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THE LION'S MOUSE
by
C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
Frontispiece By Harry Stacey Benton
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1919
Copyright, 1919, by
C. N. & A. M. Williamson
All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation into Foreign
Languages, Including the Scandinavian
[Illustration: _Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a
young and beautiful woman hovering at the door._
_'Oh, do help me!' she said._]
CONTENTS
I. THE LION
II. THE NET
III. THE MOUSE
IV. THE MURMUR OF THE STORM
V. ON THE WAY TO THE CAR
VI. THE PARCEL WITH THE GOLD SEALS
VII. THE QUEEN'S PEARLS
VIII. BEVERLEY TALKS
IX. THE BLUFF THAT FAILED
X. THE BLUFF THAT WON
XI. O'REILLY'S WAISTCOAT POCKET
XII. THE HORIZONTAL PANEL
XIII. "THERE CAN BE NO BARGAIN"
XIV. THE STONE COPING
XV. THE NUMBER SEVENTEEN
XVI. A QUOTATION FROM SHAKESPEARE
XVII. THE MYSTERY OF THE BOUDOIR
XVIII. DEFEAT
XIX. THE BROWN TRUNK
XX. MURDER
XXI. "KIT!"
XXII. THE VOICE THAT DID NOT SEEM STRANGE
XXIII. "WHAT'S DONE CAN'T BE UNDONE"
XXIV. ROGER'S APPOINTMENT AT THE CLUB
XXV. KRANTZ'S KELLER
XXVI. THE GIRL IN PINK
XXVII. WHEN BEVERLEY CAME HOME
XXVIII. MR. JONES OF PEORIA
XXIX. ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS
XXX. WHAT CLO DID WITH A KNIFE
XXXI. THE NINE DAYS
XXXII. "STEPHEN'S DEAD!"
XXXIII. THE PATCH ON THE PILLOW
XXXIV. TRAPPED
XXXV. THE TIME LIMIT OF HOPE
XXXVI. "WE DO THINGS QUICKLY OVER HERE"
XXXVII. THE TELEGRAM
XXXVIII. WHO IS STEPHEN?
XXXIX. ON THE ROAD TO NEWPORT
THE LION'S MOUSE
I
THE LION
Roger Sands had steel-gray eyes, a straight black line of brows drawn
low and nearly meeting above them, thick black hair lightly powdered
with silver at the temples, and a clean-shaven, aggressive chin. He had
the air of being hard as nails. Most people, including women, thought
him hard as nails. He thought it of himself, and gloried in his armour,
never more than on a certain September day, when resting in the Santa Fé
Limited, tearing back to New York after a giant's tussle in California.
But--it was hot weather, and he had left the stateroom door open.
Everything that followed came--from this.
Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a woman hovering,
rather than standing, at the door. At his look she started away, then
stopped.
"Oh, do help me!" she said.
She was young and very beautiful. He couldn't stare quite as coldly as
he ought.
"What can I do for you?" was the question he asked.
He had hardly opened his mouth before she flashed into the stateroom and
shut the door.
"There's a man.... I'm afraid!"
Though she was young and girlish, and spoke impulsively, there was
something oddly regal about her. Princesses and girl-queens ought to be
of her type; tall and very slim, with gracious, sloping shoulders and a
long throat, the chin slightly lifted: pale, with great appealing violet
eyes under haughty brows, and quantities of yellow-brown hair dressed in
some sort of Madonna style.
"You needn't be afraid," he said. "Men aren't allowed to insult ladies
in trains."
"This man hasn't insulted me in an ordinary way. But I'm in dreadful
danger. American men are good to women, even strangers. You can save my
life, if you will--or more than my life. But there's only one way." Her
words came fast, on panting breaths, as though she had been running. The
girl had stood at first, her hand on the door-knob, but losing her
balance with a jerk of the train, she let herself fall into the seat.
There she sat with her head thrown wearily back, her eyes appealing to
the eyes that looked down at her.
A queer fancy ran through the man's brain. He imagined that a woman
being tried for her life might look at the judge with just that
expression. "What do you mean?" asked Sands.
He had resisted the jerk of the train, and was still on his feet.
Instead of answering his question, the girl begged him to sit down.
"I can't think properly while it seems as if you were waiting to turn me
out," she said.
Sands sat down.
"I hardly know how to tell you what I mean. I hardly dare," the voice
went on, while he wondered. "It's a tremendous thing to ask. I can't
explain ... and if I hesitate it will be too late. I don't know your
name, or your character, except what I judge from your face. The way to
save me is to keep me in this stateroom with the door shut, as far as
Chicago."
"Good heavens! That's...." Sands was going to end his sentence with
"absolutely impossible!" But he stopped in the midst. Her eyes made him
stop. It was as if he were pronouncing a death sentence. He was silent
for a few seconds.
"I'd have to say ... no, I could not say you were my wife, because
everyone knows I've not got a wife. I'll say you are my cousin: say
you've come late. I want you to have this stateroom, and I'll take
another ... or a section. I--I could do that."
"Will you?" she breathed.
"Yes. I will."
He said this almost sullenly. He was thinking: "Pretty smart new dodge!
Neat way to get a stateroom all the way from Albuquerque to Chicago."
"I'll go out now and fix things up with the conductor," he promised. "We
must settle on a story. You came on board at Albuquerque just now?"
