Wheeling round to stare where he stared, I saw the most deadly reputable
of my dear late cousin's servants ushering into the room the person
apostrophized. Behind that person followed one I had never seen before.
Behind both lurked Larry Moore, for once in his life ill at ease; and
by his side, urging him in, was Mrs. Shuster.
"How do you do?" I exclaimed, trying to look as if I had never seen
Jack's knee, and feeling as if my _toes_ were blushing.
What Jack did I don't know; but I suspect he put on a nonchalant air of
"Well, we _are_ married, anyhow!"
"I'm sorry to interrupt a conversation evidently not meant for _my_
ear," began Caspian. (Trust him always to do and say the wrong thing!)
"But I understand Mrs. Winston called at Kidd's Pines and took Miss
Moore away at a moment when both I and her father wanted her
particularly. That being the case, I thought I had better come here and
let her kind host and hostess learn the news at the same time."
"Meaning us?" I inquired, feeling dangerous.
"Meaning you and Captain Winston. The news will interest you both. It is
about two dear friends of yours, Marcel Moncourt and--his son."
"We've never had the pleasure of meeting Marcel Moncourt Junior," said
Jack.
"Oh, yes, you have, begging your pardon," said Ed. "Only you know him by
another name. By the way, may I ask, before I go further, where is
Patricia?"
"Pat's in my boudoir," I informed him airily. "She's engaged just now,
talking to Mr. Storm. He----"
"Is the person I referred to a moment ago," Caspian sliced my sentence
in two. "Marcel Moncourt Junior has good reason for taking an alias. It
was known to everybody who knew him and his father that he was a
wastrel, if not worse. Marcel Senior was a fool about him--brought him
up like a prince, and suffered the consequences. The boy spent money
like water, and was hauled out of one scrape only to fall into another.
Then came the time of my cousin old Justin Stanislaws' death. It
happened under strange circumstances; there was suggestion of foul play.
Young Marcel was in the house at the time--had arrived secretly. I know
that certain jewels disappeared mysteriously--couldn't be found
afterward--jewels that Stanislaws always kept near him because of
certain associations. Not only did they disappear, but young Marcel
disappeared, too--whether with or without them was never proved.
Stanislaws' son was alive then and protected the fellow: they'd been
friends as boys. No inquiry was made till _I_ became the heir. Then it
was too late. Marcel Junior had gone abroad and couldn't be located. It
was then it came to my knowledge that suspicion pointed to young Marcel
not only as a thief but as a murderer----"
"Oh, come, sir, that's going a bit too far!" ventured the mean-looking
little man who had come in with Caspian, and who had been growing more
and more restless as Ed piled up his accusations.
"Why, too far, when you told me yourself that one of his handkerchiefs
was found in my cousin's room the morning after the murder?"
"Well, you see, sir, there was never anything more than gossip to say it
_was_ a murder," persisted the little man. Turning anxiously to Jack, he
hurried to explain himself. "I was valet to the old gentleman at the
time of his death," he announced. "I'm an Englishman, as I think you
are, sir. My name's Thomas Dawson. I've been living in Chicago and
other cities of the Middle West since young Mr. Stanislaws (who was
drowned later) paid me off and let me go. This gentleman, the heir to
the estates, has had me looked up by a detective agency. I came to New
York willing enough; but I didn't come to accuse no one of murder,
whether I have any cause to remember them kindly or _not_!"
"You're not asked to accuse any one, you're asked to identify a man you
know," snapped Caspian. He, too, turned to Jack. "It's very annoying as
things have turned out, that Moncourt Senior didn't stop on at Kidd's
Pines after the fire instead of going to New York. He ought to be here
now, so we could confront him with----"
"Really, Caspian, I think 'confront' isn't the word to use in such a
tone and in connection with our Marcel," Jack admonished him.
"What, not the word when he has passed off his wretched son upon us as a
stranger, and let the fellow take a confidential situation with a rich
woman like Mrs. Shuster? She might have suffered the same fate as my
poor cousin. There's no excuse for such conduct. It's not weakness but
wickedness. The whole mystery of Marcel's taking up the job at Kidd's
Pines is explained by this impudent trick----"
"Hardly explained," objected Jack. "You haven't proved your point yet."
"What point haven't I proved?"
"That Mr. Storm is really Marcel Moncourt Junior."
"We came here to prove it, before every one concerned," blustered Ed.
