His first anxiety next morning was to scan the papers. He had all the
London dailies brought to him and read them before he dressed. For the
most part they told him nothing new, merely recording, with varying
degrees of sensationalism, the indisputable fact that Prince Rogovich
had vanished. One or two hinted at foul play. Several suggested
accidental drowning. The bulk of them, and among these were the most
reputable, presumed that the Prince had had private reasons for avoiding
England and landing at a Continental port _incognito_. Santa Gorlof's
name was not mentioned. He found nothing to confirm the warnings of last
night or to alarm himself on her account.
It was later, while eating breakfast with the _Times_ propped up before
him, that he came across an item which set him viewing what had happened
from a new angle. He was skipping through a sketch of the Prince's
career, when he stumbled on the following paragraph: “It will be
remembered how last summer the Polish women's sense of injustice
concentrated in a silent protest. For an entire week, day and night,
never less than a thousand mothers, each carrying a dead child in her
breast, camped about the Rogovich Palace in Warsaw.”
Glancing back, he read more carefully the information which led up to
the paragraph: “During the two years following the close of the war,
Poland, together with most of Central Europe, has suffered intensely
from famine. Children have contributed by far the largest proportion
to the toll of death. For much of this, so far as Poland is concerned,
Prince Rogovich has been held accountable. The national wealth which he
has squandered on equipping armies might have been spent more profitably
in purchasing foodstuffs. The trip to America, from which he was
returning at the time of his mysterious disappearance, is said to have
had as its object the floating of a loan which would enable his Generals
to maintain their offensives for at least another twelve months. While
the land-owning party in Poland, supported by French diplomacy, backed
him up, his imperialistic policies were bitterly condemned by Polish
mothers who had to watch their children perishing from starvation in
order that frontiers might be extended. Already the death-rate was so
high that it was impossible to supply sufficient coffins. At mid-day the
main streets of Warsaw were jammed with funerals. Many of these funerals
consisted of only two persons: a man and woman, themselves weak from
want of nourishment, staggering under the puny load of a bundle wrapped
in paper, containing the body of the latest son or daughter to die of
hunger.” Then followed the brief description of how the thousand Polish
mothers had camped for a week in protest about the Prince's palace.
Hindwood looked up from his paper, gazing across the flashing gulf
of sunlight to where the azure sea of distant sky beat against the
embattled strand of housetops. If Santa had pushed the Prince overboard,
had that been her motive--that Polish children might no longer die of
hunger? Perhaps always, if indeed she had killed men, her purpose had
been to act as the scourge of the enemies of children. The memory of her
own dead child had urged her. Mistakenly, but none the less valiantly,
she had constituted herself the avenger of all mothers who had been
despoiled by masculine callousness.
What round-about journeys he was willing to undertake if only he might
excuse her! Even though he were compelled to admit her guilt, he was
determined to adjudge her magnanimous. At any rate, she had not been
apprehended.
With a lighter heart than he had experienced for some hours, he
dismissed her from his thoughts and set out to fulfill his round of
engagements.
It was three o'clock when he returned. Immediately, on entering his room
he noticed that a sheet of writing-paper had been pinned conspicuously
to the pillow of his bed. Its evident purpose was to attract his
attention. On approaching it, he saw that the message which it contained
was printed in large letters and unsigned. It read:
“_If you wish to see her, follow but do not speak to the widow._”
It didn't make sense. What widow? The “her” whom he could see by
following the widow referred presumably to Santa. But who had pinned the
sheet of paper to his pillow? How had this person gained access to his
rooms? That morning, when he went out, he had locked his door and left
his key at the hotel desk. He had in his possession confidential papers
of almost state importance. If their secrets were shared, he might
just as well pack up and return to America. His sense that he was the
storm-center of a conspiracy strengthened.
Seizing his hat and gloves, he hurried down-stairs. He had just time
to lodge a complaint with the management before keeping his next
appointment.
He had alighted from the elevator and was about to cross the foyer, when
a woman rose from a chair near by and passed immediately in front of
him. He jerked himself up with a murmured apology; then noticed that she
was gowned in the heaviest widow's mourning. A coincidence, he thought,
and yet not so very extraordinary! He was proceeding on his journey,
when his eyes chanced to follow her. She had halted uncertainly, as
though she had forgotten something; by the poise of her head, he
guessed that behind her veil she was gazing at him. More to satisfy his
curiosity than as the preface to an adventure, he also halted. Somewhat
ostentatiously he drew from his pocket the sheet of note-paper which
he had found pinned to his pillow. Unfolding it, he reread its printed
message:
“If you wish to see her, follow but do not speak to the widow.”
He looked up. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the veiled figure nodded. He
made a step, as if to approach her. Instantly she turned and passed out.
Without further consideration, in his eagerness to see what she would do
next, he followed.