"Yes. The last minute before the train started. I have a berth in this
car. I thought I was safe, that everything was right for me. Then I saw
the man ... not the one I expected; worse. He wasn't in this car, but
the next. I saw him standing there. He was looking at some ladies
passing through. One had on deep mourning, and a crepe veil. Perhaps he
believed it was I. I turned and rushed this way. Your door was open, and
you ... you looked like a real man. That's all."
"What about your baggage?"
"I have nothing. I ... was in a hurry."
"In what name did you make your reservation?"
"Miss Beverley White. White isn't my real name: Beverley is ... one of
my names. I can't tell you more."
"All right. The porter will get some toilet things for my cousin whom
I'm to chaperon from Albuquerque to Chicago, and who nearly missed the
train owing to illness. He'll bring your meals in, as you're not able to
leave your stateroom."
"That's what I'd have asked," she said. "I may trust the porter?"
"The porter knows me. Your idea is," he went on, his hand on the door,
"that the man you don't want to see will try pretty hard to see you?"
"Yes. When he searches the train and can't find me (I'm sure he's begun
the search already) he can't be certain I'm on board, but he won't give
up easily. If the deepest gratitude----"
"I don't need consolation. Any other instructions to give before I leave
you?"
"No. Yes ... there's one thing. Will you take charge of a very small
parcel? I daren't keep it myself, in case anything unexpected should
happen.
"It is inside my dress," the girl explained. For an instant she turned
her back, then, rebuttoning her blouse with one hand, held out to him in
the other a long, thick envelope, unaddressed, and sealed with three
gold-coloured seals. Roger took the parcel.
"You see how I trust you," she said. "This packet is the most valuable
thing I have in the world, yet I feel it is safe."
"You told me you didn't know my name. But if I'm your cousin you'd
better know it. I'm Roger Sands----"
"Roger Sands, the great--what is the word?--corporation lawyer? The man
who saved the California Oil Trust king?" She looked surprised, almost
frightened.
"It isn't a 'Trust,' or I couldn't have saved him. That was just the
point."
"How lucky I am to have such a man stand by me! For you will?"
He slipped the long envelope into an inside breast pocket of his gray
tweed coat. "It's as safe there as in a bank," he assured her. "Now I'll
go and make everything straight. If you want me, you've only to ring for
the porter and send me word. I won't come till you do send."
Whether or no her terror was justified, Roger resolved to give it the
benefit of the doubt. Instead of trying to secure another stateroom, he
would try to get a section close to Stateroom A, in order to play
watch-dog.
It wasn't difficult to do. The section he wanted was engaged from the
next stopping place, but an exchange could be made. The Pullman car
conductor took it upon himself to attend to that. Sands' suitcase, coat,
and magazines were arranged on both seats, and he sat down to keep
guard. The porter had been told that Miss White wasn't to be disturbed
unless she rang, except at meal times, when he--Sands--would choose
dishes from the menu and send a waiter from the dining-car.
A few toilet things were somehow procured by the negro, and handed into
Stateroom A, with a contribution of novels, magazines, and a box of
chocolates, from Miss White's cousin.
Night, Roger realized, would be the dangerous time, if danger there was,
and he decided not to sleep. Lying awake wasn't, after all, very
difficult, for the portrait of the girl was painted on Roger's mind. He
saw things in that portrait he'd seen but subconsciously in the
original. He thought that her beauty was of the type which would shine
like the moon, set off with wonderful clothes and jewels. And from that
thought it was only a step to picture the joy of giving such clothes and
jewels. The man was surprised and ashamed to find himself thrilling like
a boy.
Daylight released him from duty. He dressed, and had his section made
up. Though all peril--if any--had vanished with the night, Roger
couldn't bring himself to leave his post for breakfast until he saw the
porter tap at the door of Stateroom A in answer to a ring.
"I hope Miss White's feeling better," he said to the negro, when the
door shut once more.
"Yes, sah, she wants her room fixed up. Ah'm gwan do it raight now, but
Ah'm bound to give yuh the lady's message fust. She thought you'd like
to heah she's mighty well, considerin'. An' she'll thank yuh, suh, to
order her some coffee an' toast."
Roger added cantaloupe to the order, and a cereal with cream. The
mysterious girl hidden in his stateroom was no longer an adventuress,
sponging on his idiotic generosity: she was an exquisite, almost a
sacred, charge. As he ate his breakfast in the dining-car he saw a man
he knew sitting directly opposite him at the next table. Their eyes
encountered. Roger felt that the other had been staring at him and
hadn't had time to look away. He bowed, and paused at the table which he
was obliged to pass on his way out.
"How do you do, O'Reilly?" he said, with a slight stiffness. He would
have preferred to walk past with no more than the nod, but in that case
the man would believe his late absent-mindedness had been deliberate.
Roger didn't wish to leave this impression. Justin O'Reilly was nearly
ten years younger than he, but had got the better of him once, and not
long ago. Sands was too proud to let it seem as if the memory rankled.
O'Reilly rose and shook the offered hand. He was tall and lean, and
brown-faced as a soldier back from the war. He had a boyish air, younger
than his thirty-one or thirty-two years: but under that look was the
same sort of hardness and keenness which was the first thing a stranger
noticed about Sands.
"I'd no idea you were out west."
"It's been a flying trip," O'Reilly answered.
"Queer I missed seeing you before. Suppose you've been on board since
Los Angeles?"
"I caught sight of you last night for the first time," said the other.
"I'm not in your car, and I've been resting up. I came on board tired.
One usually does come on board tired!"