"All I ask is to have him brought in."
"He'll bring himself very willingly!" I couldn't resist sticking in my
oar. "And Pat with him."
"I'll fetch my fiancee myself, if you please, Mrs. Winston," said
Caspian, at his most caddish.
I didn't intend to let him do that, but I was saved the trouble of a
dispute by the door opening and Pat and Peter walking in, as if they had
been hypnotically summoned. They hadn't heard the visitors' arrival, but
had evidently expected to find Jack and me alone. I saw by a glance at
Pat's face that the interview had made some call upon her emotions; but
I didn't think she looked wild enough to have heard the whole secret.
Besides, they'd hardly been away long enough for all that--and the other
things Jack and I had so vividly imagined. They both paused for a second
at the door, and Pat had the air of wishing she were somewhere else. She
braced herself up, however, for a scene, and marched in with her head
up--Peter Storm by her side. I saw Peter's eyes pick out the little man
Thomas Dawson, whom Caspian pushed slightly forward. Peter was
surprised, no doubt of that, but he seemed also amused, as if his quick
mind had grasped the situation. His look travelled to Jack's face and
mine. He smiled at us. Then, "Hello, Dawson!" said he.
"Good lord, sir!" gasped Dawson, turning green, and losing power over
his knees. He grabbed at Caspian for support, was haughtily pushed away,
and tumbled into a chair, like a jelly out of its mould. As it chanced,
the chair was a rocking-chair, and the conjunction was undignified.
"What's the matter?" Ed questioned sharply. "Why don't you speak up? Is
this man's name Marcel Moncourt?"
"No, sir, it's Stanislaws. He's--he's the young master--or else he's a
ghost."
* * * * *
There, my dear, the Secret's out! Perhaps, if you've been able to keep
track of Caspian's antecedents as described in my letters, you've
guessed it already. But in case you haven't attached much importance to
that part of the affair, I'll just remind you that Ed Caspian was lifted
out of the ranks of his fellow socialists and capital haters, by
becoming a capitalist himself, on the death of two distant cousins,
Stanislaws' father and Stanislaws' son, tremendous millionaires. The old
man died some time before the young one, who disappeared with the
_Lusitania_ and was reported drowned. You can imagine the effect on Ed
when, instead of crushing the enemy, he found himself crushed. He turned
tallow-white, glaring at Dawson, staring at Storm, and stammered out: "I
don't believe you! It's a lie!"
"No, Caspian, it's not a lie," said Peter Storm, whom Jack and I have
known since Wenham as Pietro Stanislaws. He spoke almost gently. "I
meant to stay dead--not for your sake, but for my own. The only fun I'd
ever got out of life was from knocking round the world with just enough
money to put bread in my mouth and clothes on my back. My father never
saw you, and never wanted to see you. He had reason to dislike
socialists. I never saw you, and wanted to still less. I thought you
would be a bore. But I respected what I heard of you. People told me you
were sincere. They said your aim in life was to benefit your fellowman.
You were a hard worker. You seemed to have every virtue. I thought you'd
do more good with my father's money than I ever should, if I shouldered
the responsibility. I was always a socialist at heart--but I was
selfish. I'd hated the conventional life my father wanted me to live,
and I'd kicked against the pricks. I came back to consciousness after
that adventure on the _Lusitania_, and found that no one knew who I was.
I'd babbled Russian when I was delirious! The next thing I learned, was
that Pietro Stanislaws was drowned. I couldn't resist the big temptation
to let him sleep under the sea. I'd happened to know something about a
chap named Peter Sturm or Storm in the third class of the _Lusitania_.
He hadn't turned up afterward, so I thought--as I'd done him a small
kindness--he wouldn't grudge me his name. I felt at home with the name
of Peter. So that's how it came about. And no matter what my own
feelings might have been--no matter how much I might for any reason have
wanted to change my mind--I wouldn't have gone back on my resolution if
it hadn't been for your own conduct."
