"and that was that the Herons would be at Albuquerque. When the plan was
made the Herons were at Los Angeles, and expecting to stay there. You
must have been with them--just after the great case was decided in John
Heron's favour--thanks to you! But Louis had been seized with one of his
heart attacks--he had angina pectoris--and had wired for his sister.
Dolores didn't wish to travel without her husband, so both decided to
go. As for Justin O'Reilly, it was at Albuquerque I first saw him. It
came out that he was taking a short holiday in California, and I heard
talk about his visiting some place where he and his father had lived. I
had the impression of his being a California man. Mr. Heron had helped
O'Reilly to get into Congress. They weren't intimate, though I believe
they're distantly related, but Mr. Heron wanted to see him before he
went East, and wired for O'Reilly to meet them at Albuquerque. When I
arrived, expecting to find only Louis in the house, they were all there.
"It was a shock and a blow to me to see the Herons. I'd meant to lie,
and tell Louis I'd come to him because I'd changed my mind, and liked
him better than I thought. But to account for my sudden appearance,
uninvited, to Dolores, who hated me, was another matter.
"She and her husband supposed I was living quietly at school, mourning
for my dead brother. I had to make up a story quickly. I said that I'd
lost my position, and hoped they would put me up at Albuquerque until I
could get another. They couldn't turn me out that night. And Louis was
fairly well again by that time. He was very glad to see me. I made the
most of his welcome--for Stephen's sake. You see, I _had_ to succeed! I
wrote a note, and slipped it into Louis' hand. In it I hinted that I had
something very particular to say to him. He must go to his own rooms as
soon as he could--he had a whole suite to himself which he could shut
off from the rest of the house. It was on the ground floor. I said I
would go to him there.
"Now comes the most terrible part of my story. Roger, you may hate me
when you've heard the rest! I went to Louis' room. He let me in. I told
him that I had changed my mind. I would marry him if he wanted me to,
but only on one condition. I said I'd heard from friends of Stephen's
that Mr. Heron was keeping documents which concerned our dead father;
that they were with other private papers, in the Albuquerque house, and
in Louis' charge. If he would give the whole bundle to me to look over,
and choose what I wished to take away, I'd be his wife whenever he
wanted me.
"He tried to seize me in his arms, but I threatened to go away at once
unless he kept quiet, and did as I told him. There was a packet of
papers, he admitted, but he vowed to me that they were only business
papers. They were compromising to John Heron, and would do him immense
harm--worse than ever, now that he'd just come successfully through the
courts--if they passed into enemy hands. I insisted that there must be
something about my father. There could be no mistake, and unless Louis
would let me look, I'd never marry him. He still objected, arguing that
all the things were in one envelope, sealed with three seals, which must
not be broken, or his sister and her husband would never forgive him.
"He went to his desk--we were in his sitting-room--and showed me a
secret drawer between two other drawers. He took out an envelope--you've
seen it. 'I'll try to cut off the seals with a sharp knife,' he said,
'and I can stick them on again. While he spoke, he began looking for the
knife he wanted, and I snatched at the envelope. But his fingers closed
down on it. He laughed in my face. 'So that's your game!' he said. 'I'm
not so soft as you thought!' But I struggled with him. I was strong; he
was an invalid. He'd just been ill. When he realized that I was more
than his match, his face looked like a devil's. I shall never forget it.
'You'll pay for this!' he screamed at the top of his voice--an awful
scream--'Help! murder!'
"Overhead was what they called the living room. I knew he would be
heard; people would come. I wrenched the envelope from him, and ran for
the window. I dared not go to the door; I should meet someone and be
caught. Louis grabbed my dress, shouting 'murder!' Then I seemed to go
mad. I gave him a push, and he fell over a chair, and lay quite still. I
rushed to the door, locked it, and took the key, to make a few minutes'
delay. Then I jumped out of the window (I told you Louis' rooms were on
the ground floor) and ran very fast. I won't stop now to tell you the
adventures I had before I managed to dash into the Albuquerque railway
station, at the last minute, after the train was in. Once in the train
when I didn't see Louis, or Mr. Heron's secretary, or any one I expected
to follow me, I began to hope that some other trail had been followed.