"Yes," said Roger. "Well, we shall knock up against each other now and
then, here in the diner."
"Sure to. I shall be spending a few days in New York before Washington,"
O'Reilly volunteered.
"Right! But don't let your coffee get cold for me." Roger passed on.
If his thoughts had not been focussed on the occupant of Stateroom A he
would have wondered a good deal as to what had taken Justin O'Reilly on
a "flying trip" west. This was O'Reilly's first year in Congress, and
he'd manoeuvred to make himself a conspicuous figure in Washington one
way or other. His own present interests could not, Roger thought, be
interfered with by Justin O'Reilly. The man was a Democrat, and opposed
on principle to the cause of John Heron, whom Miss White had called the
"California Oil Trust King": but personally the two were friends, even
distantly related, and O'Reilly would wish to do Heron no secret injury.
When he got back to his own car Sands found the porter waiting.
"Lady's through breakfus, suh, and would like to see yuh w'en
convenient," was the message: and two seconds later Stateroom A's
rightful owner was humbly knocking at the door.
The girl's beauty struck the man anew as she smiled him a welcome. She
was as well groomed as if she had had a lady's maid.
"Has anything happened? Have you had any trouble on my account?" she
inquired.
When Roger said no, nothing had happened, she drew a breath of relief.
"No one in any way noticeable has tried to get acquainted with you?"
"The conductor and porter and a waiter or two are the only persons I've
exchanged a word with--except a fellow I know slightly, named O'Reilly,
a Congressman from California. I suppose he doesn't interest you?"
"No man interests me ... unless the one who is saving my life," the girl
answered surprisingly. As she spoke, a wave of rose-colour poured over
her face, and she turned quickly away in confusion. Roger felt that she
had blurted it out, scarcely knowing what she said until too late.
Instead of liking her less, he liked her better. He brought forth the
envelope to show. It had been under his pillow all night, he told her.
"I don't know what I should have done without you!" she said, with a
gratitude that was almost humble. There'd be a certain blankness, Roger
couldn't help seeing, when the time came to do without _her_!
"When we get to Chicago," he asked, "how can I help you there?"
"Oh, I expect to be met by a friend. I suppose I shan't see you again:
but I shall never forget."
Roger Sands felt a horrid twinge of some unpleasant emotion. He loathed
the "friend" who would take the girl away from him.
"But Chicago's a long way off," she said when he did not speak. "It must
seem a wild story to you, but the danger I'm in ... the danger that this
envelope is in ... won't be over for one minute till you've put me into
my friend's hands. You will do that, won't you? You'll see me through
till the last?"
"I will," said Roger.
"And meanwhile you'll come and call on me in the stateroom sometimes if
you don't mind?"
Roger smiled. A silver lining began to glimmer through the cloud.
By good luck he knew no one on board save O'Reilly, who fortunately was
in another car, and he hoped that few people knew him. He could not
resist her invitation. He began by deciding to spend a half hour with
his "invalid cousin" now and again. As through the veil of beauty he
caught glimpses of something like character within, Roger felt that the
mystery thickened.
The inevitable moment came. The porter was brushing men's hats and
coats. Suitcases were being fastened up. The Limited was slowing down in
the big station. Then, and not till then, did Miss White show herself at
the door of Stateroom A. Sands, who had knocked to tell her that she had
better come out, was waiting to guard her for the last time. Neither had
much to say. The hope of haven had not raised the girl's spirits. As
Sands gave her a hand, stepping on to the platform, he saw Justin
O'Reilly, already out of the train and looking about with the air of
expecting someone. O'Reilly took off his hat, with an unnecessarily
cordial smile for Sands. At heart they were enemies. Roger took the
smile to mean amusement at sight of his companion. He felt annoyed. Miss
White was looking straight ahead, a brilliant colour staining the cheeks
usually pale.
The rendezvous, she had explained to him, was at a news stand. "There!"
she said, "that is where he will be. There's such a crowd, I can't see
him yet."
They neared the news stand, and as "Miss White" was a tall girl whose
head could be seen above the hats of average women, he expected a man to
start eagerly forward. But no man separated himself from the crowd. She
was beginning to look anxious: there was no flush on her cheeks now.
"Where can he be?" she said. "Something must have happened."
"Taxi broken down, perhaps," Roger tried consolation.
"Oh, if only it's nothing worse! I must just wait. But you, Mr. Sands, I
oughtn't to ask...."
"You needn't," Roger cut her short. "I'm not going to desert you."
"I might have known you wouldn't. He can't be long!"
"What about the envelope? Will you have it now?" Roger asked. She had
begged him to keep it until they were out of the train.
"Not yet. I daren't. You're sure it hasn't been stolen from you? Do
please make certain!"
He put his hand inside his coat, and felt the envelope, which was safe,
of course. "It's there, as large as life."
"Thank heaven!" she breathed.
Minutes passed: fifteen minutes; twenty; thirty. The girl was white as
ashes, and dark shadows lay under her eyes. "All hope is over!" she
said, as Sands glanced at his watch, when they had stood for
three-quarters of an hour. "Some terrible thing has prevented him from
meeting me. I don't know what's going to become of me now!"
II
THE NET
"You made no plan what to do if your friend didn't turn up?" Roger
enquired. "Have you any other friends in Chicago?"
"Not one."
"Have you ever lived here, or stayed here?"
"No."
If he had now been capable of suspecting her, all his first suspicions
of Miss Beverley White would have marshalled themselves in his brain.
