had had several engagements, but she telephoned to put them off. Not for
anything would she have left the house, for she hoped to have a message
from Clo. She feared to hear also from one whom Peterson served, but it
was best that she should be at home if such a message arrived.
"Have they kept their word? Have they killed Stephen because I didn't
send back the papers?" she constantly asked herself. "What will they do
next? Will they advertise again in the newspapers? Will they telephone?
Will they send another man, now Peterson is dead? Or if not, how will
they reach me? Surely they won't leave me in peace for long!"
The day passed with outward monotony. It was only within herself that
each moment was different from every other.
When evening came at last, nothing had happened, yet Beverley's nerves
were jarred as if by a succession of shocks. As Léontine dressed her for
dinner, a sharp tap at the door made her jump and cry out. "A
special-delivery letter for me, Madame," announced the Frenchwoman.
"Have I Madame's permission? It is strange I do not know the hand. It is
but a common yellow envelope, addressed in pencil, to Mademoiselle
Léontine Rossignol--perhaps from someone who begs. Never have I received
a letter by special delivery!"
"You'd better open it," said Beverley, relieved that the letter was not
for her.
"Rossignol is so odd a name, Madame, that everyone remembers, because it
means nightingale," said Léontine, gingerly tearing off an end of the
flimsy yellow envelope.
Then, suddenly she cried out. "But Madame, the letter is from
Mademoiselle Riley! I do not see why she writes to me. I understand
nothing of what she says. Will Madame read?"
Hiding eagerness, Beverley took the half sheet of commercial paper.
The letter began:
DEAR LÉONTINE:
I am safe in my new home, and there's no need to worry. I am
picking up all that I have lost. I hope to call on you before long
and show what good progress I have made. With grateful messages for
Madame, from her devoted little servant, and kind remembrance to
you--I am, faithfully yours,
Clodagh Riley.
P.S.--If possible I should like Mr. O'R. to hear that I am doing
well. He has been kind since you saw me last.
There was no date and no address on this letter, which filled only one
page.
Beverley's bewilderment passed as she studied the letter. Clo's
underlying motives came to the surface with a flash.
"I suppose," she explained quietly, "that Mademoiselle fancied it would
be a liberty to write to me. I'm glad to hear from her so soon. As the
letter is really for me, perhaps I'd better keep it."
"Please do, madame," Léontine urged, again attacking the tiny hooks
which fastened her mistress's dinner dress. "I noticed that Mademoiselle
did not put the number of the house or street where she is staying. But,
of course, Madame will know both."
"Of course," echoed Beverley. She guessed that Léontine must be consumed
with curiosity as to Clo's disappearance and the departure of Sister
Lake.
When Léontine had hooked the last hook Beverley went to the boudoir.
There she sat down with Clo's cryptic message, praying that Roger might
not come till she had unravelled it.
But, after all, the meaning of one sentence after another sprang quickly
to her eyes. She had realized at once that Clo wrote to Léontine because
she dared not use the name of Mrs. Sands. This suggested that she was in
a house where the name of Sands was not unknown. Now, concentrating upon
the queer letter, Beverley understood each veiled hint. Clo wished her
not to "worry." Clo was "picking up all she had lost." Clo "hoped to
call before long, and show what good progress" she had made. All this
could have only one meaning. And how like Clo, to have treasured in some
brain-cell Léontine's queer name of "Rossignol"!
She had written nothing to waken suspicion; and as no house, no street,
was mentioned, there need be no dread of discovery for guilty
consciences. Beverley judged that O'Reilly's name as well as Roger's
might be known to someone near to Clo. Evidently she was afraid to send
a letter to Justin O'Reilly. But the end of the postscript was amazing.
O'Reilly had been kind to Clo!
"She went to see him again!" was the thought in Beverley's mind. "Then,
perhaps, she didn't go back to the Westmorland. What can 'kind' mean,
unless he's promised to help instead of hurt us?"
But she must find out what had happened last between O'Reilly and Clo.
How should she communicate with him? Should she send a note by district
messenger to the Dietz? Or--should she telephone, before Roger came, and
learn all that she wished to know without delay? Quickly she decided
upon this bolder course. She called up O'Reilly's hotel, and soon heard
his "Hello!"
"I'm Mrs. Sands," she explained. "I've a letter from Clo. She sends you
a message."
The voice from the Dietz had sounded indifferent. It was so no longer.
"What news?" O'Reilly asked. "Tell me everything."
