THE BLOTTED PAGE
MARIAN Van Ness turned the latch-key and stepped into her apartment
with reluctance. After her visit to the hairdresser she had persuaded
Evelyn, against the latter’s better judgment, to take a light dinner
down town with her and had prolonged the walk home because of her
desire for companionship. It was Mammy’s “church night,” and Marian
dreaded the long evening by herself before the return of the faithful
old servant who had been her mother’s personal maid years before. Mammy
was a privileged character, and her shrewd comments and homely maxims
frequently wiled away the tedium of evenings at home.
When Marian felt the strain of over-work and long hours at the State
Department Mammy, on her return, would put her to bed and nurse her as
she had done in infancy. Her large black hand possessed a magic touch
healing, in its soothing influence, every tortured nerve and bringing
sleep in its train. She would have made her fortune as a masseuse, but
loyalty to her “chile” kept her in devoted attendance, sharing Marian’s
varying vicissitudes with fortifying courage.
Marian’s light footfall made no sound as she crossed the tiny dining
room on her way to the kitchenette opening from it. A peep inside
disclosed Mammy dozing in a comfortable arm wicker chair. Marian’s
surprised ejaculation awoke her.
“Laws! Honey,” she ejaculated, straightening her white turban. “Yo’ am
late to-night; jes’ take yo’ tings off an’ Mammy’ll hab supper in a
jiffy.”
“Don’t trouble, Mammy, I had my dinner down town.” Marian looked up at
the kitchen clock. “You are late, dear; hurry and get your things on.”
“I isn’t goin’ to church dis evenin’, Honey.”
“You are not!” Marian’s surprise increased; for Mammy to miss her
weekly devotional was almost unheard of. “Aren’t you well?”
“Oh, yes, I’se well, but I’se tired,” Mammy sighed as she reached
across to a corner and pulled forward an electric vacuum cleaner. “I’se
been a wrestlin’ wif dis hyar contraption ’most all day. ’Taint any
use ob talkin’, Honey, de store-man cheated yo’, fo’ dis hyar cleanin’
machine ain’t no good, de vaccium’s done gone out ob it.”
Marian concealed her amusement from the tender old eyes watching her.
“I’m afraid, Mammy, you are too addicted to dusters and brooms,” she
remarked.
“’Deed I ’spects dat’s so, Honey; an’ ole broom knows whar de dust is.”
Mammy followed Marian into the parlor. “Yo’se lookin’ kinder peaked,
Honey; is dey aworkin’ yo’ as hard as ebber?”
“Every one works hard these days, Mammy.” Marian handed her hat and
gloves to the servant and threw herself on the sofa which stood in
front of the window. “I’ll just sit here and rest a bit. You go to bed,
Mammy, and don’t worry over this apartment; it is the most spotlessly
clean place in town.”
“Yes, Honey.” Mammy carried Marian’s belongings into her bedroom and
returned with a light weight summer afghan which she spread over
Marian, who had curled up in a corner of the sofa and was lying back
with closed eyes. She did not stir and Mammy, with a final pat, stole
from the room and went back to her quarters, there to doze in comfort.
Marian lay quietly on the sofa for more than an hour, and when she sat
up darkness had succeeded the twilight. Too tired to move, she leaned
back and propped her elbow on the window ledge and looked out. The view
was more attractive than that generally seen from back windows; the
rows of neat back yards, however, were devoid of light and the houses
they belonged to were also lightless except the Burnham mansion.
From where she sat Marian could see that lights burned in the
octagon-shaped wing of the mansion on several of its floors, and her
familiarity with the house’s architectural arrangements enabled her to
locate the different rooms. Mrs. Burnham had neglected to pull down
the shades in her boudoir and Marian saw her knitting by the aid of a
movable standing electric lamp, while Peter Burnham, sitting before the
desk, was examining some papers. In the room above only a faint light
glowed and Marian wondered if the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, had left her
bedroom and resumed her duties.