Nothing had happened during the whole journey to justify her fantastic
story of mysterious danger. As for the wonderful envelope, who could
tell that it didn't contain blank paper? But Sands had got beyond this
stage. If he were a fool, he asked to be nothing better.
"Is that friend you talk of more than a friend?"
"No, only a person I trusted for reasons I can't tell you."
"I see. And you don't know what will become of you since he's failed
you, and you're turned adrift in a strange town?"
"I don't know at all. I feel stunned--as if it didn't matter."
"It does matter to a girl like you, left alone without friends in a big
city where you're a stranger. Have you money?"
"I had enough and more than enough for my journey here, enough to pay
you back for all you've done. I expected to get more money, and to be
looked after in Chicago. Perhaps I can find work."
"Do you think after all that's passed I can go coolly on my way leaving
you alone in Chicago? I may be a fool, but I have another proposal to
make." He paused.
She looked up as if startled.
"What do you say to marrying me and going on to New York as my wife?"
For a minute he thought she was going to faint. She seemed suddenly to
become limp. She swayed a little on her feet, and he caught her arm.
"You're tired out, standing so long," he exclaimed.
"No, it's not that. Forgive me. It was almost too much, finding out the
height of your goodness. Yet, 'height' is the word!"
"You'll marry me, then!" he cried.
"No," the girl answered, "I thank you with my whole heart, but I can't."
"Why ... why?" he stammered. "Unless you're married already."
"I'm not married. No man has ever been anything to me. I swear that to
you! But I can't tell you any more about myself."
Roger did not speak for a minute. At last he said:
"See here, you and I have got to talk. We can't do that where we are,
with people jostling us this way and that. There's one thing certain.
However this ends, I'm not going to leave you alone in Chicago. We've
got plenty of time. Will you let me take you to a quiet restaurant? We
can thrash matters out across the table."
"Very well," she agreed.
Roger knew Chicago. When he had arranged to have his luggage put in safe
keeping, he got a taxi and took the girl to a dull but good place, sure
to be practically empty at that hour. They sat down at a table in a
corner, and Sands ordered an oyster stew.
"Do you dislike me?" he began his catechism. "Could you like me enough
to think of me as a husband, if we'd met in a conventional, society sort
of way?"
"Yes, I could. I do want you to know that. You've been so splendid to
me."
"So far so good, but I haven't been splendid. I've fallen in love with
you. I haven't been in love before ... that is, not since I was twenty.
I've never had time...."
"You haven't taken much time in doing it now!" She gave a queer little
laugh with a sob in it.
"I've learned the lesson that time isn't the thing needed. I want you
more than I ever wanted anything in my life, and I'll take you ... as
you stand."
"You haven't stopped to think ... to count the cost," she said. "Imagine
what it would be for a man like you to have a wife he knew nothing
about, just a single figure cut off its background, in a picture he'd
never seen. People would ask: 'Who was she?' and there'd be no answer."
"They'd not ask me that," said Roger obstinately. "And I wouldn't care
what they asked each other. I'm not a society man, though I might enjoy
putting my wife on the top floor. And I can do that with you if I
choose! You say I'm a man of importance. I'm important enough anyhow to
take the wife I want, and to put her where I want her to be."
"Yes, perhaps. But it wouldn't be only for a little while that I'd not
be allowed to tell you about myself. It would be for always. You
couldn't love me enough to be happy in spite of that."
"I could be happy," Roger insisted, "if you'd love me."
"I'd adore you! But...."
"Then there isn't any 'but'. I don't say I shouldn't like to know all
about my wife and her people and her past. Still, I'd rather have you
with a future and no past than any other woman with both. I can't do
without you, and I'm going to have you ... now, to-day, as soon as I can
buy a license and get a parson to make us man and wife."
"But if you should regret it?"
"I never will be sorry, if you'll do what you just said, adore
me ... half as much as I'll adore you."
Her eyes gave him a beautiful answer. Roger Sands felt that nothing
could make him regret the coming of such a romance into his hustling
life.
This, then, was the story behind the sensation when Roger Sands came
back from a short trip to California bringing a wife, a girl who had
been a Miss Beverley White, a girl nobody had ever seen or heard of
before.
III
THE MOUSE
On the same September day, in Moreton and Payntor's department store in
New York, might have been seen a wisp of a girl "cheeking" a manager
into giving her a situation on the strength of her being Irish.
By chance, the side door of the big Sixth Avenue shop opened for Clo
Riley (her true, Irish, baptismal name was Clodagh, but she didn't think
that would "go" in New York), on the day when Roger Sands' stateroom
door, on the Santa Fé Limited, opened for a very different girl and for
Romance. No one would have thought that they could be in the same
story--the mysterious Vision and the little, sharp-faced thing from
County Cork. Yet without Clo Riley it would have been another story
altogether, even though, for more than six months, she and Mr. and Mrs.
Roger Sands never heard each other's names, nor saw each other's faces.
It was in the April after her marriage that Mrs. Sands came upon an
advertisement in a newspaper. Moreton and Payntor were making a splash
about their lately started department for antique furniture. They had
obtained "eight magnificent, unique pieces of satinwood furniture
painted by Angelica Kaufmann, bought by a representative of Moreton and
Payntor, from a titled family in England."
Beverley Sands (her husband called her "Bev") loved painted satinwood,
when it was good. How she knew that things were good or bad, Roger
sometimes wondered: but she did know. Roger had taken a house at Newport
which had come into the market, and Beverley was picking up "beautiful
pieces" with which to furnish it. The house would, they hoped, be ready
to move into by June.
