TANGLED HEART-STRINGS
There was racing and chasing on Saintsbury lea the next morning. The
office of the Samovar was besieged by people who wanted to know
whether the charge against Clyde was a campaign lie, a poor joke, or a
startling truth. Reporters and inquiring friends camped on Clyde's
doorstep, blockaded his office,--and insisted on extracting some
information from his lawyer! Information is a valuable commodity which
a lawyer is trained not to give away for nothing, so my visitors went
away not much wiser than they came.
"Has Clyde been arrested?" was asked everywhere.
Apparently not.
"But why didn't Burleigh, in the interests of justice, give his
information to the police before publishing it broadcast and giving
Clyde a chance to get away?"
Probably Burleigh cared more for a Samovar scoop than for the
interests of justice, and more for helping the campaign against Clyde
than for either. Possibly, also, he did not care to take upon himself
the responsibility of lodging a formal accusation against Clyde. He
might, in that case, be held responsible for it.
"But how had Clyde got the warning?"
Nobody knew. He had simply disappeared.
Of course his disappearance was considered equivalent to a confession
of guilt. The wires were hot with his description, and the noon
editions had columns of conjecture and reassuring reports that the
police were in possession of valuable clues which could not be made
public.
I could barely get time to run through my accumulated mail. A good
part of this related to Alfred Barker. I had started inquiries
backward along the shadowy track of that slippery gentleman's career,
hoping that I might come across some trail of Diavolo's in that
direction. So far as results went, Mr. Barker might have been the most
commonplace and harmless of mortals. He had lived here, he had done
business there, he had been through bankruptcy and he had been
promoter of several business schemes that were little better than
bankruptcy, but chiefly he had managed to be unknown for long
intervals. How some of those intervals were filled, I could in a
manner guess. Probably his venture as business manager for Diavolo was
an instance. And that one had not been particularly successful
financially, except in the deal with Jordan, if I might regard
Barker's note-book as an accounting of the profits.
I was busy in an inner office, trying to assimilate my mail, when
Fellows, my clerk, brought me word that Miss Thurston was waiting to
see me. As I knew we should be liable to interruptions in the outer
office, I had him bring her in.
I saw at a glance that this was a different woman from the
self-possessed woman of the world I had known. She was human, womanly.
Her eyes met mine with a shy appeal for sympathy.
"We all come to you for advice," she said with a deprecating smile.
"That is the chief compensation of my profession."
"There are three things that I want to speak to you about," she
continued. "First, Mr. Clyde's safety. I have been thinking about
things all night, turning them in my mind one way and another, and
that is the point that must be considered first. If he is taken, or
gives himself up, what prospect is there that he will ever be
cleared?"
"Very little, Miss Thurston. You wish me to be frank."
"I want to know the exact truth. In the eyes of the law, he is merely
an escaped convict?"
"Yes."
She was perfectly quiet and self-controlled. I could see that she
merely expected me to confirm the impression which her intelligence
had already discerned. She did not hesitate in her quiet speech.
"Then the second thing is to get word to him. I have written him a
letter." (She laid it on my table,--a nice, thick letter it was, too!)
"I have told him in this letter that I am ready to go with him to any
island of the sea or desert jungle where he will be safe. I want you
to know, because it may happen that you will get word to him only by
telegraphing. But tell him what I have told you, if you cannot give
him my letter. If you should see him, the letter will be enough to
make him understand. And if he should hesitate on my account, and talk
about not letting me sacrifice myself,--he may, you know,--will you
make him--understand?" There was a mist in her eyes as she finished.
If she looked at Clyde with that look, he would have to be a man of
iron not to yield!
"Trust me to do the very best I can to deliver your commission. But
Clyde has disappeared, as you know. I may not hear from him before you
do."
"Yes, I know. I am only providing for the chance,--in case you do. I
have been thinking of everything, trying to put myself into his mind,
and I think he will come or send to you."
She spoke with quiet assurance.
"I shall be only too glad to serve you--or him."
"Then there is another matter." A slightly embarrassed air replaced
the fine lack of self-consciousness which I had been admiring. "I wish
that you would tell Eugene Benbow."
I felt myself stiffen. Unconsciously I was politely obtuse.
"Tell him what? I beg pardon!"
"Tell him about Mr. Clyde's escape and--everything that has gone
before."