She told him, and read Clo's letter to Léontine distinctly, that he
might miss no word. "I understand why it might be dangerous to put an
address, or to write to you or me," Beverley added. "But it's frightful
not to know where she is. Explain what you can quickly, because--I'm
expecting someone."
"Peterson stole your pearls," O'Reilly answered. "He 'phoned Heron and
offered to sell them. He must have been hiding in your room and
overheard our talk. Later, I answered him for Heron. Miss Riley was in
Peterson's room then, and she and I got in touch. She asked through the
'phone if I'd help. I said 'Yes,' and she told me to come with a taxi. I
picked her up outside the hotel, and took her where she wanted to go: a
restaurant, Krantz's Keller. When I'd heard what she had to say I
proposed to employ a private detective. Don't worry; he's absolutely
loyal, and I'm on your side, after all, Mrs. Sands--I may as well
confess it's for Miss Riley's sake. She repented stealing the papers
from me, you know, and sent them back in the envelope just as they
were----"
"Clo sent you the papers! You're mistaken. I know she didn't send them,"
Beverley cried. She had forgotten her fear of being overheard, forgotten
everything, but the sound of a door closing caused her to start. It was
a strange sound just then, because both doors had already been shut when
she went to the telephone, the door leading into her bedroom, the door
into the hall, and she had heard neither open since. Yet she could not
be mistaken. Somebody had closed one of those doors and must previously
have opened it.
Sick with fear, Beverley dropped the receiver and ran to look into the
hall. No one was there. She flew to the door of her bedroom and peeped
in. The room was empty. She rang for Johnson, who appeared at once.
"Has Mr. Sands come in?" she asked.
"I think not, Madam," the butler replied.
"Go and see. Search everywhere."
She did not move while the man was away.
"Mr. Sands is not in the house, Madam," Johnson solemnly announced.
"Thank you!" Beverley said. Yet she was not relieved. Something told her
that it was Roger who had shut the door.
XXX
WHAT CLO DID WITH A KNIFE
When Kit and Churn left Krantz's Keller they walked fast along
Fourteenth Street till they came to Sixth Avenue. There they appeared to
hesitate, as if they could not decide whether to go up or down town.
Clo, as close behind them as she dared to venture, guessed instantly
that, until now, they had not entirely made up their minds which of
several hiding-places it would be safest for them to seek.
Judging by their linked arms, and the nearness of the two heads, their
conversation was absorbing. They stopped at the corner, and Clo stopped
also. Presently the pair resolved on going down toward Thirteenth
Street. Clo went after them. They walked for several blocks; and the
girl following always glanced at the number of each street she passed.
There had been an accident to a taxi, however, in the neighbourhood of
Eleventh Street, and a crowd had collected. In this crowd Clo nearly
lost the quarry. She had a moment of despair, then saw the skirt of Kit
in the distance. No longer was she wearing a pink cloak, but a white
one. She must have had a chance to turn it wrong side out!
So excited was Clo that she forgot to notice the streets. Whether the
couple turned off the Avenue into Tenth, or Ninth, or Eighth, she was
not sure. She was certain only that she was on their track. Then
followed a chase across town. In this, the girl finally lost her head a
little, but when it seemed that she could drag herself no further, Kit
and Churn stopped in front of a house, and rang the bell.
"Neither of them lives there, or there'd be a latch-key!" Clo thought,
hovering on the other side of the street.
It was some time before the two were let in; but after a delay of four
or five minutes a woman opened the door. A dim gas light shone from the
hall or lobby, and Clo's impression was of a dark brown face, the face
of a negress. There was a short discussion; then the woman nodded,
stepping aside to let Kit and Churn pass. An instant later the door shut
them in.
Clo stood gazing at the house. It was one in a row of old-fashioned,
shabby brick buildings, four storeys in height. A light showed in the
basement, but other windows were black. Suddenly, as Clo watched, a
yellow gleam flashed in a fourth-storey room but at the same moment a
man stepped to the window and pulled down a dark blind. Clo thought that
this man was Churn.
"They're going to stay," she argued; and crossing the street at a
distance from the house, the girl looked at it with interest. There was
no street lamp near, and she could not see the number; but there was a
small plaque at the side of the door, and Clo tripped up the steps to
read it. Joy, the place was a boarding house!
The pair having mounted to the fourth storey, Clo thought she might
venture to ring. She pulled an old-fashioned bell, and her heart thumped
in her breast as the shrill sound jingled through the house.