"I don't know what you mean!" Caspian choked. "I don't believe----"
"I think you do believe," Peter caught him up (I can't remember his
precise words of course; but I give you the sense of them). "And if
you'll reflect you must pretty well understand my meaning. What kind of
a steward have you been of the great enterests intrusted to you? Have
you done one person except yourself any good? No! The moment your
circumstances changed, your nature changed to fit them; or, rather, you
let your real nature have its way when you'd nothing more to gain by
posing. You've not only thrown away my father's money--_my_ money--on
every sort of extravagance: you've been actually vicious. My lawyer
James Strickland was the only person on earth, except Marcel Moncourt
Senior, who knew that I hadn't gone down with the _Lusitania_. Marcel
didn't know till I came back to New York, recalled by Strickland's
accounts of your behaviour. Then I got Strickland to break the news to
Marcel--for a purpose. I wanted a favour from him. I wanted him to help
Laurence Moore. But even then you would have been safe from me, Caspian,
if you'd shown yourself any sort of a man. I began a letter about you to
Strickland on the ship coming home. It blew away, and so did some of my
plans concerning you. It was Fate! But this isn't revenge for your petty
persecutions of Storm! I hope I'm not little enough to take vengeance. I
saw you weren't fit for the place I had given you. Seeing that, I
decided that Pietro Stanislaws had a right to come back from the grave.
But don't imagine that I intend to throw you out on the world with empty
pockets. That would be unfair, after the way I've let you live. I was
the owner of the Stanislaws house, as it's called. Strickland arranged
the business for me; and at my wish he offered it to you, Caspian. You
bought: now you can sell to me again at a profit; and you'll owe me no
thanks for any favour, which is my reason for wanting such a deal. Talk
to my lawyer. He'll be expecting you to call."
"You'll have to prove that you're Pietro Stanislaws!" Caspian still
weakly protested. "The story doesn't ring true to me. You may be taking
advantage of some resemblance. You may be another Tichborne claimant.
Why, now I think of it, I always heard there was a likeness between
young Moncourt and young Stanislaws--that Moncourt did all he could to
cultivate it!"
"Well, of that you can judge to-day," said Peter, keeping his temper.
"Thanks to Miss Moore, Marcel Senior and I learned where Marcel Junior
was hanging out. Marcel Senior has thought for a while that he had some
cause to be grateful to me: that's why he stepped into the breach at my
request, at Kidd's Pines. And I wanted him to do it--for one
reason--because when I was a boy of thirteen or fourteen Mrs. Moore was
very good to me. I was at a school on Long Island. I ran away, as I
generally did: stole a ride on a freight train--fell off, got hurt, was
seen by Mrs. Moore as she was driving with her little daughter, and
instead of letting me be taken to hospital she brought me home to her
house. I'm not sure if her husband approved. All the same he allowed me
to stay and get well. It wasn't till I was able to get about that I told
them who I was. But all that's an aside! It explains why I wanted to do
a decent turn to Kidd's Pines if I could. Miss Moore mentioned to me
when we were spending a few days at the Stanislaws house some weeks ago
that a young man named Marcel de Moncourt was visiting friends of hers
in France, and claiming to be their cousin. Well, that was a true claim,
as Marcel Senior informed me. He himself came to America when he was
young, to make his fortune, and dropped the "de" out of his name. He
says he'd been rather a black sheep, and didn't deserve to be identified
with his family. We had a powwow, he and I, about young Marcel. There
was, and is, _nothing against_ him in the matter of my father's death. I
won't go into that question at the moment, but I can show good cause
for protecting him then, and protecting him now. When we communicated
with Marcel in France, where he'd arrived from the Argentine he decided
to sail at once for this side, with his cousins the Marquise de Moncourt
and her daughter Adrienne, to whom he is engaged. I've just been telling
Miss Moore that her best friends--present company excepted"--(Peter
smiled at Jack and me) "that her best friends arrived this morning, from
Bordeaux to New York, where Marcel Senior met them and his son at the
dock. He meant to escort them to Kidd's Pines; and they may arrive there
at any minute. When the Marquise and her daughter find that Mr. and Miss
Moore are here, perhaps they'll let Marcel bring them on."
I glanced at Larry. (From hints Pat had innocently let drop, I was sure
the Marquise had been in love with Larry for years: that she'd kept Pat
under her thumb in France, hoping to keep Larry, too. It occurred to me
that things said by the girl in letters to Adrienne--things about Mrs.
Shuster, or Idonia, or both--had probably brought the Marquise flying to
the rescue. Or else, that unspeakable maid of Pat's--Angele--was engaged
by the Marquise to let her know what was "doing" at Kidd's Pines.)