When she read Moreton and Payntor's advertisement, Beverley decided to
see the satinwood suite and buy it if genuine. Her present wealth
emphasized her astonishing, incredible happiness. "He gives me
everything I want, he trusts me to do everything I like," she thought.
Life was wonderful. Slowly she was coming out from under the cloud of
fear, and had ceased to be afraid of Something terrible that might
happen.
Roger went every morning to the offices of the firm which had his name
at its head. She had breakfasted with him in a kind of super-dressing
gown which Roger said was like an opal seen through a sunrise mist. As
her maid hooked up her frock she sang for happiness. She wished she
could earn it by making someone else happy. Roger didn't count in that
way. The credit would be to do things for a person you didn't love.
"To the first creature I meet to-day, who needs help, I'll give it," she
said to herself. "I'll do something big ... like sacrificing on an
altar."
She went out in Roger's latest present, a limousine car, so silent and
so swift that it travelled like a cloud-shadow. Outside the car was dark
blue; inside, the pale azure of a robin's egg. Beverley told the
chauffeur to drive to Moreton and Payntor's, avoiding traffic because
she was in a hurry. To do this, he approached the shop by passing
through a side street in which was the entrance for employees, as well
as that leading to minor departments, and so connecting with the main
shop. It was comparatively a quiet street, but to-day there was a crowd.
Something had happened, and only a moment ago, for a policeman was just
coming up. The chauffeur would have hurried by to spare Mrs. Sands what
might be an unpleasant sight, but on one of her impulses she stopped
him. The car windows were open. Beverley heard the words "Poor child"
and "Ambulance." She opened the door and jumped out. Because she was
beautiful and beautifully dressed, and had a fine car, people made way
for her.
On the pavement a girl was lying. There was some blood, and that would
have made Beverley sick, if the face streaked red hadn't struck her as
the most tragic, the most pathetic face she had ever seen. It was so
ghastly white, so thin, and yet so young!
"What is it? What's happened?" she inquired of the innermost group.
"Chucked herself out of a fourth story window," a fat woman answered.
"Somebody was beastly to her, I guess."
"Is she dead?" Beverley asked.
"Not yet ... though she must be a bag o' broken bones. She'll die on the
way to hospital, likely, in the ambulance, with nobody to care."
At that instant, as if she heard the terrible words, the girl's eyes
opened. It seemed to Beverley that they looked straight at her.
Suddenly she remembered her own resolve. It had been almost a vow: "To
the first creature I meet to-day who needs help I'll give it."
Here was the creature. If ever there were an appeal in human eyes, it
was in these. Perhaps it was an unconscious appeal. Perhaps the brain
had been stunned asleep, but the deep-down soul was awake. It was
calling to Beverley's soul, and the call had to be answered, or the vow
would be broken. Roger Sands' wife dared not break such a vow lest she
should be punished and lose her magical happiness.
She hated the sight of blood. She wanted to think that, if the girl were
dying, she could do no good. Yet, while reason argued, instinct had
already decided that this was the claimant of the vow. Beverley knelt
down beside the curiously flat-looking body which lay on the pavement.
Her dress dipped into a widening pool of blood, but she did not sicken
as she had thought she would. And to her own surprise she found her hand
stroking back a lock of dark red hair from the upturned face. Poor,
thin, child's face!
"Don't be afraid, you're going to be loved and cared for," she promised.
By this time a doctor had arrived. He, too, knelt by the sufferer. He
spoke to Beverley, thinking she had some acquaintance with the injured
girl. The police had cleared away the sensation seekers, but the lovely
lady of the blue automobile was left in peace. She seemed to be helping
the doctor.
"Keep off, please, keep off," the policemen repeated. "The ambulance'll
be round any instant."
But the ambulance did not take its cue. This was strange, for the
service was splendidly prompt. A man ran up bringing news that there'd
been a collision with a trolley. No one was hurt, but it meant a delay
before another ambulance could be called and respond.
"Can't we take her away in my car?" asked Beverley. "Oh, why shouldn't I
have her at my house? She's only a child, so thin and frail! Loving care
might save her. I'd have a trained nurse in. I'm Mrs. Roger Sands. You
may know my husband's name."
The name of Roger Sands was impressive. So was Beverley, and so was the
car. The ambulance wasn't at hand, and time pressed. It seemed as if the
offer might be accepted. The doctor was the physician engaged to attend
the employees of Moreton and Payntor, and had authority in the
neighbourhood. To test Mrs. Roger Sands' character he abruptly ordered
her into the surgical department--"ground floor, close by the side
street entrance"--to "fetch out a stretcher and be quick." Beverley
responded without hesitation, and in two minutes a startled boy appeared
with a canvas thing like a cot.
The doctor and one of the policemen got the childish body on to this
while Beverley darted to her waiting chauffeur. He--Robbins, an elderly
Englishman--was furious, but short of giving notice then and there,
could do nothing save obey. The folding chairs were pulled out: on one
was piled the car's best ornament, a large chinchilla rug, and some blue
silk cushions. These gave support for the foot of the stretcher, its
head resting on the seat; and the other folding chair was taken by the
doctor who, sitting there, could hold his patient safely in place. Mrs.
Roger Sands scrambled up beside her chauffeur, and did not even notice
that the man's face was a thundercloud.