"I must have some tale to tell--why I'm here so late, wanting a room,"
she reflected.
The door was opened by the woman who had admitted Kit and Churn. Not
only was she black, but she was fat and slovenly. Staring at the
new-comer, she exclaimed with a mouth full of gum:
"Say, is you another fren' o' Mr. Cheffinsky?"
"Chuff!" was the password that flashed through Clo's brain. "This is
where he lives!" She was triumphant.
"I don't know anything about Mr. Cheffinsky," she replied, "but I'm in a
scrape, and a friend of mine once recommended me to this house. I saw
some people come in, and a light. It's still a boarding-house, isn't
it?"
"It ain't no foundlin' orphant asylum."
"I don't ask for charity. I've got money to pay my board. But I don't
want an expensive room. One at the top of the house will do."
"Say, it's a real funny time o' night for a young girl like you to go
lookin' foh a home to lay her haid," remarked the negress. "But you can
step in the hall. I'll call Mis' MacMahon. She's the lady o' the house.
We've got a room upstahs, but I don't know whethah she'll let you have
it."
She allowed Clo to enter, and left the girl standing as she descended
the basement stairs.
"'MacMahon' sounds hopeful!" Clo thought. The girl had lodged drearily
in New York, but she had never been in a house as dreary as this.
Mrs. MacMahon's look was less inspiring than her name. She was of the
big-jowled type; a grim woman of middle age; and her manner suggested
suspicion. But Clo began to speak first, with her best brogue, which she
could use, when needed, with great effect.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, for intruding on ye at this time of the
night," said the girl in her creamiest voice, with a child-like smile,
"but the lady I'm maid for and me had a quarrel about a young man, and
rather than give him up, I just walked away from the house, without
waitin' to pack my things. I've walked till I'm played out! I tould yer
maid a friend o' mine had spoken o' Mrs. MacMahon's place and I didn't
forget. I'll pay a week in advance if you'll take me in."
Whether Mrs. MacMahon believed these out-pourings was an open question,
but her face softened slightly at sound of the brogue.
"Irish, are you!" she said.
"Yes, County Cork, and not over since very long," returned the girl.
"I'm from County Cork, me and me dead husband both," volunteered the
woman. "I've been in New York these twelve years. Violet says you ast
for a top-floor room?"
"I did that," said Clo.
"Well, a top-floor room is the only wan I've got vacant. How long would
ye be wanting it for?"
"Oh, a few days, and maybe more."
"You can come and have a look. I don't boast of the room. It's last
choice. I charge seven dollars with board."
"I don't mind seven dollars," said Clo, and followed her hostess up
flight after flight of dimly lighted stairs. They were covered with
oilcloth, and the hall smelled of escaping gas, but the girl was almost
happy. The place was not attractive, but it seemed decent enough.
"It's a hall room, but a front one," explained Mrs. MacMahon, panting,
as they reached the top of the house. Clo was enchanted to hear this,
for it meant that the room must adjoin the one where Churn had pulled
down the blind. She wondered if Churn were married to Kit. Perhaps she
would find out by and by.
"There's a husband and wife come into the double room next," Mrs.
MacMahon went on, when she had shown Clo her proposed quarters. "The
wall's kind of thin, for this room was part of the other once, but
they're a quiet couple, I guess: and if you're quiet, too, you won't
trouble each other. They're friends of a gentleman boarder we've had for
some time, and they've been here to call on him, though they've never
stayed before. I want 'em to be comfortable, so stir around as little as
you can in the morning. I guess they're the kind that lies late in bed."
"I feel more as if I'd like to lie in bed all day!" sighed Clo.
"Well, sleep as much as you like. But don't be scared if ye hear folks
movin' later on to-night. The friend of this couple is out, but he may
come home and want to see 'em."
Clo paid seven dollars in advance for the room, and took pains to show
that she had plenty of money. She begged also to buy or borrow a clean
nightgown, and suggested that, if there were a new toothbrush in the
house, she would be glad to have it. Mrs. MacMahon laughed. A nightgown
she could lend, but as for a toothbrush, there wouldn't be one this side
of the nearest drugstore. Miss Ryan (the name Clo gave) must wait till
next day.
"Well, anyhow, maybe you've a bit you'll give me to eat!" the new
boarder pleaded. "I'm that hungry I could bite off the door-knob! I'll
pay extra, of course--this time of night. And your coloured
woman--Violet, isn't she?--shall have a couple of dimes for bringing up
the food."
