soon. But he was at the door. There was only that frail barrier of wood,
and the space of a few seconds between them! He had discovered the loss
of his door key, and doubtless the other loss as well. He had guessed
who was the thief, and what was the thief's motive. He had hurried home.
A moment more--just the little delay of fitting in a pass key--and he
would catch the culprit red-handed; he would deprive her of the spoils!
Clear as a "cut in" from some moving picture, a scene rose before
Clodagh's eyes. She saw herself at grips with O'Reilly. She saw him
wrench the envelope from her hands as she resisted. She saw herself
sobbing over her failure and Angel's lost hopes. That picture mustn't
come true! The key attached to the watch-chain, she had removed from the
safe door, and had laid watch and all on a buffet. Beside them she had
placed the door key. Now, as the chambermaid chattered in the corridor,
and O'Reilly made light of his loss, Clodagh moved faster than any
figure in a moving picture. She snatched up everything on the buffet,
pushed all into the safe, softly shut the steel door, concealed it with
the panel which slipped readily into its groove, and fled into the
adjoining bedroom.
Lights from across a court showed that the sole doors were those of a
bath and a clothes-closet. There was no way out from the bedroom.
Entrance and exit to the suite were to be had only through the sitting
room.
"I might have known," Clo reflected. Too late she recalled that through
the nearest door had appeared the couple in evening dress. She was
caught like a mouse in a trap (poor mouse, who had meant to gnaw the
encircling net!) caught unless--unless! Her heart gave a leap as she saw
the one way out.
The night was warm, and the window had been opened wide to let in the
blue dusk. Light from opposite windows giving on the court shone upon a
stone coping. It was broad, as copings go, broad enough for some white
roses dropped from a window above to lodge without falling farther. It
was this conspicuous splash of white on the dark stone which put into
Clo's mind the word "unless."
The chambermaid was rattling her pass key in the lock. If the thing were
to be done, it must be done now! Yes, that stone coping ran all the way
along under O'Reilly's window as well as those opposite. It was quite
fourteen or fifteen inches in width, Clo thought, and was placed twice
as many inches below the window sill. It would be easy to step down on
to the ledge; and only a short distance away was the window of the next
room, a room in the suite occupied by the couple she had seen. That
window was open, like O'Reilly's. Clo could be sure of this, because the
lace curtains were blowing out in the draught from some other window.
They were of thick lace covered with embroidery, and if one could catch
hold of a curtain as it blew the stuff wouldn't tear. As for the stolen
envelope, it was safe in one of those odd, new-fashioned pockets of
hers. Hastily she made it more secure with a big pin, by which she
fastened it to the cloth of her dress. Thus both hands were free. But it
took courage to start!
"Oh, I must, I must do it!" she thought, her body ice, her soul aflame.
"It's for Angel! If I don't look down, I shall be all right. And even if
I fall and smash like an egg I'll be no worse off than before she saved
me. I'll be back just where I was that day."
Uninvited, the chambermaid had followed O'Reilly into the next room. She
was talking volubly, hoping that he'd mislaid the door key, that it
hadn't been stolen. Clo, in making her dash for the bedroom, had quietly
closed the door between, but she could hear that the two were talking.
Anyhow, the girl tried to think, it was the first step that cost! Once
outside the bedroom window, plastered against the wall, the danger of
being caught was over. O'Reilly would search the clothes-closet, and
peer into the bath. Then he would suppose that the bird was already
flown. Never would he dream that a girl would dare what she meant to
dare.
Oddly enough, that reflection decided Clo to act. For the moment, fear
left her free. She stepped briskly over the window sill with one foot,
and landed on the ledge. It felt solid, almost comforting; but as she
groped for it with the other foot, horror caught her again, poured
through her veins like iced water and made her heart feel a dead thing.
She tried not to think of anything except that kind curtain flapping in
the wind. She clung to the window-frame with fingers so damp that they
slipped on the stone. Holding on for dear life--yes, life was dear, now
it hung by a thread!--she edged along, her cheek scraping the wall as
she moved. One step, two, three--another would take her so far that she
must let go of the window frame. Could she reach the blowing curtain? A
few moments ago it had seemed to beckon. Now she depended on it the
white folds eluded her hand. If the wind dropped, she was lost. She
couldn't help thinking of all the things she wished not to think of. She
thought of that immense depth below her narrow perch. She didn't believe
the man or woman lived strong-minded enough to forget it!