Robbins could have cried. His last situation in England had been with a
duke. He would still have occupied it, had he not long passed the
"smart" age. Roger Sands had thought him an excellent guardian for
Beverley. Robbins didn't approve of America, but he had approved of his
mistress. There had seemed to him something queenly about her which
"reminded him of home," but to-day he was ashamed of her: to drive
through the streets of New York sitting on the front seat beside him, as
if she were a lady's maid! Worse than all, her dress, her gloves, were
stained with blood. As for the inside of the new car, it would be
ruined. The man felt responsible, and believed that his master would
consider him so. Sitting beside Mrs. Sands, with the look of an inferior
Roman statue on his square face, the chauffeur resolved to see Mr. Sands
before the tale of this morning's work could be told by Sands' American
chauffeur, who drove him to and from the office. The Englishman decided
to bribe the American to "lend his job" that afternoon. They could
arrange an excuse. Harter had a cold. But, as it happened, Roger Sands
read of the affair in a second edition of an evening paper while he
waited for his car.
To see Beverley's name in big letters gave him a shock. He became
conscious that somewhere within him had always been a horror of finding
his wife's name in a newspaper, heading "scarelines." His first feeling
as he read on was of relief. Why, this was nothing!
Some reporter had worked up the incident into a romance, and his editor,
appreciating Roger Sands' importance, had given it nearly a whole
column. On the surface it was a tribute to Mrs. Sands' goodness of
heart; but as Roger's rush of thankfulness passed, he began to see an
unpleasant side of the business.
The reporter had interviewed various persons in the firm of Moreton and
Payntor. He had learned that the girl befriended by Mrs. Roger Sands was
employed in the restaurant for women "assistants." By certain of these,
she had been suspected of small thefts. They had watched her, and it was
in the midst of a "scene" following an accusation, that the waitress had
suddenly flung herself out of a fourth story window. She was an Irish
girl not long in New York. Her name was Clo Riley, and she had been in
the employ of Moreton and Payntor for nearly seven months. She had made
no friends, and was considered "Mysterious."
At the Park Avenue apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Roger Sands an interview
had been refused; but the reporter had learned from a servant that, if
the invalid were "a dear relative" of Mrs. Sands, she could not be more
lovingly cared for. The largest and handsomest spare room had been
hastily prepared, a trained nurse engaged, and a famous surgeon had been
called in consultation with the doctor who had undertaken the case.
Following these details came a description of Mrs. Roger Sands, gleaned
from an "eye witness" of the "sensational scene" enacted in the street.
The story developed strangely to Roger. He saw something behind it. He
knew things about Beverley which, he trusted, few others knew, and saw
the affair in another light.
Roger's marriage experiment was a success. He was glad that he had taken
the girl "as she stood." To have what she had called a "figure cut off
its background out of an unseen picture," was better than to have lost
forever a figure of such beauty. He believed that Beverley was as good
as she was sweet, but she had been right in her prophecy; it was
hideous, sometimes, to see her outlined against darkness.
The incident had happened close to Moreton and Payntor's department
store. Beverley had been in the habit of going there lately. She might
have had a reason for choosing that shop. Indeed, it struck Roger as
incredible that even her impulsiveness could lead her so far, for a
stranger's sake. Besides, why hadn't she telephoned? It looked as if she
were determined to carry out her scheme before he could oppose it.
In this mood he went to his automobile. He was surprised to see Robbins,
but not sorry, because Robbins had been mixed up in the morning's
affair.
"What's this I've been reading in the _Evening Star_?" he broke in.
Here was luck for Robbins! He began to excuse himself for the disgrace
which had fallen upon the new car. "It was the mistress's order, sir,
and I had no choice; but I can't help thinking if she'd known what a
mess the blood would make, she'd 'ave let me call a taxi."
"Another lining is easily put in," said Roger, coolly; but he was angry
for the first time with Beverley. Of all women, she was the one who
ought to think twice before doing a thing to get herself talked about;
but she never thought twice. As he drove homeward, doubts of her crowded
into his mind.
At home, Beverley was in the room which had been turned into a hospital
ward. The nurse had called her, to announce that the "patient" had
returned to consciousness and had begun asking questions.
"I saw it would worry her to be put off," went on Sister Lake, "so I
told her a few things. She remembered throwing herself out of the
window, and the fall, and then waking up, lying in the street. She said
she'd dreamed of an angel-girl bending over her. When she heard what
you'd done, she insisted on speaking to you."
"I'll go at once!" Beverley exclaimed.
"Just for a few minutes," the nurse hinted.
Beverley let herself be led in. The room looked strange to her. The
servants, directed by the doctor, and later by the trained nurse, had
swiftly, noiselessly made the changes before the girl came back to
herself. The curtains had been taken down, and rugs cleared away from
the parquet floor. Most of the furniture had disappeared, and on a glass
table were a number of bottles. The bed faced the door, and as Mrs.
Sands softly entered a pair of eyes looked at her. Beverley's heart
jumped as her eyes met them. She had not known how immense and dark they
were, or that they were beautiful.
The nurse drew Mrs. Sands near to the bed, and issued her orders before
the girl could open her lips.
"Neither of you must talk much," she commanded. "Mrs. Sands has come to
let you see that she exists, and you can thank her if you like, but she
mustn't stay many minutes."
"Sister Lake is right," said Beverley. "You mustn't excite yourself.
You're going to get well; and this is your home."