It would have seemed more likely that I'd go back west, where I had
friends, than travel east where I was a stranger. You promised to stand
by me. Then you met Justin O'Reilly. I didn't dream Louis was dead. It
was a week later, when you and I were married, that I saw in a newspaper
about the beautiful Mrs. John Heron losing her brother suddenly, from
heart disease. A date was mentioned: the night I took the envelope. Oh,
Roger, I felt that I was guilty of his death. Even to save Stephen I
could not have killed him. Do you think me a murderess? If you do, just
let me go from your arms, and I shall understand. You needn't tell me in
words."
Roger held her closer. "No, my darling," he said, "you're not a
murderess. You didn't kill Louis Moreno. He couldn't have lived many
weeks. The doctor had warned John Heron. I love you more than ever for
what you've gone through. It's you who should hate me for my cruelty
and--and my beastly suspicion. But there were some things that tried me
rather hard. Why didn't you tell me this story long ago? Surely you
could have trusted me to keep your secret?"
"Yes, I could have trusted you, even though it was Stephen's secret more
than mine. But I had taken a double oath not to tell! First, I'd
promised Stephen himself when he came back from the dead, never to give
any hint of the truth. Later, when he was kidnapped, I was obliged to
swear another oath, on the memory of our dead parents, and my love for
my brother, that I wouldn't betray Cheffinsky and his comrades. Now it's
different. They have betrayed me. Stephen is dead. Such a girl as Clo
Riley wouldn't have sent this message unless she knew for certain. He
must have died just before that dreadful Sunday when all our
unhappiness--yours and mine--began, Roger. To keep their hold over me,
those men would have done all they could to save him till they had the
papers they wanted to use, and ruin John Heron. Soon after you brought
me to New York they found out about our marriage, and put 'personals' in
the newspapers headed like those others in California: 'Steve's Sister.'
They knew, of course, that their man, who should have met me in Chicago,
had been prevented from coming--imprisoned on a charge which they called
a 'frame-up' but I believe he must have picked someone's pocket and been
arrested in the railway station. They still had power over me, although
I was your wife, but I had power over them, too, because I'd got the
papers they wanted. I answered the messages, and refused to give up what
I had unless my brother fetched it. I hoped that would bring him. But he
only wrote--a short letter. He said that he was safe for the time being,
and was treated kindly. He would come when he could. Meanwhile, I 'must
keep the papers and the secret'--and wait. I felt relieved after that! I
dared to let myself be happy. Then, that Sunday, when Clo and I went out
in the motor, a man was waiting for me in the street. He made me
understand that he came from Stephen. His name was Peterson. He said the
Comrades had changed their minds. They wouldn't let Stephen come to me.
I must send the papers that night or my brother would die. When I asked
the reason for the change, Peterson pretended not to know. Now, I
understand at last. Stephen was dead already. Cheffinsky and the others
had at last lost their hold over me and dared not wait longer. I sent
the envelope to Peterson by Clo, to the Westmorland Hotel. Yes, the man
who was murdered! That has been another horror for me. It was when I was
taking the envelope to Clo, in the car, that I broke the rope of pearls,
and dared not even stop to pick them up! I hoped that Stephen was
saved--thanks to Clo--but, Roger, it was not the same envelope you took
care of for me in the train. It had been changed. Inside, when Peterson
opened it before Clo, he found only blank paper--writing paper of the
Santa Fé Limited train. Clo puzzled the mystery out, and explained what
might have happened when you and I left the train in Chicago--what must
have happened. A clever trick of Justin O'Reilly's, working for the
Herons."
"Justin O'Reilly! Damn him!" Roger broke out; but Beverley covered his
lips with her hand.
"No. He wasn't to blame. He must have thought me a monster of
ingratitude and treachery to the Herons. The moment they saw the secret
drawer open they would all have guessed that I'd stolen the sealed
envelope. It was the only thing kept there. If John Heron told O'Reilly
what the contents were, he must have supposed I meant to make money by
blackmailing. The reason the Herons were silent and left me alone, was
that O'Reilly had managed to have you robbed of the envelope, at
Chicago, where it was changed for another--another just like it, given
him by Dolores, with her seal and gold wax. So they were safe. O'Reilly
kept the right envelope, and it was safer with him than at Albuquerque.
But they could never be sure whether you were in the affair with me or
not. So, I have lost you the Herons' friendship."
"As if I cared!"
"And Justin O'Reilly has doubted you, and detested me. But he has been
splendid to Clo, who went to his hotel and stole the real envelope out
of his private safe and brought it here----"
"So that was it!" said Roger. "And in your boudoir I found the envelope
addressed to him at his bank, and sent it back to the Dietz that night."