Larry's face was a study! Not a study of "detected guilt." Nothing like
that. He looked sheepish, yet _relieved_. I read in his beautiful eyes
of a boy, "Hurray! I _bet_ she'll somehow rescue me from Shuster yet!"
I should have bet the same, if there'd been any one to bet with, but
there wasn't--unless Mrs. Shuster herself. And she didn't yet realize
what the advent of the Frenchwoman might mean for her future. She was
beginning to recover from the shock of Caspian's fall, and to preen
herself because she was about to meet a real, live Marquise.
She had only a few minutes to wait, for Peter's prophecy came true. The
great Marcel did bring the Marquise and Adrienne on, by their urgent
request, to Awepesha. Pat, it seems, had written so much about Jack and
me, they almost felt as if they knew us! And young Marcel, already
assured that he'd nothing to fear in America, was with his father and
the ladies. (I'll tell you presently the story of old Justin Stanislaws'
death and young Marcel's connection with it: but I'd never heard it
properly myself when the Moncourt party arrived. You see Marcel didn't
come much into Peter Storm's "Secret," as he'd confessed it to me.)
There was hardly time to wonder what the Marquise and young Marcel would
be like (and Adrienne) when the visitors were announced by our
bewildered butler. If you have felt any sympathy for Larry you'll be
glad to hear that the Marquise is a Charmer from Charmerville. How Larry
ever resisted her all these years I can't think, unless he valued his
freedom beyond the lure of woman, and refrained from going to France for
fear of striking his colours. She's the Frenchiest creature you ever
saw: you know, the fascinating kind with magnolia-white skin,
languishing eyes, black hair worn over the ears, red lips, and any age
you like between twenty-eight and forty-five. Adrienne, compared to her
mother, is a mere _lump_. But she has fine eyes and a bright smile, and
Pat loves her, so she must be nice.
As for Marcel Junior, he really does look a little like Peter; a sort of
a Christmas-card resemblance to a strong type. He's really engaged to
Adrienne, it appears, and is an entirely reformed character; but I
expect that the menage will be mostly enriched by Marcel Pere--and
Peter.
I hope you are dying to know how Pat took Peter Storm's transformation
into Pietro Stanislaws. But I'm going to save that bit for the last. I
must explain to you some of the things Peter explained to me at Aunt
Mary's, and other things I've learned since, else you won't be able to
understand him as we do.
That running-away-from-school affair was characteristic, but not as
anarchic as it sounds. His father, Justin Stanislaws, was Polish in
ancestry but American by birth. He got to know Marcel Moncourt Senior
soon after Marcel's bolt from France to New York. They both married
Italian girls, who were beautiful and intimate friends. The father of
Stanislaws' love was rich, and lived in terror of the "Black Hand."
Stanislaws won her by saving the life of his father-in-law elect; and
that was the starting-point of his great fortune. Once he had the
nucleus, his genius for making money began to pile dollars up by the
million. Marcel hadn't "found" himself yet. Stanislaws lost sight of him
for years; but after Pietro's mother died, Marcel appeared again, also a
widower, with one little boy. He was as poor as Stanislaws was rich. Yet
he felt in himself the quality to supply the millionaire with something
money had failed to give: social success. He explained his ideas;
Stanislaws had the sense to see that they were good. Marcel "took him
on," so to speak, organized his establishment, arranged magnificent and
original entertainments; got him known and sought for by the right
"set," and so, each man "made" the other.
Marcel started out on his new career with a thumping salary; Stanislaws
advised investments and speculations. Marcel began to grow rich as well
as famous, and might have been happy but for his son. Marcel Junior was
a "caution!" From his early boyhood he was always falling into trouble,
and having to be helped out by his adoring father or the indulgent
Stanislaws, who seemed for a while to care more for young Marcel
Moncourt than for his own high-spirited and independent Pietro. But at
last he grew tired of the constant calls upon his generosity, and
relations became strained.