As she reached out with her free arm for the curtain, a light sprang up
from the room she had left. O'Reilly was there, searching for her. It
had been simple to say, while she stood on a solid floor, that he would
not look out of the window. But he might look out: he might hear her
feet shuffling along the ledge. If his head appeared now, she would
fall.
The girl began to shake all over like a winter leaf on a high branch.
She would have to go, she thought. But the curtain was blowing very
near, so near that she ventured another step. The lace brushed her
fingers. With a last effort she grasped a fold. Courage came back. Now
she had let go of O'Reilly's window frame. She had passed on beyond hope
of return, and yet she had no firm grasp upon the curtain. Before it
could give the support a rope gives a climber, she must slowly,
patiently, draw it toward her inch by inch until she had it taut.
"Angel, are you praying for me?" she wondered. Because she could not
pray for herself. She could only count. Dimly, she felt it odd that it
should calm her nerves to count each time her fingers closed upon the
curtain. But it did calm them.
"Seven, eight, nine, ten." The fold of lace began to be taut. Drawing it
toward her, she started on once more on that endless journey of a few
inches. Thank heaven, the light in O'Reilly's bedroom had been switched
off. The man must have given up the chase, and gone back to the sitting
room. For the present she was safe from him. But what a queer word
"safe" was, just then. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen." Thanks to the curtain
rope, she had almost reached her goal. "Fourteen, fifteen." She had got
so far that she could let the curtain go and fling her arms over the
window sill. She threw her body upon it, and lay still for an instant,
utterly spent now the strain was over. But was it over? No, not yet. If
her feet slipped from the coping, she would have no strength for the
effort of climbing in at the window. She would hang for a minute and
then--drop.
"The papers," she reminded herself, for a mental tonic. "They're so
nearly safe now. Brace up, Clo! A minute more and you'll be out of
trouble."
The room beyond was, like O'Reilly's, unlighted. Thank goodness, there'd
be no squalling lady's maid to give an alarm. Clo allowed herself time
to breathe, resting on the window sill. Then she prepared to draw
herself over. Wrapping the curtain round her right hand, and clutching
the lace firmly with her left hand, she found a heavy piece of furniture
just inside the window. It seemed to be a dressing-table with a mirror
suspended between two spiral posts. Grasping one, Clo pulled the table
closer, till it refused to move. This gave a lever on which she might
depend. She clung to the curtain and post, till she could plant first
one knee, then its fellow, on the window sill. It seemed an easy thing
to do, and would have been easy had not her strength been nearly spent.
Her quivering muscles responded slowly to this last call, but they did
respond. Soon she was kneeling on the window sill. Then one foot was
over, groping for the floor. She had just found it when a key grated in
a lock, and before she could hide behind the curtains a door opened
wide. A flood of light streamed in from the corridor, and outlined her
white form against the blue background of the night.
XV
THE NUMBER SEVENTEEN
To go back meant death, and the loss of Beverley's papers. Besides, she
had been seen. For once, Clo's wits refused to work. Like a frozen
flower, she remained motionless in the window.
The figure in the doorway was that of a man. The light coming from
behind made his face a blank for her eyes, but the girl saw that he was
taller than O'Reilly and of a different build. Perhaps it was the owner
of the suite, he who had gone out with the beautiful woman. The man made
no move. He stood in the doorway as if rooted to the floor. "My God!"
Clo heard him mutter.
"The fool takes me for a ghost," she thought. "Now's my chance, before
he plucks up courage!"
Down came the other white shoe on the carpet with no more noise than a
rose-petal falling. Then followed a second of indecision. Should she
risk pushing the man aside, and fleeing past him into the hall? No, her
touch would break the spell. She must go on with the ghost-play, and
vanish in the dark!
Light from outside showed her the open door of an adjoining room. Thence
came the draught which had set the curtains blowing. Clo took a few
floating steps toward the man, then dodged aside, and disappeared into
the room beyond. Softly she closed the communicating door and slid the
bolt. Almost opposite where she stood opened a cross passage leading to
a wing of the hotel. With a bound she reached it, not daring to look
behind, yet listening with the ear of the hunted for the hunter, as she
ran. Coming to a staircase the girl plunged down it two steps at a time.