"Roger! It was you?"
"Yes. You are not the only one with a confession to make. There are many
things I----"
"I don't want a confession from you!" she broke in. "Whatever you did
was right. Even before you told me, I felt you knew about the pearls
being gone----"
"Though I knew, I ought to have trusted you. I ought to have trusted you
when I heard you telephone O'Reilly----"
"So you did hear! I was sure of it. I telephoned about Clo. He was
helping her, and so, indirectly, helping me, though I'd seen him only
when he brought her here that Sunday night, after she'd been to his
hotel. Oh, Roger, you don't know what that child has done for me! Not
only did she get back the envelope, and now the pearls--which Peterson
stole--but she has gone through an ordeal terrible enough to kill most
women, or drive them mad--that delicate girl! She may be in danger
still--for she dropped the pearls in a bag out of a window in a shabby
boarding-house where she has been watching a thief. Miss Blackburne has
just told me. My one comfort is that a man, answering Justin O'Reilly's
description, got out of a motor car in front of the house, as Miss
Blackburne came away. Clo tricked O'Reilly, and stole from him, and
yet--I think she bewitched him. I think he'd risk his life to keep her
from harm. I pray that he may bring her here, safe and sound."
"He's not likely to come to my house," Roger said. "I've just caused him
the greatest disappointment of his life. I wanted to hurt him--and I
found a way. By this time he must know what I've done. There's an old
mansion in Gramercy Square built by O'Reilly's great-great-grandfather.
Years ago there was a forced sale; and ever since Justin O'Reilly was a
boy he has wanted to buy the house back. I have bought it. But I wish to
heaven he would fall in love with this Clo of yours and marry her. I'd
give them the deed of sale as a wedding present!"
Roger had sprung up, released by Beverley, and almost shouted the words
of his inspiration. He had forgotten everything and everybody in the
world except his wife, the girl who had helped her, and his own late
enemy, whom he would now gladly welcome as his dearest friend. A knock
brought him back to realities with a start; yet he felt half dazed as he
opened the door, to face Léontine.
"The butler begged of me to come," said the Frenchwoman. "Is it the wish
of Monsieur and Madame that dinner be still longer delayed?"
Roger turned and looked at Beverley, his hand on the door. "What shall
we say?" he asked. "Shall I go down without you? Shall I explain that
you've a headache----"
"No," Beverley answered. She stood up, tall and very beautiful, though
deadly pale. "I have no headache. I am quite well. Léontine, tell
Johnson dinner may be served."
XXXIX
ON THE ROAD TO NEWPORT
Through the blue dusk of the June night a big gray limousine car bowled
smoothly over the velvet road surface, with the moon overhead, and the
sea making distant music. Turning a corner with a swing the limousine
came upon another car, stationary and in trouble. A man in evening dress
was holding an electric lamp for the chauffeur to peer under the bonnet,
and standing beside him was a woman in black, wearing a filmy purple
cloak.
"Want any help?" O'Reilly called from the window, while his chauffeur
slowed down.
"No, thank you! We'll soon be all right," answered the man with the
lamp. The light shone on his face, which was strange to O'Reilly, and on
that of the woman, which, to his surprise, was familiar. "You can go
on," he said to his chauffeur, in a low voice.
"Why, Mr. O'Reilly, it was Mrs. Heron!" Clo cried, sinking back
reluctantly upon her comfortably rigged-up bed, after a long stare
through the window.
"'Mr. O'Reilly,' indeed? Don't you realize I'm your husband?" Justin
laughed at her.
"I'd forgotten," said Clo. "It's only since this morning, and we've had
so many things to think of."
"I've thought of nothing but you. You seem to have thought of nothing
but your Angel--and these Herons."
"It's the Herons I'm thinking of now," Clo confessed. "Why did you tell
the man to go on?"
"Why, I like old John Heron, but I'm not a spoil-sport."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm wondering if Mrs. Heron and that chap are on their way to the
Sands' ball. If Heron doesn't mind letting them enjoy each other's
company, why should I butt in?"
"Mr. Heron was in the car," Clo insisted gravely. "It was dark inside,
but I saw his face at the window."
"You must have sharp eyes," said Justin. "The window looked black as a
pocket to me."