"I'm not excited," the girl answered, in a low, monotonous voice, hardly
above a whisper. "But I had to see you, and tell you this one thing. I
didn't want to live, because ... I was miserable, and everyone hated me;
still, it seemed awful to die. You saved me. I wish to live now, if only
to show you what gratitude can be. I expect you're awfully rich. I'm
poorer than any church mouse. It doesn't look as if I could do anything
for one like you. But who knows? There was a mouse once helped a lion.
It gnawed a hole in a net. I feel as if the time must come when I can do
as much, because I want to so dreadfully. That's all!"
IV
THE MURMUR OF THE STORM
It seemed that everything were to go wrong with Roger Sands that day. He
had felt for the last few months that a cloud had risen between him and
John Heron, whose cause he had won in California. If ever a business man
owed a debt of gratitude to the brains of another, John Heron owed such
a debt to Roger Sands, who had risked not only his reputation, but even
his life against the powerful enemies of the alleged "California Oil
Trust King." Heron had appeared fully to appreciate this; and before
Roger left for New York had been almost oppressively cordial, begging in
vain that Roger would visit him and his wife, a famous beauty with
Spanish blood in her veins. He had written once, immediately after
Sands' departure, and had telegraphed congratulations on reading the
news of Roger's marriage. But the friendly reply had remained
unacknowledged. The wedding present of a gold tea service had been
accompanied by no letter, only a card with the names of "Mr. and Mrs.
John Heron." With Sands' thanks the correspondence ended.... This had
vexed Roger, who liked Heron and was not used to being slighted. The
only thing he could think of was Beverley's failure to enclose a note to
Mrs. Heron in his letter of thanks. She had argued that the present was
for him, really, and that if she wrote Mrs. Heron it would look
"pushing."
Roger let the matter slide, and had written in his wife's name and his
own. At last he read in some newspaper that "Mr. and Mrs. John Heron
intended shortly to start for the east, where they would spend the
summer." Without waiting to consult Beverley he wrote, saying he had
read the news, and he and his wife hoped for a visit in their Newport
house as soon as it was ready. He had written, not from the office, but
from home, with the Park Avenue address on the paper. To-day, as he
entered his study, his eye lit on an envelope with John Heron's writing
upon it.
The letter lay on the top of others on his desk, and instead of going to
find Beverley at once, as was his lover's custom, he sat down to read
his correspondence.
The first letter he opened was Heron's, which consisted of a few lines
on one page. Roger's eyes took in the whole at a glance.
DEAR MR. SANDS:
My wife and I are obliged to you for your kind invitation, but
owing to the fact that we have already made a great number of
engagements I fear we shall be unable to give ourselves the
pleasure of accepting.
Yours truly,
JOHN HERON.
The blood rushed to Roger's forehead. He realized that this was a
deliberate insult.
The last letter had begun "Dear Sands," and had been signed "Yours
gratefully ever." Roger was even more furious than mystified. "Next time
he wants me to pull him out of a death trap, he can whistle for his
pains!"
At that instant Beverley tapped at the door, and half opened it to peep
in.
This irritated Roger. He had told her from the first that she need not
knock at his study door.
"How often have I begged you not to knock?" he broke out at her. "Come
in if you want to."
It was the first time he had ever spoken crossly. Beverley started, and
the look on her face, instead of overwhelming Roger with remorse,
hardened him.
Beverley's colour had been bright, but she turned pale as Roger flung at
her his scolding words. Seeing the letter in her husband's hand the
blood streamed back to her cheeks. If she could possibly have known and
recognized Heron's writing, it might have seemed that the sight of it
had struck her with fear. But no such far-fetched thought occurred to
her husband.
"I--I'm sorry!" she said hastily. "I heard your voice--I supposed
someone was with you----"
Roger forgot that he had spoken aloud. In silence he let the girl cross
the floor and sit down in the easy chair she called "hers." She dropped
into it as if her knees had given way, and looked at Roger. When he did
not speak, she could bear the suspense no longer.
"You--you're reading a letter--I interrupted you?"
"The letter's of no importance," said Roger, throwing it upon the desk.
"It's only from John Heron to tell me that he and his wife won't be able
to come and see us at Newport. One would suppose by his tone that he was
offended. Probably Mrs. Heron expected you to gush over the wedding
present, and has put him up to snubbing me because you didn't."
"You asked the Herons to visit us? I--didn't know----"
"I did ask them," Roger cut her short. "I heard they were coming East."
"Oh, Roger, I couldn't have met them! If they'd accepted I should have
had to be ill, or--or go away!" Beverley exclaimed on one of her
impulses, which instantly she appeared to regret. "I'm glad you don't
like Mr. Heron's letter, because--you'll never ask them again! I haven't
done anything to annoy you, have I?"
"You know best whether you have or not."
"What do you mean?"
"Is it necessary to ask? I came home intending not to question you. But
I must make one comment: you're surprised that I invite a friend to
visit us without consulting you. That seems inconsistent with what
you've done. I've read the evening paper, and----"
"Oh, Roger! It's in the paper ... about that poor child and me?"
"Naturally! You and I aren't nonentities."
"You don't think I did wrong?"
"Wrong's a big word. You've done something foolish, and inconsiderate to
me."
"What harm can the child do to you?"
"That depends upon what sort of 'child' she is! Perhaps you can give me
a better account of her than the _Evening Star_ gives!"
"I can't give you any," said Beverley, in a trembling voice, "except
that she was the most pitiful thing I ever saw ... so young and
desperate, lying in pools of blood."