Marian’s eyes traveled downward to the open windows of Evelyn Preston’s
bedroom, but they were dark; evidently Evelyn was either lying down
or had gone to another part of the house. Even as she looked a light
flashed in Evelyn’s room and in the sudden illumination she had an
excellent view of the white walls of her friend’s room. Even as she
watched Evelyn crossed before the windows and a second later the light
was switched off. For many minutes thereafter Marian sat in darkness.
The front door bell sounded with such sharp suddenness that Marian
started up in alarm. Throwing the afghan aside and switching on the
electricity she hurried to the door before Mammy, whose doze had
developed into heavy slumber, could pull herself out of her chair. A
trusted State Department messenger stepped inside the entrance hall and
handed Marian a sealed envelope.
“I was instructed to wait,” he explained, and took a chair just inside
the parlor.
First stopping to pull down her window shades Marian hurried to her
desk, and, taking the pages from the envelope, she proceeded to decode
the messages written thereon. She had almost completed the task when,
on starting a fresh page, her fountain pen commenced to leak and sent
a stream of ink across her writing. With an impatient exclamation she
picked up a fresh piece of blotting paper and checked the flow of ink,
then continued the decoding. When her work was completed she gathered
up the dispatches and the original messages and, placing them in a
large envelope, carefully sealed the package with red wax and a ring
bearing her crest.
The messenger, who had alternately read the evening paper and several
magazines to occupy his time, rose with alacrity at her approach.
Taking the envelope he buttoned it securely in an inner pocket of his
coat.
“Rush work to-night,” he said. “They sent me here in a taxi-cab so
that if I didn’t find you in I could locate you elsewhere.”
“Why didn’t you telephone beforehand?”
“Central reported your ’phone out of order,” he smiled. “Ain’t it
fierce? Good-night,” and opening the door he stepped outside and almost
on top of Dan Maynard whose hand, outstretched to ring the bell, struck
him sharply on the chest. With a muttered word of apology the messenger
hastened toward the elevator and left Marian and Maynard facing each
other.
“May I come in?” he asked. His voice was very winning and there was
a certain wistful appeal in his eyes as they met hers which possibly
accounted for the sudden color in her cheeks. She stood in doubt for a
brief second, then stepped back to admit him.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he commenced, laying his hat down
on the desk and turning to face her as she stopped in the middle of the
parlor. “I have a message from René La Montagne. It is rather long----”
He glanced about and then back at her.
“Then suppose we sit down.” Marian was regaining her old poise. Moving
over to the sofa she ensconced herself on one end of it as Maynard
pulled forward a chair. “You look”--staring at him steadily--“a trifle
weary.”
“I am.” Maynard pushed back his short hair from his temples. “These are
strenuous days;” his manner grew more earnest as he bent forward. “Now
for my message; René desires to know if you will accompany Evelyn to
Rockville, Maryland, next Tuesday.” She looked at him inquiringly and
he added, “René plans to marry Evelyn there.”
She did not answer immediately. “Can René secure a license?” she asked
finally.
“Yes.” His penetrating gaze never wavered as he studied her. “You will
help them?”
“I will.”
Maynard lowered his voice. “Do you quite realize what your promise
implies?” he asked anxiously. “The Burnhams will bitterly resent your
part in Evelyn’s marriage, and they are in a position to make things
most unpleasant for you.”
“Are they?” Marian’s back stiffened. “I am not afraid of the Burnhams
or--any one.”
Maynard sat back and glanced away from her. “Then you are fully
determined to assist Evelyn and René to elope?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Marian eyed him in surprise, “Because of my affection for
Evelyn.”
“You think, then, a hasty marriage is wise?”
Marian’s fingers played with the afghan. “Circumstances alter cases,”
she said composedly. “Evelyn and René are very much in love and deserve
their happiness.”
Maynard again leaned nearer. “You have so much sympathy for another’s
romance and for your own you have none. Do you never think of yourself?”
“Too much.” Marian’s smile was strained. “I would rather you left my
feelings and my affairs out of the discussion.”