Mrs. MacMahon softened and asked what food her guest desired. Clo
desired nothing so much as a knife, and made a bid to secure one by
asking for meat. "Any old kind!--and some bread and milk. I'll give
fifty cents--" (she watched the woman's eye)--"I mean, a dollar for my
supper."
When Mrs. MacMahon had gone the girl held her breath to listen. Yes, the
wall was thin! She could hear Kit and Churn talking in an ordinary tone,
but she could catch few words, even when she laid her ear against the
dusty paper. When the voices sank low, they reached her only in an
indistinct rumble.
She guessed that the tiny room was separated from the larger one by a
partition of laths and plaster, covered on each side with flimsy wall
paper. She could feel as well as hear someone walking up and down, up
and down, in the next room! No doubt it was Churn. Now and then he would
pause. A piece of furniture would creak; then he would jump up, to begin
walking again.
Presently Violet appeared, a coarse nightgown hanging over her arm, a
plate of bread and ham on a napkinless tray, and glass of bluish milk.
Clo gave the woman twenty cents, and promised the same sum if her
breakfast were brought upstairs. Violet agreed to this bargain, which
was well for the girl. She would have starved rather than desert her
room long enough to eat while Churn and Kit remained in their quarters.
She surmised that they would not often go out.
Clo had told the truth in pleading hunger, but when she was alone and
had locked her door, she took from the tray only the steel knife and
fork which lay beside the plate. Having pushed the cot bed away from the
wall, she sat down on the floor, Turk fashion. Choosing a spot which
would be invisible with the bed in place, she waited till Churn was
inclined to walk. Then she began delicately to dig at the plaster with
her extemporized tools. Whenever Churn stopped, she stopped also, lest
the rat-like noise should reach alert ears in the next room. For a long
time she toiled, cautiously, slowly, gathering up bits of paper and
plaster that fell, and collecting them in her lap. It was a tedious
task, but not difficult. In less than an hour she had made--practically
without noise--a hole the size of a silver dollar. It went through to
the lathes; beyond that barrier her tools were of no avail. She needed a
thin, sharp instrument like a hat-pin, to push between the slats of
wood. A tiny hole would suffice. But she had no hat-pin in the
close-fitting toque lent by Beverley. Her own was now a souvenir in
O'Reilly's possession.
She tried hair-pins, but they bent, one after another. Then she searched
for a nail, and found one at last, stuck in the wall, supporting a small
mirror. Carefully she deposited this upon the bed (it wouldn't do to
break a looking glass!) and set to work once more. At the end of twenty
minutes' scratching, she felt resistance cease before the nail-point.
Hastily she withdrew it, lest it should pierce too far; and stretched on
the floor she listened with her ear to the aperture on her side of the
wall.
XXXI
THE NINE DAYS
"I wish Chuff would come, and get it over!" she heard Churn sigh aloud,
in his sweet, foreign-sounding voice.
"I wonder why he went out?" said Kit. "He ought to have been home all
evening. He was expecting Pete on business, you know."
"Can he have got onto de reason dat fellah Pete didn't come?"
"No, no," Kit answered. "I've told you a dozen times no! He wouldn't
have gone to the Westmorland. Pete had to call on him. But there must
have been something important to take Chuff out."
"Vat vas de plan?"
"Oh, what does it matter? To-night's changed everything for me, and you,
too. You are goin' to stand by me, aren't you, Churn, through thick and
thin?"
"You bettcha life! For de whole of vot I'm vorth!"
Kit's tone changed. She chuckled. "You may be worth a lot. You've
married a rich heiress. See?"
"Sh, girl! If Chuff comes spyin' on us we don't vant him to hear dat
word 'married.' He'd only laugh--or vorse."
"All right! But he ain't our master any more. We can do without him."
"Maybe he von't tink he can do vidout us."
"He'll _have_ to, when we get something good on the pearls. And say, I
never thought you could kill any one and feel no more than I do now.
Churn, if you'd been there, you'd 'a' settled his hash long before I
did. The things he said to me--and me your wife! It makes me sick to
think o' them--and of him, the low beast!"
"Don't tink, den. Tink of me."
"I do. I love you, Boy! The minute I lamped the pearls--when I sensed
they was real--I meant to get 'em, for you and me to set up house far
away somewheres on our own. We can go to Buenos Aires or some place
south, where they love a nice voice like yours, so you won't feel
wasted. If Chuff knew what we've got here in this table drawer!"