"Oh, yes, certainly. He will be interested."
"And tell him--about my message."
"You wish him to know?" I asked, in a matter-of-fact manner.
"Yes, I wish him to know,--but I don't want to be the one to tell
him."
"You think it will hurt him?" I asked, determined to draw her out,
since she had given me the opening. I realized that to women emotions
are facts, and that impressions, attitudes and relations are quite as
substantial as any of the more material things of which the law takes
notice. It might be that the key to Gene's mysteriousness lay in
emotions rather than in facts.
She lifted her eyes with something of an effort, but I saw that she
had determined to treat me with frankness.
"It probably _will_ hurt him," she said, "but it will be salutary."
"In the long run, yes. But--poor fellow!"
"I know! But it wasn't my fault. You know a boy of his poetic and
romantic sort simply has to adore someone, and I even thought it was
better for him to waste his emotional efflorescence on me than on some
woman who might not have understood."
"I am quite sure you are right," I said. But at the same time I could
not help a feeling of dumb sympathy with poor Gene, and a certain
impatience with her philosophic view of the situation. As Kipling
says, it is easy for the butterfly upon the load to preach contentment
to the toad. The toad, too, has some rights.
"Besides, he knew always--or, at least, for a long time--that Mr.
Clyde was more to me than anyone else. He always was," she continued
bravely, "even in the old times, before--anything happened. And I
knew, as a girl does, that I was more to him than anyone else. Then,
when he drew away and would not say what I had expected, of course I
was hurt and angry and very, very unhappy. But when years and years
had gone by, and I saw that what I wanted was not coming, I determined
to keep him as a friend. I knew that something had happened, something
against his will. So I realized that it was wrong to blame him, and
that I must keep what I could have, on the best terms possible. It was
really Eugene that made me come to this understanding of myself."
"I see."
"Of course Gene knew from the beginning that it was a case of the moth
and the star,--don't smile! I mean simply on account of our respective
ages, of course. But to make sure that he should not misunderstand,
I--told him something about Mr. Clyde."
"That was fine and generous of you," I cried warmly, ashamed of my
momentary reproach.
She flushed with sensitive appreciation of my change of attitude. "I
even told him that if he could ever render a service to Mr. Clyde, it
would be the same as if he did it for me. I thought it would be a good
thing to awaken his chivalry in that way."
"But you had no reason at that time to suppose that Mr. Clyde was in
danger?"
"No specific reason," she said, with some hesitation. "But I felt that
something overshadowed him. A woman knows things without reason,
sometimes."
"And you told Eugene?"
"Yes. Partly I wanted to let him feel there was something he could do
for me,--you understand. And partly, too, I wanted to enlist his
interest for Mr. Clyde, if an opportunity should ever come up where he
needed help that Eugene could give. You never can tell."
"You can't ordinarily," I admitted. "But at present poor Gene has put
himself out of the way of doing a service for anyone. His hands will
be tied for a long time."
"But--you do think there is a possibility of getting him off, don't
you? He is so young!" Miss Thurston rose as she spoke, and in spite of
her kindly tone in regard to Gene, I could see that the important part
of the interview was over when Clyde passed out of our conversation.
"Of course I should not admit anything else," I answered, and she
departed, leaving me impressed anew with the important part which
women play in the affairs of men. Truly, sentiments may be stronger
than ropes, and emotions more devastating than floods. And the woman
who is all tenderness and quivering watchfulness for one man will be
as indifferent as Nature to the sufferings of another. I was sorry for
Gene. Prison was not the worst of his trials.
It was not a particularly pleasant mission on which Miss Thurston had
sent me. I went to the jail for an interview with Gene with very
uncomfortable anticipations. It isn't pleasant to hit a man whose
hands are tied,--and that my communication would be in the nature of a
blow to him I could not doubt.
He looked nervous and harassed, and the innate courtesy which
characterized him was, I felt, the only thing that kept him from
resenting my visit.
"I hope you haven't come to talk about that wretched Barker," he said
at once, trying to smile, but betraying the effort in the attempt.
"Not unless you wish to."
He shook his head. "No. I told you all about it once. I don't want to
think about it any more. It makes me--ill."
"Very well. We'll gossip about our friends instead. Have you heard
about Clyde?"
He half turned aside, but answered with apparent indifference. "Yes,
they let me see the papers."
