When Mr. Rathbone was well up the terrace (he hardly honored me with a
look as he went by), I slowly began my descent to where she stood with
her back toward me and her arms thrown round the child she had evidently
called to her in her anxiety to conceal the little beaming face from
this new intruder.
That she had not looked as high as my face I felt assured; that she
would not show me hers unless I forced her to seemed equally certain.
Every step I took downward was consequently of moment to me. I wondered
how I should come out of this; what she would do; what I myself should
say. The bold course commended itself to me. No more circumlocution; no
more doubtful playing of the game with this woman. I would take the bull
by the horns and--
I had reached the step on which she crouched. I could catch sight of the
child's eyes over her shoulder, a shoulder that quivered--was it with
the storm of the last interview, or with her fear of this? I would see.
Pausing, I said to her with every appearance of respect, but in my most
matter-of-fact tones:
"Mrs. Carew, may I request you to send Gwendolen down to the girl I see
below there? I have something to say to you before you leave."
_Gwendolen!_
With a start which showed how completely she was taken by surprise, Mrs.
Carew rose. She may have recognized my voice and she may not; it is hard
to decide in such an actress. Whether she did or not, she turned with a
frown, which gave way to a ravishing smile as her eyes met my face.
"You?" she said, and without any betrayal in voice or gesture that she
recognized that her hopes, and those of the friend to whose safety she
had already sacrificed so much, had just received their death-blow, she
gave a quick order to the girl who, taking the child by the hand, sat
down on the steps Mrs. Carew now quitted and laid herself out to be
amusing.
Gravely Mrs. Carew confronted me on the terrace below.
"Explain," said she.
"I have just come from Mrs. Ocumpaugh," I replied.
The veiled head dropped a trifle.
"She could not sustain herself! So all is lost?"
"That depends. But I must request you not to leave the country till Mr.
Ocumpaugh returns."
The flash of her eye startled me. "Who can detain me," she cried, "if I
wish to go?"
I did not answer in kind. I had no wish to rouse this woman's
opposition.
"I do not think you will want to go when you remember Mrs. Ocumpaugh's
condition. Would you leave her to bear the full burden of this deception
alone? She is a broken woman. Her full story is known to me. I have the
profoundest sympathy for her. She has only three days in which to decide
upon her course. I have advised her to tell the whole truth to her
husband."
"You!"
The word was but a breath, but I heard it Yet I felt no resentment
against this woman. No one could, under the spell of so much spirit and
grace.
"Did I not advise her right?"
"Perhaps, but you must not detain _me_. You must do nothing to separate
me from this child. I will not bear it. I have experienced for days now
what motherhood might be, and nothing on earth shall rob me of my
present rights in this child." Then as she met my unmoved countenance:
"If you know Mrs. Ocumpaugh's whole history, you know that neither she
nor her husband has any real claim on the child."
"In that you are mistaken," I quickly protested. "Six years of care and
affection such as they have bestowed on Gwendolen, to say nothing of the
substantial form which these have taken from the first, constitute a
claim which all the world must recognize, if you do not. Think of Mr.
Ocumpaugh's belief in her relation to him! Think of the shock which
awaits him, when he learns that she is not of his blood and lineage!"
"I know, I know." Her fingers worked nervously; the woman was showing
through the actress. "But I will not give up the child. Ask anything but
that."
"Madam, I have had the honor so far to make but one requirement--that
you do not carry the child out of the country--yet."
As I uttered this ultimatum, some influence, acting equally upon both,
caused us to turn in the direction of the river; possibly an
apprehension lest some word of this conversation might be overheard by
the child or the nurse. A surprise awaited us which effectually
prevented Mrs. Carew's reply. In the corner of the Ocumpaugh grounds
stood a man staring with all his eyes at the so-called little Harry. An
expression of doubt was on his face. I knew the minute to be critical
and was determined to make the most of it.
"Do you know that man?" I whispered to Mrs. Carew.
The answer was brief but suggestive of alarm.
"Yes, one of the gardeners over there--one of whom Gwendolen is
especially fond."
"She's the one to fear, then. Engage his attention while I divert hers."
All this in a whisper while the man was summoning up courage to speak.
"A pretty child," he stammered, as Mrs. Carew advanced toward him
smiling. "Is that your little nephew I've heard them tell about? Seems
to me he looks like our own little lost one; only darker and sturdier."
"Much sturdier," I heard her say as I made haste to accost the child.
"Harry," I cried, recalling my old address when I was in training for a
gentleman; "your aunt is in a hurry. The cars are coming; don't you hear
the whistle? Will you trust yourself to me? Let me carry you--I mean,
pick-a-back, while we run for the train."
The sweet eyes looked up--it was fortunate for Mrs. Carew that no one
but myself had ever got near enough to see those eyes or she could
hardly have kept her secret--and at first slowly, then with instinctive
trust, the little arms rose and I caught her to my breast, taking care
as I did so to turn her quite away from the man whom Mrs. Carew was
about leaving.
"Come!" I shouted back, "we shall be late!"--and made a dash for the
gate.
Mrs. Carew joined me, and none of us said anything till we reached the
station platform. Then as I set the child down, I gave her one look. She
was beaming with gratitude.
"That saved us, together with the few words I could edge in between his
loud regrets at my going and his exclamations of grief over Gwendolen's
loss. On the train I shall fear nothing. If you will lift him up I will
wrap him in this shawl as if he were ill. Once in New York--are you not
going to permit me?"
"To go to New York, yes; but not to the steamer."
She showed anger, but also an admirable self-control. Far off we could
catch the sounding thrill of the approaching train.
"I yield," she announced suddenly. And opening the bag at her side, she
fumbled in it for a card which she presently put in my hand. "I was
going there for lunch," she explained. "Now I will take a room and
remain until I hear from you." Here she gave me a quick look. "You do
not appear satisfied."
"Yes, yes," I stammered, as I looked at the card and saw her name over
that of an inconspicuous hotel in the down-town portion of New York
City. "I merely--"
The nearing of the train gave me the opportunity of cutting short the
sentence I should have found it difficult to finish.
"Here is the child," I exclaimed, lifting the little one, whom she
immediately enveloped in the light but ample wrap she had chosen as a
disguise.
"Good-by--Harry."
"Good-by! I like you. Your arms are strong and you don't shake me when
you run."
Mrs. Carew smiled. There was deep emotion in her face. "_Au revoir!_"
she murmured in a tone implying promise. Happily I understood the French
phrase.
I bowed and drew back. Was I wrong in letting her slip from my
surveillance? The agitation I probably showed must have caused her some
thought. But she would have been more than a diviner of mysteries to
have understood its cause. Her bag, when she had opened it before my
eyes, had revealed among its contents a string of remarkable corals. A
bead similar in shape, color and marking rested at that very moment over
my own heart. Was that necklace one bead short? With a start of
conviction I began to believe so and that I was the man who could
complete it. If that was so--why, then--then--
It isn't often that a detective's brain reels--but mine did then.