"Better tie 'em up in your handkerchief again. If Chuff----"
"Oh, Chuff nothing! I feel in my bones, now he's so late, he won't come
home to-night. I don't care what happens to Chuff. Let's go to bed."
"No--not yet. I vait."
"Peterson thought he could say what he liked to me, the pig!" Kit went
on. "Well, he's paid. His blood's on his own head. Oh, Churn, it was on
his head, every sense o' the word! I didn't like the look of it--turned
me sick! Lucky my long cloak was in the room. See--on my dress, two
stains! Boy, that trunk stunt was awful. You've got to let me go to bed
and sleep, or I believe I'll have hysterics and yell the house down. I
thought I was all right since I found you, but it's comin' on again,
that tremblin'!"
"Go to bed, den, girl. I vait. Dat's easy."
"I will. Just one more look at the pearls--our pearls! But I lost one. I
heard it roll. It was so close to him I--I couldn't----"
"Don't you care. Dere's a lot for us. We'll count 'em first ting
to-morra', ven ve both feel like ourselves."
"They ought to fetch a king's ransom, Boy."
"Dey vill not, den. Dere'll be all de bulls in N'York after em. Joke on
us, dough, if Chuff was in de deal mit Pete!"
"I'm sure he wasn't--dead sure."
Silence fell. When the pair spoke again it was of other things. At last
Clo fell suddenly fast asleep, on the floor. She knew that Beverley's
pearls were in the next room. That had to be enough for the night.
* * * * *
The girl slept till dawn. Waking, she was astonished to find herself on
the floor, and for an instant could not remember what had happened. But
in a flash it all came back. Quickly she got up and quietly undressed,
putting on Mrs. MacMahon's immense nightgown before she dropped
thankfully upon the cot bed. Clo did not sleep again, but lay until
eight o'clock, when her neighbours began to stir. Then she listened once
more at the hole in the wall until she feared that Violet might come
with breakfast. The woman had suggested bringing it at nine, and lest
she should wonder why the hungry girl hadn't supped, the milk had to be
hastily poured away and the bread and ham hidden. The bed had also to be
lifted into place covering the hole in the wall.
Nothing of special interest had been said by Kit and her husband since
their waking, but soon the young woman began to concern herself with the
subject of clothes.
"I told Mrs. MacMahon we expected our baggage this morning from
Brooklyn. If it doesn't come it's been stolen--see? The old party won't
think wrong of Chuff's pals. He's a real family friend. Gee, all sorts
of things happen in a house like this! Before long we'll 'phone Isaacs
to come along and look at the pearls. Chuff's got a 'phone in his room,
you know."
Clo knew also. She had good reason to know, and that Chuff had lent his
telephone book to "Jake."
As Violet kicked on the door (her hands being occupied with the tray)
Clo hastily stuffed a handkerchief into the hole she had made in the
wall. She feared that the pair in the next room might take alarm at the
sound of voices, and therefore she cautiously subdued her own. She
hadn't slept well, she answered Violet's question. Her head ached, and
perhaps she might lie in bed the rest of the day. The promised reward
was given, and more offered if Violet would find time to buy toilet
articles, and a few clothes. She was begged to bring writing paper also;
there might be a letter to send by express delivery.
The coffee, though weak, was hot, and Clo felt revived after drinking
it. Once more she placed the bed across the door, pulled out the
handkerchief "gag" from the hole in the wall, and thus, on sentinel
duty, finished her breakfast.
Later in the day the couple next door resigned themselves to the
indefinite absence of Chuff. "Mrs. Mac" herself came up to see her
guests, who called themselves Mr. and Mrs. Stahl. The landlady talked of
Mr. Cheffinsky as her "star boarder," and said that she was used to his
"queer ways." Often he stopped away from home a day or two, but she
never worried. He always came back. The "Stahls" were voluble over the
non-arrival of their luggage, which seemed to vex them more than the
appearance of Cheffinsky, their old friend. Whether or not Mrs. MacMahon
believed the story, at all events she agreed to supply the needs of Mr.
and Mrs. Stahl, ordering a list of things for their selection. This
arrangement raised Clo's hopes. Maybe Churn and Kit intended to venture
out! If they went for a short airing, they would probably leave the
pearls at home. In their absence Clo would somehow get into the room
next door. With Beverley's jewels recaptured, her mission in this house
would be accomplished.