"He has disappeared, it seems. There has been no trace of him, yet."
There was a hint of youthful scorn in his voice as he answered. "Well,
if he likes to live that way. I think on the whole I should prefer to
give myself up and have it over with."
"Clyde insists that he is innocent. That would of course make a
difference in the feeling about giving oneself up. His conscience is
not involved in the question. Besides," I added, seeing my chance to
discharge Miss Thurston's commission, "he has to think not alone of
himself. Miss Thurston's happiness is bound up in his safety."
The boy did not speak. I could feel, however, that he was holding
every nerve tense. I knew what he wanted to know, and I went on, with
as casual an air as I could muster.
"It seems that they have been in love with each other for years, but
of course with the knowledge that this possibility of exposure was
hanging over him, he could not speak. Now that it is out, and the
worst is known, they have come to an understanding. It was inevitable,
under the circumstances."
"Do you mean she will marry him?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Probably, in time. For the present, of course his whereabouts are
unknown. But I should think that probably, in the end, she will go to
him. At her age," I added deliberately, "a woman has a right to choose
her fate. She will not go to it in ignorance."
He laughed, but without mirth. "As you say, she is old enough to know
her own mind," he said, somewhat brutally. Then he added, bitterly,
"It seems I did not shoot Barker quite soon enough."
"Why _did_ you shoot him?" I asked.
His eyes fell. "Because he killed my father." Then he turned his
shoulder to me with an impatient gesture. "I told you I would not talk
about that any more." And he wouldn't. For all his good manners, my
client had a vein of obstinacy that was almost as useful, in case of
need, as plain rudeness would have been.
When I left Gene, I fell in with some friends who insisted upon having
me give an account of myself over a dinner at the club, so it was
something after nine when I reached my rooms. I lived at that time, as
I think I may have mentioned, in an apartment hotel. My own suite was
on the third floor. As I stepped out of the elevator, I saw three men
lounging in the neighborhood of my door. They saw me, and set up a
shout of "Here he is," which brought in two more who had apparently
been taking the air on the fire-escape.
"To what am I indebted,--?" I began. They grinned cheerfully and
simultaneously.
"Oh, we just wanted to find out if you couldn't give us a story about
Clyde," the foremost explained,--and I recognized the clan. They were
reporters on the trail of Breakfast Food for the Great American
Public.
"Come in, and tell me what you want to find out," I said resignedly.
"If you can extract any information from my subconscious self, I hope
you will share it with me."
"You'll read it in the papers to-morrow," said the cheerful tall one.
"Have you any idea where Clyde is?"
"Why, yes," I answered thoughtfully,--and they all leaned forward like
dogs on a leash. "Of course it is only a guess,--"
"Yes, yes, we understand," they chorused eagerly.
"Well, gentlemen, I figure it out this way. Mr. Clyde did not possess
an aeroplane, and it is extremely doubtful that he was able to borrow
one before he left. The most rapid means of transportation available
to him would therefore be the automobile or the chou chou cars. He has
been gone about twenty-four hours. Multiply twenty-four hours by forty
miles and you get the radius of a circle of which Saintsbury is the
center--"
They interrupted my demonstration with shouts and jeers.
"You trifle with the power of the press," said the tall one. "Wait
till to-morrow morning and you will see what happens to your remarks.
The public will have reason to understand that we have reason to
understand that Mr. Hilton has reason to understand that Mr. Clyde is
not a thousand miles distant from Saintsbury at this time!"
While I had been speaking, my eye had fallen upon the stub of a cigar
on the mantel. Now, I had not been in my room since morning,--and I do
not smoke before luncheon. While I talked nonsense to the men, my mind
was engaged with that cigar stub. I had no reason to suppose that the
chambermaids on that floor smoked, and nobody else was supposed to
have access to my rooms. I sauntered across the room and picked up
the stub and tossed it in the grate. It was fresh and moist. My eye
went about the room. Half a dozen books from my shelves were lying
about,--and it was absurd to suppose that the chambermaids had been
indulging in my favorite brands of literature.
"Let me offer you a cigar, gentlemen," I said, and went to the
adjoining bedroom, closing the door behind me. My cigars were not in
the bedroom, but the excuse served.
There, with his feet on my best embroidered cushions, with my choicest
edition de luxe on his knees and a grin on his face, sat Clyde.