On the floor below, however, she ventured to moderate her pace. This was
the dinner hour; most of the guests would be in the restaurant, or out
of the hotel for the evening; but there would be servants about. Clo
forced herself to descend sedately, flight after flight of stairs, not
daring to enter a lift. At last, when it seemed that she had come to
earth from the top of Jacob's ladder, the stairway ended. Timidly
following a passage that opened before her, she ventured into a wide,
important hall.
There was a cloakroom in the hall. Ladies were going into it and coming
out. Clo heard music in the distance and saw a marble balustrade. This
balustrade was for her a landmark. She knew by it that she must have
reached the story above the ground floor, and that the large corridor of
the cloakroom opened on to a gallery overlooking the main hall. She had
glanced up and admired that marble balustrade when she first entered the
hotel. She had seen also a wide marble staircase leading up to the
gallery. It must be near, she thought, but it was a way of exit to
avoid. If O'Reilly were on guard below, or even if he had merely
telephoned her description to the office, she and the stolen envelope
would be promptly nabbed in the hall below. She had dared too much to be
tamely taken now. Mirrors were let into the panels of the wall, and Clo
paused before one, pretending to straighten her hat. She wanted time to
make up her mind.
The ladies who left their wraps in this upstairs cloakroom must be
dining in private rooms on the same floor, she thought. "Out there in
the gallery their men will be waiting for them," the girl told herself.
"And maybe that's where my man is waiting for me!"
One of these ladies, opening a gold chain bag to pull out her
handkerchief, dropped a bit of paper with a number on it--Clo's
favourite number, 17. It fluttered close to her feet; she stooped and
picked it up. Common sense told her that the numbered slip was a
cloakroom check. It might mean salvation. She walked leisurely into the
cloakroom, though her nerves were a-jerk like the strings of a
jumping-jack. "My cousin has asked me to come and fetch her wrap," she
explained to a bored attendant. "There's a draught through the dining
room. This is her check."
The woman accepted it without a word. She presently produced a long wrap
of black chiffon, lined with blue. "Number seventeen. Here you are,
miss." So speaking, she removed the duplicate check, which had been
pinned to a frilled hood of the cloak. At sight of that hood a weight
lifted from Clo's heart. It was more ornamental than practical, but it
would be immensely useful to her. If she had been given her choice of
cloaks, she couldn't have done better. Seventeen was bringing her luck.
"Oh, I believe I'd better leave my hat!" she said to the attendant, as
if on a second thought. Unsuspiciously the woman took it, pinned a bit
of paper to the lining, and handed the duplicate to Clo. "Nobody's got
seventeen now, so I'll give it to you again." This seemed a good omen:
seventeen for the second time! With the cloak over her arm she sauntered
out of the room. Then back she went to the foot of the stairs, where was
a quiet niche behind a big, potted palm, and close by was one of those
convenient panel mirrors. Thus refuged, Clo slipped into the wrap, and
arranged the floppy hood. It was far from becoming, for the frill fell
almost to her eyes; but it hid the tell-tale red hair, and showed little
of her face save the end of an impudent nose and the tip of a pointed
chin. The cloak, made for a taller figure than Clo's, came nearly to her
feet, and holding it together the white dress became invisible.
"Now for it!" she thought, like a soldier who goes "over the top" to
charge the enemy. Head down, hood flapping, cloak floating, she sailed
along the corridor and out into the gallery beyond. Yes, there was the
marble staircase, and below was the great, bright hall; but in this
disguise she could pass O'Reilly if he had assembled half the detectives
in New York. So she tripped down the stairs, sedate, unhurried as the
care-free girl whose cloak she had borrowed. Arrived in the hall, she
knew her way out, and could hardly subdue the triumph in her voice as
she said "Taxi, please," to an attendant porter.
"Where shall I tell him to go, miss?" came the question as she stepped
into the cab; and for half a second she hesitated. By a clock she had
seen in the hall it was just half-past eight. There would be time to go
home, time for Angel to open the envelope and see if the contents were
right, time to tell Angel her own adventures, and time to rest before
keeping her tryst with Peterson.
She gave the number of the house in Park Avenue where Roger Sands lived.