"You think I imagined it. But I'm sure! Oh, Mr.--er--Justin, do let's go
back and warn him! I have a presentiment that if we don't, it will be
too late."
"Whatever you feel as if you must do shall be done," said Justin, with a
tenderness in his voice of which few people would have believed him
capable. "The doctor humoured you, and told me to, so here goes!" He
called through the speaking-tube, and directed the chauffeur to turn.
"Go back till you get within a few yards of that auto we passed hung up
on the road," he added. And to Clo:
"Astonishing the interest you take in the Herons!" he teased.
"Not in them. In him. I don't think I like Mrs. Heron," she explained.
"You've worried about him ever since you came to yourself yesterday. But
then, I'm used to John Heron's life being threatened. It used to happen
about once a week. And he is alive to this day."
"I feel awfully responsible," said Clo. "You see, I heard Kit and Churn
talking of the plot, and saying that Chuff was sure to have found
someone else, after Pete died."
"I tried to get Heron three times on long distance yesterday," said
O'Reilly, "and when he was always out, I wired."
"You couldn't explain clearly in the telegram."
"If you really saw him in the car, he's all right, up to date. There it
is, still stranded. We shall soon know."
"Will you get out and talk to him seriously?" Clo urged.
"Yes. If it's he and not his ghost you saw. I'll get him to walk along
the road with me, out of earshot from his wife."
The gray limousine slowed, and carefully stopped. The chauffeur had been
told that, for his life, he must not let the car jolt or jerk.
Justin kissed his bride of a few hours good-bye for a few minutes, and
jumped out.
While Clo kissed her hand, almost timidly, because Justin had kissed it,
Justin himself walked on to the other car.
"You!" exclaimed Dolores Heron. "So it was you in the limousine that
hailed us? Funny I didn't recognize your voice, but the chauffeur's
tinkering made such a noise----"
O'Reilly was about to ask for Heron when Dolores introduced him to Mr.
Hammersley-Fisher. "He's our host at Narragansett, and is taking us over
to Roger Sands,'" she said. "Jack's in the car, very bored. I believe
he's gone to sleep."
"No, he hasn't," Heron's voice answered rather testily, for he secretly
disliked Dolores' habit of calling him "Jack." "He's only waiting for a
chance to speak!"
O'Reilly went to the window of the car, and shook hands with his
friends.
"It's not possible that you're going to the Sands'?" Heron said.
"I should have made the same remark about you a few days ago," retorted
O'Reilly. "But--circumstances have altered cases with us both."
"My wife is the circumstance that has altered my case," Heron replied,
in the tone of a man with a grievance.
"So is mine!" returned Justin, in a purposely subdued tone.
"Your--what?"
"My wife. But let's take a walk. Your friend's auto won't be ready to
move for some time, I should judge."
The elder man, who had been feeling ill and tired, sprang out of the car
with a sudden increase of liveliness. Dolores and Hammersley-Fisher
stood with their backs to the two men. Heron's wife turned for a glance,
but let them walk away without a question. She was flirting with her
host.
Dolores was saying to Hammersley-Fisher: "I dislike Mrs. Roger Sands
intensely. I wouldn't dream of going to her house if her husband hadn't
at one time done quite a service--legally, I mean--to mine. I don't
often talk like this about people I'm going to visit. But if I could
tell you the things that woman has done you wouldn't blame me."
To O'Reilly Heron was repeating, as they walked along:
"Your wife, did you say?"
"I did say. But before I go on I've a question or so to ask. You got my
wire, advising you to be careful, and hinting that some of the old lot
had bobbed up along your life line?"
"Yes. We were out all the afternoon. I found the wire this evening when
we got back to Hammersley-Fisher's place to dress for this show at Roger
Sands'. Now will you tell me----"
"I'll tell you this, that my opinion of Mrs. Roger Sands has changed.
You shall hear why presently. I rather think it will give you pleasure
to change yours--when you can conscientiously. As for Sands himself,
I've learned that we have both done him an injustice in regard to those
papers."
"How have you learned all this?"
"From the same person who wished me to put you on your guard--made me
call you up at Narragansett, and wire when I couldn't reach you by
'phone!"
"Who is this person?"
"My wife. And if you want to know who she is----"
"I most certainly do."
"I could introduce you to her in about two minutes if I weren't afraid
of her giving you another shock."
"Another--shock?"
"As she did on the Sunday night at our hotel when you had your--little
attack. Heron, I've married that girl; the most wonderful girl in the
world."