By this time both the boys were grown up. Pietro's greatest joy was
wandering over the world like a gypsy or a tramp, or anything but a
"tourist." When his father's health failed he was summoned back from a
glorious adventure in Russia, and expected to "settle down." He couldn't
bear to disappoint the old man, and did his best to live up to
expectations; but he was like a young lion caught in the Libyan Desert
and shut in a gilded cage. The people his father wanted him to entertain
bored him to tears. He saw that they valued Justin and Pietro Stanislaws
for what could be got out of them: invitations, dinners, financial
"tips," tours _en automobile_; and there was no reward for which Peter
cared. "Our houses were practically hotels," he said to me, "and our
hearts were utilized as snake hospitals. I might as well have been a
chauffeur for all the choice of guests or destination I had when I drove
my father's friends in our cars. I never did anything I wanted to do,
and I never got any gratitude for doing what they wanted me to do. I
might as well have been a goldfish, swimming round and round in the
same globe, month after month, year after year. It wasn't my job! Nature
hadn't made me for a fat, tame life. But young Marcel wasn't as much use
as an understudy for a dutiful son as I'd once hoped. So I made up my
mind to stick it while father lived and wanted me."
I don't know just how long Peter was in the "treadmill"--as he called
it: two years, perhaps, then came Justin Stanislaws' sudden death. The
old man was found by his valet one morning, lying dead on the marble
floor of his gorgeous bedroom, with a wound at the back of his head, and
a handkerchief marked "M.M." clutched in his hand. The wall safe where
he kept his most precious treasures--photographs of his dead wife, her
letters, and the favourite jewels which she had left for "Pietro's
bride"--was open, the key was still in the lock, and the steel box
containing the jewels had disappeared. Young Marcel Moncourt had also
disappeared; and this was serious, because he had come to visit his
father and had vainly begged for the loan of five thousand dollars from
Justin Stanislaws.
You will wonder when you read this why Peter didn't set the police on
Marcel's track, instead of doing all he could not only to protect him
but to upset the theory of murder. But you see, in spite of the
circumstantial evidence, Peter didn't believe that his father had been
killed by Marcel or any one. The doctors said that the wound at the back
of the head could quite well be the result of the fall; and that death
might have been caused by heart failure. As for the handkerchief, Marcel
Senior assured Peter that he and young Marcel used the same monogram:
also that more than once his handkerchiefs and Justin Stanislaws' had
been mixed together by the laundress, as they were of exactly the same
size and quality, differing only in initials. He pleaded that the
handkerchief was no clue, and no proof of a crime. He argued that the
old man was a poor sleeper, and often unlocked the safe in the night, to
look over the beloved letters and photographs. For that purpose he kept
his bunch of keys under his pillow; and as for the absence of the
jewels, that proved nothing because he--Marcel Senior--had himself
warned Stanislaws that it was imprudent to have them there. Several
other hiding-places, more secure and more secret, existed in the house;
and some day, it was his opinion, the steel box might eventually be
found in one of them, placed there by Stanislaws.
Peter listened, and pitied, and his own heart spoke for both Marcels. He
decided to give his old playmate the benefit of the doubt, and you know
already from what I've told you about Peter that, when he makes up his
mind to do a thing, he does it thoroughly. The story that Justin
Stanislaws had been murdered was denied, and scorn was poured upon it by
the family. It survived only among sensation mongers and gossip
lovers--like Caspian--who always believe the worst of every one and
everything. Marcel Senior was grateful beyond words, but he was
conscientious, too. Months passed with no word from his son (this was no
new experience!), then a letter came from the Argentine.
"I'm doing well here," wrote Marcel Junior. "You won't have to worry
about me in future. I know I've been a fool; but for once and for all
I've had my lesson." And he went on to tell what the lesson was. "I was
half crazy when you and old Stanislaws refused to let me have five
thousand dollars," he said. "The scrape I'd got into was worse than I'd
told you. I was at my wits' ends for money, and I dreamed about the safe
in Stanislaws' wall. I knew what he kept there. He often showed Pietro
and me the jewels. I dreamed that I went into his room, took the keys
from under the pillow, and opened the safe. Then a noise woke me up. The
dream was true. I waked standing at the open safe with the steel box in
my hand. The noise that brought me to myself was Stanislaws falling on
the marble floor. You know I've been a sleep walker all my life. But I
realized in a second how hard it would be to prove myself innocent,
whether Stanislaws lived or died. I thought my one chance was to be off
before morning. I swear I didn't mean to steal the jewels. But the first
thing I knew, I was out in the hall with the box in my hand, and I dared
not go back!"
Marcel Junior went on to say that to his surprise the jewel-case wasn't
locked. Because he had no money to get away with, he took out a diamond
ring. The box, with the rest of its contents intact, he buried in the
garden. In the hiding-place described it was found by Marcel Senior who
carried it, with the letter, to Pietro.