IDENTIFICATION
MARIAN VAN NESS turned restlessly away from the window as her old
servant came into the sitting room.
“Are you quite sure no telephone call has come for me, Mammy?” she
asked with gentle insistence. Mammy’s antipathy to the telephone was
known to her; on occasions she had not answered it in Marian’s absence,
having confided to the cook in the next apartment that it was little
short of uncanny and she wanted nothing to do with the “devil’s works.”
“Aint been no call at all,” Mammy assured her with conviction. “I jes’
sat in my kitchen wif de do’ open alistenin’ fo’ dat and de do’ bell,
as yo’ said yo’ was ’spectin’ company; aint eben been in hyar to tidy
up.”
As she spoke Mammy proceeded to “set to rights,” as she termed it, the
mass of books, electric light paraphernalia and torches which littered
the window ledge and to put each chair in orderly array. Marian, who
had kept a luncheon engagement of some days’ standing and returned
afterward as promptly as possible to her apartment, moved away so that
her old servant would not see the keen disappointment her statement of
no callers and no telephone calls had given her.
Marian bitterly regretted the almost insane impulse which had prompted
her to seek out Dan Maynard the night before, to even leave a note--a
note he had ignored and left unanswered. Her cheeks burned at the
thought.
The bang of a heavy book which Mammy inadvertently let fall startled
her so that she dropped her ball of worsted which she was winding
with the aid of a chair back. Mammy’s rheumatic joints cracked as she
stooped over, but Marian was before her.
“Don’t bother, I’ll pick it up,” she said, and retrieving her ball,
which had rolled under a table, she sat back somewhat flushed from her
exertions, the book balanced open in her lap.
Looking more closely she saw it was an edition of “Who’s Who,” and in
sheer idleness turned over its leaves as she continued winding the
ball. Suddenly her eyes, traveling listlessly down one page, stopped,
arrested by Dan Maynard’s name. Putting aside the worsted, she lifted
up the book and read the long paragraph devoted to his accomplishments,
his stage career, and his place of birth--Berlin.
Mammy finished her work and seeing Marian sitting staring in absorbed
attention at an open book, concluded not to interrupt her reading, and
hobbled from the room. In the kitchen she paused to ruminate before
putting on her spotlessly clean white apron, her “Sunday best.”
“’Pears like Miss Marian aint herself no mo’,” she muttered,
sorrowfully. “Why dat man got ter com’ back an’ torment her mo’? I
s’pose de good Lord knows His business, but thar’s times when us
mortals could give Him p’ints. Laws! who dat?” The sudden clang of the
front door gong startling her into dropping her apron. Mammy’s heart
sank, when on opening the door a moment later, she gazed up into Dan
Maynard’s handsome face; and it was only with much self-restraint that
she managed to answer with any civility his inquiry for her beloved
“Miss Marian.”
Marian made no motion to rise as he entered and her frigid bow was far
from cordial. An awkward pause followed.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, finally, and Maynard with suppressed
indignation quietly took the chair next to hers; in doing so he
dislodged the worsted which she had carefully stretched across the
chair back.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed contritely. “I never noticed the
worsted; very stupid of me.”
“Don’t bother, please.” Marian turned about and rested one hand on her
desk. “Have you brought back my blotter?”
Maynard sat upright, the neglected worsted at his feet.
“Your blotter?” he echoed. “What blotter is that?”
“The one you took from here Friday night.”
Maynard stared at her. “I am an absent-minded beggar,” he said, and his
smile was whimsical. “If I accidentally walked off with your blotter
that night I apologize and will bring you another one to-morrow.”
Marian stiffened. “I allude to the blotter I unfortunately used when
decoding a message from the State Department; the message on it was
very clear;” her voice stumbled as she met his astonished gaze. “The
blotter was missing the morning after your call.”
Slowly her meaning dawned on Maynard.
“Good God! Marian, do I understand you accuse me of stealing a blotter
with the imprint of a decoded message from the State Department on it?”
he demanded.
“Yes.” The monosyllable cost her an effort which Maynard’s indignation
blinded him to.
“You think me a spy, a traitor--_you_?” he stammered, his face gone
white.
“What else am I to think?” she retorted drearily. “Your unexpected and
unexplained return--oh, I know ‘war work’; war work, these days, like
charity sometimes covers a multitude of sins.”
“My war work----” began Maynard hotly, and stopped short.
“Your war work,” she repeated. “Well, is it for Uncle Sam or for the
Kaiser?”
Maynard held up a protesting hand. “Let us talk reasonably,” he said.
“There is no occasion for excitement. What induces you to think I am
working for the Kaiser?”
“Your fondness of the German people;” she stopped and spoke more
slowly. “Were you not born in Germany?”
“Surely.” Maynard’s smile showed his strong white teeth. “Accidents do
happen, Marian, even in the selection of a birth-place. My parents were
Americans, and my ancestors were Norman-French and Anglo-Saxon. You
cannot question my loyalty to Uncle Sam on those grounds.”
“Were you not decorated by the Kaiser?” demanded Marian, her blood
tingling at his faintly humorous manner of taking her serious
accusation.
“I was, several years ago.” Maynard’s smile disappeared. “Suppose I
answer what must come next in your ‘_questionnaire_’,” he suggested
and a certain sternness crept into voice and manner. “I can give you
no account of my whereabouts during the past twelve months, or----” He
paused--“my occupation. Come, Marian, old comrade, take me on faith?”
and he flung out both hands, his voice soft and winning.
“If I only could!” He caught the look that flamed her eyes and the next
instant she was in his arms, his voice dangerously sweet as he murmured
loving, adoring words in her ear, and then holding her close he kissed
her passionately. Suddenly she broke from his embrace.
“No, no,” she cried. “I sent you away once and I must do so again. It
was madness on your part to break down the barrier----”
“The barrier, Marian, no longer exists,” he stated softly, and she
sprang up.
“What do you mean?” she demanded breathlessly.
He answered her question with another: “Did you see the unidentified
dead man whom Evelyn found Tuesday afternoon in the Burnham library?”
“I? See him?” His eyes never left her white strained face, but she was
unconscious of his scrutiny. “No, I did not see the man. Why?”
For reply Maynard unbuttoned his coat and took from an inner pocket a
photograph and handed it to her. In silence she stared at the dead man
sitting in the library chair; in silence she looked up at Maynard.
“He’s dead,” she stammered. “Really dead?”
“Yes--thank God!” answered Maynard, and at the look which crept into
his eyes she turned and with a low cry pillowed her head on her arms
across the desk and lay as one dead.
Maynard waited in silence for fully five minutes, then he called her
softly.
“Can I be of service?” he asked. A shake of her head was the only sign
that he heard.
“Do you wish me to stay?” he asked, and had to stoop to catch her
muffled: “No.”
Picking up his hat in the hall he paused in uncertainty; then
recollection of Mammy’s presence in the apartment convinced him that he
was not leaving Marian alone, and opening the door he went slowly down
the corridor to the elevator shaft.
He had been gone a scant three minutes when Mammy’s black face peered
out from Marian’s bedroom; a second later she was by Marian’s side.
At her loving touch Marian sat up and Mammy’s glance strayed from her
blanched face to the photograph lying face up on the desk.
“I heerd all,” she said in a husky whisper. “An’ he’s daid,” touching
the photograph. “’Peers like de Lord do know His business, but de
debble musta sent Marse Dan to de Burnham house on Monday night.”
“H--h--ush!” And Marian clasped her in an agonizing grip as her
terrified eyes swept the pretty room. “Hush!”