Now that she was gone he realized that under the hypnotic influence of
her presence he had revealed far more than he had intended. He should
never have allowed her to escape him. He should have insisted on
accompanying her. She had afforded him his only clue to Santa's
whereabouts.
At all costs he must see Santa. His peace of mind depended on it. The
thought of her would haunt him. He would never rest until he had arrived
at the truth. Probably, until he had seen her, he would never be free
from the mischief-making intrusions of anonymous intriguers. He
dodged the theory of her guilt, preferring to persuade himself that
a conspiracy was afoot, the object of which might be blackmail. More
likely it was a clever move on the part of financial rivals to thwart
his plans by discrediting him. If he could meet Santa, he would know
for certain whether she was a decoy or a fellow-victim. Whatever his
intellect might suspect, his heart resolutely acquitted her.
It was too late to overtake the Little Grandmother, but he was
determined to do his best to trace her. In the passage he discovered a
solitary individual collecting boots and shoes, which had been placed
for cleaning outside the neighboring doors.
“An old lady left my room a few moments ago. She had short hair and a
white handkerchief tied over her head. No doubt you saw her.”
The man rose from his stooping posture. “An old lady with short hair!
You say she had a handkerchief tied over it? It doesn't sound like the
Ritz. No, I did not see her.”
Of the man at the elevator he made the same inquiry, only to be informed
that several old ladies had been carried up and down.
Descending to the foyer, he presented himself at the desk.
“Isn't it your rule to have all callers announced before they're shown
in on your guests?”
“Most decidedly.”
“Then how did it happen that an old lady, a rather curious old lady,
with short hair and a white handkerchief over her head like a shawl, was
allowed to' find her way into my room?”
“If you'll give me the particulars, I'll have the staff on duty
questioned.”
As he turned away, he threw back across his shoulder: “I shan't be going
to bed yet. If you discover anything you might report it.”
Half an hour later he was summoned to the telephone. “About your
visitor, sir; no one saw her.” Far into the early hours of the morning
he sat cogitating. What steps ought he to take to protect himself? He
could place his case in the hands of the police, but if he did, he
might stir up a hornet's nest. Most certainly he would be compelled
to postpone his business on the Continent and to prolong his stay in
England. But more disastrous than personal inconvenience, in going
to the police he might be the means of putting Santa's enemies on her
track. They would expect him to make a clean breast of everything; he
would find difficulty in inventing convincing motives to explain the
shiftiness of his conduct since landing.
If he could speak to Santa, he would know how to act. If she were really
implicated in the Rogovich affair, his best way of helping her would be
to clear out of England. But if she could assure him of her innocence,
he was prepared to stay and back her to the limit of his capacity.
Across the jet-black sky the silver moon drifted like a water-lily--a
parable of Santa, moving immaculately among rumors of darkest misdoings.
Whatever she had done had not quenched her purity. If she had done the
worst of which she was accused, her perverted mother-love still clothed
her with the tatters of a tragic goodness.
He jerked himself irritably back to reality. How could a woman who had
spread death with her beauty still retain her purity? He had been warned
that she trapped men by appealing not to their baseness, but to
their chivalry. What wild-eyed feat of chivalry was this that he was
performing? It was best to dispense with casuistry. The accumulated
slanders to which he had listened had spurred his curiosity. They had
changed a modishly attractive woman into a romantic figure--a figure
which, if it were not noble, at least possessed the virtue of lonely
courage.
He would allow himself four days in England. If he had not heard from
her by then, he would go about his business. Having to this extent set a
limit to his difficulties, he took himself off to bed.