Heron stopped short.
"That girl!--you--have--_married_ that girl?"
"Yes," said Justin, "I married her this morning. So, if you'd been
inclined to forbid the banns, you're too late."
For an instant Heron did not speak. But when words came, he seemed to
fling them at his friend: "You're not joking when you say that,
O'Reilly. You have a meaning. What's in your mind?"
"Perhaps--the same thing that's in yours, Heron."
"Speak out plainly."
"I'm not prepared to do that without encouragement. You and I are both
of Irish blood, Heron, so you know as well as I do that imagination gets
out of hand now and then with us Celtic folk. We generally flatter
ourselves it's second sight, whereas it may be--just nothing at all."
"I give you leave to speak."
"Long ago, when I first knew you, while my father was still alive, and
before you married Miss Moreno, you once came to stop with us. You were
run down and ill. My father thought we could do you good. One day you
spoke rather frankly about a certain incident in your past. Never since
have we mentioned that conversation, and I never expected to do so
again. Yesterday I heard the story of another incident which matched it
about as perfectly as two bits of a broken coin can join together. This
second incident concerned two Irish girls. The first died years ago. The
second--is my wife."
"And the first was mine."
"I was wondering. You see, that collapse of yours on Sunday night wasn't
like you, in the normal course of things. It had to be accounted for,
and so----"
"The girl told you!"
"She told me that she'd met outside my door a tall man with red hair and
beard, and extraordinary eyes that pierced her through and through. She
told me that, after she'd walked on to a stone ledge from my window to
yours, and climbed in there----"
"Great Heavens!"
"I mentioned that she was the most wonderful girl in the world. You'll
hear the story some day. She didn't know who you were, then. When she
learned your name, although she wasn't conscious of having heard it in
the past, it affected her strangely. She seemed to associate it with
wakeful nights in her early childhood, and the sound of a woman's sobs
in the dark."
"Don't, Justin. I can't stand any more--now. The sight of her face that
Sunday at the Dietz--the ghostliness of her, in my locked room--I
thought I was haunted."
"Would you like to see her again, and judge for yourself whether----"
"Take me to her," Heron broke in.
They started on again toward the gray limousine drawn up at the roadside
only a few yards away; but before they had gone a dozen steps Heron
stopped O'Reilly once more.
"Does she know?" he asked abruptly.
"I have said nothing to her," Justin assured him. "She cannot know. Yet
I think, what one would call her 'subconscious self' is aware of a tie
between you and herself. She's Celtic, too! She hasn't been able to rest
since she learned (in a way you shall hear about later) that your life
was threatened. I'm certain that something above Fate has brought us
three together on the road to-night. I didn't see you in the car. She
saw you. She made me turn back."
Without another word Heron began to walk very fast. Justin kept at his
side, but did not speak until they had nearly reached the car which
contained Clo. Then he warned Heron hastily that the girl had had an
accident. "That is," he corrected himself, dryly, "she was shot by the
leader of the band that's after you. If you want to tell her here and
now what you think you are to each other, I don't forbid it. Happy news
seldom hurts. (By the by, she explained to me that she came over to
America because she thought the States looked small on the map, and she
might meet her American father!) Go gently with her, that's all I ask."
"You give me leave to talk to her--as I wish?"
"Yes. But--what about Mrs. Heron? Is she----"
"Oh, later, I must tell her. To-night I want it to rest between
ourselves. But, O'Reilly, I can't go on with my wife and that fellow,
Hammersley-Fisher, to the Sands'--after this! What am I to do? Think
for me. I can think only--of one thing."
"When I've introduced you to my wife" (each time O'Reilly spoke those
two words it was with tenderness and pride) "I'll go back to
Hammersley-Fisher's car and suggest that he take Mrs. Heron on, while we
follow later, if you like."
"For heaven's sake, do."
They had reached the gray limousine. Justin opened the door. "Clo, here
is my old friend, John Heron, come to see you," he announced.
"Clo! Her name's not 'Clodagh,' is it?" the question leapt from Heron's
lips.
"It was one of my mother's names, Mr. Heron."
"And your voice is her voice!" he exclaimed. "Your face is her face." He
had not meant to begin in this way; but the moment was too big for him
when Clo switched on an electric lamp, and the light framed her in
silver. Justin silently moved away, leaving the two to make acquaintance
as Fate led.