“Certainly; but----” Maynard hesitated a long moment. “Your husband----”
“Died long ago.”
Both her voice and manner precluded further questioning, and biting
his lip Maynard sat back and contemplated her in silence. A deeper
appreciation of her beauty stirred his pulse to a quicker beat; anxiety
and hard work, which embitters some natures, had softened and rounded
out Marian’s character. Maynard was unaware of the passing seconds
as he sat musing, and Marian, controlling her restless longing to
be alone, sat like an image, thankful that she had a back to lean
against and the side of the sofa on which to rest her elbow. She felt
inexplicably weary. Why would Maynard persist in raising the specter of
the past? How could he allude to----
A loud ring of the bell came as a welcome relief to Marian.
Before she could start to answer it old Mammy appeared in the entrance
hall from the dining room, having gone there upon awakening to find out
whose voice it was she heard talking to Marian. The next instant she
had ushered James Palmer into the parlor.
“Don’t get up, Mrs. Van Ness,” he entreated, moving forward with as
much speed as his bulk permitted. “I only stopped in for a moment.
Don’t think me unneighborly if I confess I came to see Maynard,” laying
his hand on the latter’s shoulder.
Marian laughed vexedly. Did every one in the apartment house keep tab
on her visitors, or was it only Palmer’s curiosity which had brought
him there to find out if by chance Evelyn and her French lover were
with her? Palmer’s next remark to Maynard caught her by surprise in its
direct answer to her unspoken question.
“The elevator boy, Jim, told me you were looking at the vacant
apartment next to this, Maynard, and he had seen you afterward stop at
Mrs. Van Ness’ door, so,” added Palmer, “I took the chance of finding
you here.”
“Do you wish anything, Palmer?” Maynard rose reluctantly; he had hoped
to prolong his _tête-à-tête_ with Marian.
“It is nothing so very important,” replied Palmer. “Peter Burnham has
telephoned several times to ask if you were with me; he wants you to
play chess with him. I tried to locate you in several places, as I
judged from Burnham’s voice that he was getting excited and I thought a
game with you might quiet him down.”
“We can try it.” Maynard, picking up his hat, inadvertently knocked
several papers from the desk. Picking them up he laid them with the red
blotter back on the desk, and then he turned to Marian and held out his
hand.
She shook it with perfunctory courtesy. “Do I understand you have taken
the next apartment?” she asked and there was a catch in her throat
which Palmer was quick to detect.
“I plan to.” Maynard preceded Palmer to the door. “You will find me a
quiet neighbor. Good night.”
Palmer, following Maynard closely, was surprised at the speed with
which the door was closed behind him, almost upon his back in fact.
He was about to comment upon it, but his companion’s preoccupied
expression and air induced him to remain silent.
Mammy, who had shut the door with such precipitancy, leaned against its
panels and looked with staring eyes at Marian.
“I’se recognized him now, Honey,” she gasped. “At las’ I’se recognized
him, I mean his voice----”
“Stop!” Marian laid a warning finger on the old woman’s trembling lips.
“We mustn’t tell all we know. Come and help me get to bed. I am tired,
oh, so tired,” and to Mammy’s consternation she burst into violent
weeping as she ran into her bedroom.
* * * * *
One--two--three--chimed the clock on the mantel in Marian’s parlor and
the sound drowned the faint noise made by the turning of the lock of
the front door; the next instant the door opened and a figure slipped
in, listened a moment, then slipped with incredible swiftness into the
parlor. A second later a flashlight played over the furniture, never
ceasing in its rapid movement until the rays of light disclosed the
scrap-basket. The intruder turned over its contents, then the basket
was replaced, and once again the flashlight played about the parlor, to
linger longest on the desk.
Underneath a pile of correspondence lay a piece of red blotting paper.
The intruder picked it up; a few words were discernible on its almost
unused surface. With a soft sigh of thankfulness the intruder pocketed
the blotter and silently stole from the apartment.