The door of the taxi shut with a reassuring "click." It was heavenly to
lean back against the comfortable cushions! She ought to be entirely
happy, entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was only reaction after so many
hopes and fears, this weight that seemed to press upon her heart. Yet it
was an obstinate weight. It grew heavier as the taxi brought her nearer
home.
XVI
A QUOTATION FROM SHAKESPEARE
"Not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme."
The words describing Othello's torment rang in Roger Sands' ears.
The words kept time with the purring throb of the motor that sped him on
his wife's errand. Certain it was that he had not been easily jealous!
He had married a girl with a secret to keep, and he had never questioned
her. He had made her a queen; and he was her loyal subject. She ruled
him and his kingdom. Only to-day he had given her a queen's pearls. They
were his atonement for an hour of distrust. How had she rewarded him?
Roger reviewed the afternoon, since the presentation of the pearls, and
there were details which he saw in a new light. So desperate had been
her mysterious haste that she had broken the rope of pearls, and had not
even stopped to pick up the scattered splendour.
Roger Sands' heart had been hard toward his wife when they met. He had
settled upon a policy of silence for the present, while in
self-protection he watched developments. He agreed quietly to Beverley's
request that he should fetch the pearl-stringer, though feeling a cold,
sick certainty of her motive in making it.
He went, as he had given his word that he would go, to 27 Elm Street,
Yonkers. Miss Blackburne herself answered his ring: and when the name of
Clo Riley was mentioned, she said at once that she would accompany Mr.
Sands. Roger was kept waiting only while Miss Blackburne took leave of
her mother, gathered together her materials, and packed a small bag; for
it was clear that, if the pearl-stringer were to finish her work in one
sitting, she would have to spend the night in Park Avenue.
The little woman, whose face seemed almost featureless to Roger Sands,
was interested in the man as well as in the mission. The pearl-stringer
had often heard of him in various ways; and her work took her into a set
who knew, or gossiped, about his private affairs. She had listened to
women's talk concerning Mrs. Sands, "the girl from nowhere," and, though
Miss Blackburne was "good as gold," she did enjoy a little spicy
scandal. She could in future make herself quite interesting to some of
her regular clients by telling how she had worked for Mrs. Roger Sands;
and not only for their sakes, but her own, did she look forward to this
"job."
Secretly, Ellen Blackburne planned some day to write a volume of
reminiscences, and she had a "feeling," as she sat in discreet silence
beside Roger Sands in his car, that to-night she would get material for
particularly good notes. She was conscious that his nerves were tensely
strung. "It's just as if he were sitting in a thunder cloud charged full
of electricity, with me getting some of the shocks," she told herself,
thinking of her notebook, where she would make entries when she got
home.
It was nearly a quarter past eight when Roger's latch-key opened the
door of his apartment. Miss Blackburne was impressed, not only by the
magnificence of the hall, but by the originality of its decoration.
Roger, having let himself and the pearl-stringer in with his latch-key,
regretted that he had done so. He did not want to see Beverley alone
just then. It would be better to have her summoned by a servant. Miss
Blackburne was too observant of tiny details not to notice that he
stepped back and pushed the electric bell outside the door, which he had
not yet closed. And when he said to the butler: "Please tell Mrs. Sands
that I have been able to bring back Miss Blackburne," the small student
of character guessed at once that he wished to avoid meeting his wife.
The hall was large, and furnished like an extra drawing-room, therefore
it was not inhospitable that Roger should leave the pearl-stringer alone
there, with the excuse that he must dress for dinner. He was, he
explained, going to his club. As he made this announcement, however, and
before the butler could carry the message to Mrs. Sands, a dazzling
vision appeared. It could be no other, Miss Blackburne felt, than Mrs.
Sands herself; and she was right, for Beverley had dressed with unusual
speed, yet with unwonted pains, in order to be ready for Roger's return.
The vision came into the hall before the butler had been able to deliver
the message, and his wife's arrival whilst the man was present gave
Roger an opportunity he would not miss. There was a question he wished
to ask the old servant, in Beverley's hearing, but he had not expected
the chance to come so soon. The butler retreated, stepping aside
respectfully to let Mrs. Sands pass. But before the man could efface
himself, and before greeting Beverley, Roger exclaimed, "Oh, by the by,
Johnson, has any one been here since I went out?"
