The undersigned met you in the corridor of the Manhattan Theatre
Building this afternoon about three. You seemed to be in distress, and
I was so surprised I forgot myself and addressed you. I beg that you
will accept my apology for the seeming rudeness. I have seen you in
all your plays, many of them several times over, and I have received so
much pleasure from your acting, and I respect you so highly that it is
very painful to me to think that I may have added to your distress by
my rudeness. I assure you that it was only clumsiness, and not
intentional rudeness.
Yours respectfully,
B. ENDERBY.
The instant after I had posted this letter I would have given half I
possessed to get it back again. It suddenly occurred to me that it
would only make matters worse. Either it would seem like an
impertinent attempt to pry into her private affairs, or a bold move to
follow up my original rudeness. A real gentleman would not have said
anything about the tears, I told myself. My cheeks got hot, but it was
too late to recall the letter. I was thoroughly miserable. I did not
tell any of my friends what had happened.
That night I went alone to see her play. Lost in her part of course
and hidden under her makeup she betrayed nothing. There was always a
suggestion of sadness about her, even in comedy. When that lovely deep
voice trembled, a corresponding shiver went up and down your spine.
I thought about her all the way home. My detective instinct was
aroused. I tried to figure out what could be her trouble. There are
only four kinds of really desperate trouble: ill-health, death, loss of
money, and unrequited love. To look at her in the daylight without
make-up was enough to dispose of the first. It was said that she had
no close relatives, therefore she couldn't have lost any recently. As
for money, surely with her earning capacity she had no need to trouble
about that. Finally, how could it be an affair of the heart? Was
there a man alive who would not have cast himself at her feet if she
had turned a warm glance in his direction? Rich, successful and adored
as she was, I had to give it up.
About five o'clock the next afternoon the surprise of my life was
administered to me. I received a large, square, buff-coloured envelope
with a brown border, and written upon with brown ink in immense,
angular characters. On opening it my hand trembled with a delicious
foreboding of what was inside, meanwhile better sense was telling me
not to be a fool. It contained a card on which was written:
"_Miss Irma Hamerton will be glad to see Mr. B. Enderby if it will be
convenient for him to call at the Hotel Rotterdam at noon on Thursday._"
For a moment I stared at it, dazed. Then I went up in the air. I did
a sort of war-dance around the office. Finally I rushed out to the
most fashionable outfitters to get a new suit before closing time.
Thursday was the next day.
2
I had never been inside that exclusive of exclusive hotels, the
Rotterdam. I confess that my knees were a little infirm as I went
through the swing doors, and passed before the nonchalant, indifferent
eyes of the handsome footmen in blue liveries. "Ahh, they're only
overgrown bell-hops!" I told myself encouragingly, and fixed the
Marquis behind the desk with a haughty stare.
Walking in a dream I presently found myself being shown into a corner
room high up in the building. I was left there alone, and I had a
chance to look around. I had never seen anything like it, except on
the stage. It was decorated in what I think they call the Empire
style, with walls of white panelled wood, picked out with gold, and
pretty, curiously shaped furniture. Everywhere there were great
bunches of pink roses, picked that morning, you could see, with petals
still moist. It smelled like Heaven might.
That was all I had time to take in when the door opened, and she
entered. She was wearing a pink lacy sort of thing that went with the
roses. She didn't mind me, of course. She was merely polite and
casual. But just the same I could see that she was deeply troubled
about something. Trouble makes a woman's eyes big. Makes a beautiful
woman twice as beautiful.
She went to the point as straight as a bullet.
"I suppose you are wondering why I sent for you?"