not with displeasure, but with puzzlement. For what purpose
did a soldier of the German empire play the battle hymn of the French
republic? _The Marseillaise_? She entered the music-room, and the low
but vibrant chords ceased instantly. Breitmann had been playing these
melodies standing. He turned quickly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, but perfectly free from embarrassment.
"I am very fond of music myself. Please play whenever the mood comes
to you. _The Marseillaise_--"
"Ah!" he interrupted, laughing. "There was a bit of traitor in my
fingers just then. But music should have no country; it should be
universal."
"Perhaps, generally speaking; but every land should have an anthem of
its own. The greatest composition of Beethoven or Wagner will never
touch the heart as the ripple of a battle song."
And when Fitzgerald joined them they were seriously discussing Wagner
and his ill-treatment in Munich, and of the mad king of Bavaria.
As she had planned, both men noticed the simplicity of her dress.
"It is because she doesn't care," thought Breitmann.
"It is because she knows we don't care," thought Fitzgerald. And he
was nearer the truth than Breitmann.
The dinner was pleasant, and there was much talk of travel. The
admiral had touched nearly every port, Fitzgerald had been round three
times, and Breitmann four. The girl experienced a sense of elation as
she listened. She knew most of her father's stories, but to-night he
drew upon a half-forgotten store. Without embellishment, as if they
were ordinary, every-day affairs, they exchanged tales of adventure in
strange island wildernesses; and there were lion hunts and man hunts
and fierce battles on land and sea. Never had any story-book opened a
like world. She felt a longing for the Himalayas, the Indian jungles,
the low-lying islands of the South Pacific.
So far as the admiral was concerned, he was very well pleased with the
new secretary.
Fitzgerald was not asleep. He had an idea, and he smoked his yellow
African gourd pipe till this same idea shaped itself into the form of a
resolve. He laid the pipe on the mantel, turned over the logs--for the
nights were yet chill, and a fire was a comfort--and raised a window.
He would like to hear some of that tapping in the chimney. He was
fully dressed, excepting that he had exchanged shoes for slippers.
He went out into the corridor. There was no light under Breitmann's
door. So much the better; he was asleep. Fitzgerald crept down the
stairs with the caution of a hunter who is trailing new game. As he
arrived at the turn of the first landing, he hesitated. He could hear
the old clock striking off the seconds in the lower hall. He cupped
his ear. By George! Joining the sharp monotony of the clock was
another sound, softer, intermittent. He was certain that it came from
the library. That door was never closed. Click-click! Click-click!
The mystery was close at hand.
He moved forward. He wanted to get as close as possible to the
fireplace. He peered in. The fire was all but dead; only the corner
of a log glowed dully. Suddenly, the glow died, only to reappear,
unchanged. This phenomena could be due to one thing, a passing of
something opaque. Fitzgerald had often seen this in camps, when some
one's legs passed between him and the fire. Some one else was in the
room. With a light bound, he leaped forward, to find himself locked in
a pair of arms no less vigorous than his own.
And even in that lively moment he remembered that the sound in the
chimney went on!