"Yes, sir," the butler replied, "one gentleman has been. He----"
But the vision intervened. "The gentleman wasn't a visitor, Johnson,"
she said, a sharp note in her voice, almost an agonized note. "You ought
to explain to Mr. Sands that he came only to bring Miss Riley home."
Then she hurried on, snatching the explanation from the servant's mouth,
though she had ordered him to make it: "The poor child came back quite
done up, nearly fainting. She had to be helped in, almost carried. The
man stayed just long enough to hear that she was better. Is it Miss
Blackburne you've been lucky enough to find, and bring back to me?"
All this rushed out in a breath. The lovely lady in white and silver
smiled at the small person in brown pongee. But Roger Sands was not a
man easy to play with.
"Yes, it is Miss Blackburne," he quietly answered. "What was the
gentleman's name, Johnson? Did you hear it?"
There was a trifling pause while the servant replied. Mrs. Sands was
still faintly smiling, a mechanical smile, and her eyes were suddenly
dull as glass.
"Yes, sir, I believe I heard the name mentioned," Johnson admitted. "I
thought it was the same as the young lady's; Riley or O'Riley. As Mrs.
Sands remarks, sir, he wasn't exactly calling, so the name wasn't
announced. It only reached my ears."
Roger looked straight at Beverley. The gaze was a challenge. "Was it
Justin O'Reilly who came?" he inquired; and his eyes said: "if your
conscience is clean, you'll understand that I'm not trying to extract
any confession. I give you the chance to clear yourself, here and now,
that's all."
But Beverley's face was flooded with one of her painful blushes, that
always came when she wanted them least. She realized, too late, that
Roger had enquired of Johnson because he suspected, perhaps even knew,
that O'Reilly had been in the house.
"Yes, it was Justin O'Reilly who came and stopped about ten minutes,"
she answered, trying to keep her voice as calm as Roger's. "But this
isn't very interesting to Miss Blackburne. It was good of her to give up
her Sunday evening! Shall we----"
"Just a moment, please," Roger broke in, still in that deadly quiet
voice which, it seemed, could betray nothing to a stranger, but for
Beverley was a knife at her heart. "I must go out presently. Before
starting to dress I should like to hear the latest news about your
protégée. She looked all right, and not inclined to faint, when I saw
her tripping into the house, just before I came in from my walk some
time ago. By the by I think Mr. O'Reilly must have been with her then.
He was passing the house, I noticed."
"I don't know anything about that," the answer came slowly. "Clo didn't
mention seeing Mr. O'Reilly at that time. She rested and went out again
later. Johnson was speaking of her _second_ return."
Beverley knew that her husband could easily have questioned Johnson
behind her back, and then have entrapped her perhaps, through her
ignorance of what had passed. He had chosen instead, to be as frank as
he was hard; and while she suffered, Beverley thanked her husband for
cold justice.
"I must dress now," Roger said heavily. "I am dining at my club."
Murmuring some civility to Miss Blackburne, Sands turned away. A moment
more, and his wife heard his bedroom door shut. At the sound it seemed
that her heart must die in her breast! She felt a sensation of physical
sickness, and would have given anything not to have the pearl-stringer
on her hands. Here the woman was, however, and could not be treated with
discourtesy!
"You will dine with me, of course, before beginning your work," Beverley
said, trying to be cordial. But Miss Blackburne smiled and shook her
head. She had had "high tea" at home with her mother, and could eat
nothing more, she replied, thanking Mrs. Sands.
"I'll take you to my boudoir," Beverley said kindly to the little woman
in brown. "The pearls are there. You'll be surprised at their beauty."
Miss Blackburne let her hostess lead the way. "There's a drama here, all
right!" she told herself. "Has it anything to do with the pearls? But I
shall know soon, I bet!"
The Vision opened the door of a charming room. The light was already
switched on, and the new-comer noticed that a door stood wide open
between the boudoir and the bedroom, which, also, was lighted. Miss
Blackburne guessed that Mrs. Sands had only just finished dressing in a
hurry as her husband came into the house. Perhaps, on account of the
pearls, her maid had been released from duty. Anyhow, someone had
forgotten to turn off the lights, and ... but Mrs. Sands herself was
explaining.
"I left the door open between my room and this while I dressed," she
said, "because of what you see on this table. I thought it might as well
be here, as anywhere else, all ready and waiting for you."