"Which pools of blood you transferred to your new motor car, my present,
that I thought you valued."
"Roger! What did the motor matter, compared with saving a life?"
"Saving a life wasn't in question. An ambulance would have been on the
spot in a minute to take the girl to a hospital."
"She wouldn't have had love in a hospital. I felt it was for lack of
love she'd tried to kill herself...."
"A girl who steals her companions' money can't expect to have their
love...."
"Oh! So that's what the newspaper says? I don't believe she stole. Wait
till you see the poor little thing, Roger."
"I don't want to see her. Now she's here, she'll have to stay till she
dies, or can be safely moved. I've no wish to be cruel. But when she can
go, I want her to do so. I don't mind giving...."
"You do mind giving faith and sympathy!" Beverley burst out. "Why should
you take me on faith, and refuse it to another? You knew nothing about
me ... I know nothing about this child...."
"Ah, you're sure you know nothing about her!" His tone was bitter.
"What could I know?" she echoed. "I brought her straight home, and she
hasn't been able to talk ... except a few words."
"It occurred to me as rather odd you should do so much for a complete
stranger."
"Oh, I see! You think I knew her ... before?"
"I thought it possible. Her name put the idea into my head. I heard you
say it once ... in your ... sleep ... Riley ... or something like that."
For the third time Beverley blushed, one of her fatal, agonized blushes.
The rush of blood forced tears to her eyes; and a certain strained look
in them, a quivering of the lips, brought back to Roger's mind a picture
of her in the train. That was the first time he had seen her blush. She
had said--he remembered well--"You are the only man I'm interested in,"
and had blushed furiously. He had been sure then that she was no
adventuress. She had looked like a frightened child, and she looked like
one now. With that picture of the girl in the train came back another
recollection. She had asked if any man had inquired for her, or if any
"noticeable" person had sought his acquaintance. He had replied that
he'd not spoken with a soul except a man he knew slightly, a Congressman
from California named O'Reilly. He supposed that O'Reilly didn't
interest her? Upon this, with a desperate blush, she had made her
startlingly frank reply.
As this came back, Roger's heart was no longer soft. What a fool he had
been, that day in the train, not to connect the girl's change of colour
with his mention of O'Reilly! She might have blurted out her compliment
to excuse the blush, instead of the blush having followed the
compliment. Good heavens! could Justin O'Reilly have been the man from
whom she wished to hide?
"Perhaps the name you spoke in your sleep was O'Reilly!" he flung at his
wife.
Beverley gathered herself together.
"So all this time," she said, "you have been suspicious of me! And I was
so happy. I thought you were happy, too, but it's just as I was afraid
it would be, if I married you. You can't endure the strain!"
"I have endured the strain," Roger defended himself; "because I loved
you as few men have ever loved, but the question is, have you deserved
it all?"
"This is the moment I felt must come!" she said. "If I had only myself
to think of, don't you know I'd have told you everything? I warned you
how it would be ... how I should have to keep the secret not for a
little while, but for always! If you don't believe, if you think I lied
when I said no man had ever been anything to me ... if you think I lie
now, when I say I never saw or heard of this girl till I found her in
the street.... I can go out of your life.... I can go to-day!"
As she spoke slowly, sentence by sentence, with a sobbing breath
between, Beverley looked straight into her husband's eyes. Hers did not
falter though they swam in tears. With her last words, she rose and
stood facing him as he sat at his desk.
Roger gave her back gaze for gaze, as if he would read her secret
written in cypher on her soul. He saw that she meant what she said. A
word from him, and their experiment was at an end. She would go. It
seemed to him that never had her beauty been so gentle, so womanly.
"You shan't go!" he cried, springing to his feet. "I can't give you up!"
But she held him off.
"No!" she panted. "I won't stay if you want me only in that way--because
you have a kind of love for me, whether you believe in me or not. I love
you too much to be shamed by you! Either you trust me, or you don't. Say
which it is, and I'll stay, or go."
"I've got to trust you! I do!" The words seemed to burst from him. "You
know I love you more than all the world. It would kill me to lose you."
"I'd rather die from the shock of losing you, Roger, than from such a
hateful pain, going on and on----"
"It shan't go on," he said. "I've been happy, too. I'm a changed man
since the hour I saw you and loved you. It's only to-day I've been
wretched. Forgive me, Bev--and God forgive you if----"
"There's an 'if' for you?"
"No--no, there's no 'if' any more. You're to forgive me----that's all!"
"Oh, I do! The hard thing would be not to forgive. But--can we go on
being happy again, just as if nothing had happened?"
"Of course we can, silly child. Nothing has happened." Roger had her in
his arms now. He kissed her over and over again, till she gasped for
breath. "This has only cleared the air. As for that beastly child, I
don't care if she's a murderess. Keep her forever, if you choose. Train
her as your maid----"
"But she's not 'beastly!' And she's not the kind to have for a maid. I
think she's a lady. She seems----"
"Well, do whatever you like with her. Can I go further, to show you I
want to atone?"
"No, you can't, Roger----" Beverley nestled her face into his neck. "I
adore you!"
She closed her eyes, but opening them she happened, looking over Roger's
shoulder, to see John Heron's letter on her husband's desk. A faint
shiver ran through her body, and Roger felt it.
"What's the matter, my darling?" he asked.
"Nothing!" she answered. "A mouse ran over my grave."
V
ON THE WAY TO THE CAR