LOST: A MEMORANDUM
ANNA, the waitress, took one more comprehensive look around the
prettily furnished boudoir to make sure that she had not overlooked the
sugar bowl; it was certainly nowhere in sight. Anna paused on her way
to the door leading to Judith’s bedroom, turned back and, picking up
the breakfast tray, departed to her domain below stairs.
Judith, totally unaware that she had disturbed her mother’s excellent
waitress by walking off in a moment of absent-mindedness with the
sugar bowl, saw reflected in her long cheval glass the closing of the
boudoir door, and crossing her bedroom, made certain, by a peep inside,
that Anna had gone. With a quick turn of her wrist she shut the door
and locked it. The suite which she and her husband occupied consisted
of three rooms, the boudoir, their bedroom, and beyond that a large
dressing room and bath. There was but one entrance to the suite--by way
of the boudoir, which rendered their quarters absolutely private.
Judith perched herself on one of the twin beds, and, feeling underneath
her pillow, pulled out a gold locket from which dangled the broken link
of a gold chain. There was nothing extraordinary in the appearance of
the locket, nothing to distinguish it from many other such ornaments,
yet it held Judith’s gaze with the power of a snake-charmer. Twice she
looked away from it, twice dropped it under the folds of the tossed
back bedclothes, only to pick it up each time and tip it this way and
that in the pink palm of her hand. Three times she crooked her fingers
over the spring, but the pressure needed to open the locket was not
forthcoming.
Suddenly Judith raised her eyes and scanned the bedroom--the
glass-topped dressing table with its tortoise-shell, gold-initialed
toilet set; the tall chiffonnier on which lay her husband’s military
hair brushes and a framed photograph of Judith; the _chaise longue_
with its numerous soft pillows, the comfortable chairs--Judith passed
them over with scant attention, and gazed at the pictures on the walls,
the draperies over the bow window and its broad seat, which added much
to the attractiveness of her room, and lastly at a small leather box
resembling a Kodak. The box was perched precariously near the edge of
the mantel shelf. Judith walked over to it, jerked up the clasps and
lifted the lid. She pushed aside the contents of the box and placed the
locket underneath several coils of wire, then closing the box, set it
behind the mantel clock. An inspection of the dial showed her that the
hour hand was about to register ten o’clock.
The next moment Judith was seated before her dressing table and
unbraiding her hair. It fell in a shower about her shoulders, the
winter sunshine picking out the hidden strains of gold in its rich
chestnut. A deep, deep sigh escaped Judith as she stared at her
reflection in the mirror. It was a very lovely face that confronted
her, not one to call forth a sigh from the observer. The delicately
arched eyebrows, the tender, sensitive mouth, the brilliancy of the
deep blue eyes--but enhanced by the shadows underneath them,--the long
lashes, and the small shapely head all combined to win for Judith the
title of “belle” when introduced three years before to Washington
society.
Judith’s popularity had been a matter of unbounded gratification to her
mother, whose ambition for a titled son-in-law was thereby encouraged
and dinned into her husband’s ears, to his intense disgust, but in
spite of his gruff reception of her suggestions, Robert Hale had seen
to it that only the most eligible bachelors were invited to their home.
Judith had signally failed to encourage any one of her many attentive
cavaliers, and when taken to task by her mother, had responded that no
man should be handicapped by a deaf wife and that she did not intend to
marry; a statement which, in its quiet determination, had staggered her
mother.
Judith had thrown herself heart and soul into war work, and though
not accepted for service overseas on account of her deafness, she had
won, through her efficiency and knowledge of languages, a position in
the Department of State carrying great responsibilities, and she had
retired from it, after the Armistice, with the commendation of the
Department’s highest officials.
The hard work, the long hours, and the close confinement indoors to one
accustomed, as Judith had been, to a life in the open, had resulted
in a nervous collapse, and Doctor McLane, their family physician, had
advised a complete change of environment. The medical dictum had come
on the heels of a letter from the United States Consul at Tokio and his
wife, asking Judith to make them a long promised visit, and within
forty-eight hours all details of her trip across the continent with
friends returning to their home in San Francisco after two years’ war
work in Washington, had been arranged, and a cable was sent to Mr.
and Mrs. Noyes in Tokio, notifying them to expect Judith on the next
steamer.
And in Tokio, two weeks after her arrival, Judith had met Joseph
Richards, major of the --th Regiment, invalided home from arduous
service in Siberia with the A. E. F., and bearing on his broad breast
ribbons denoting Russian, Japanese, and British decorations awarded for
valor.
Richards had received a warm welcome in the Noyes’ home, and his
hostess, a born matchmaker, was quick to observe his infatuation for
Judith, and did everything within her power to aid his courtship.
Judith strove to steel her heart to his ardent pleading, but all to no
purpose--youth called to youth in a language familiar to every age,
and in the romantic background of the Land of the Chrysanthemum they
pledged their troth. A week later they were married in the American
Consulate by a United States Navy chaplain, and Mr. and Mrs. Noyes,
looking backward over their own well-ordered wedded life, wished them
Godspeed on their road to happiness.
Happy days had followed, happier than any Judith had known, for in
spite of her brave attempt to ignore her deafness and to show only a
contented front to the world, that very deafness had built a barrier of
reserve which even Judith’s parents had never penetrated. But Richards,
whose deep love was a guide to a sympathetic understanding of her shy
and sensitive nature, gained a devotion almost akin to worship as the
days sped on, and then came the summons home.
With a faint shiver Judith straightened herself in her chair, put down
her hair brush and took up the slender wire (in shape like those worn
by telephone operators, but much lighter and narrower) attached to the
earpiece of the “globia-phone,” and slipped it over her head. It took
but a second to adjust the earpiece, and with deft fingers she dressed
her hair low on her neck and covering her ears. The style was not only
extremely becoming, but completely hid the little instrument held so
snugly against her ear. It took but a moment to complete her dressing,
and slipping the small battery of the “globia-phone” inside her belt,
she adjusted the lace jabot so that its soft folds concealed but did
not obscure the sound-gathering part of the earphone, and with one
final look in the glass to make sure that her becoming costume fitted
perfectly, she turned away just as a loud knock sounded on the boudoir
door. Judith laid her hand involuntarily on the back of her chair,
then, squaring her shoulders, she walked across the room and unlocked
the door and faced her father’s secretary.
“Polly!” The ejaculation was low-spoken and Judith cast one searching
look about the boudoir before pulling the girl inside her bedroom and
closing the door. “Have you just come?”
“Yes, I came right up here.” Polly Davis, conscious that her knees
were treacherously weak, sank into the nearest chair, and Judith, in
the uncompromising glare of the morning sunlight, saw in the girl’s
upturned face the haggard lines which care had brought overnight.
Judith dropped on her knees beside Polly and threw her arm protectingly
about her. They had been classmates at a fashionable private school
until the death of Polly’s father had brought retrenchment and, later,
painful economies in its wake, so that she was obliged to forsake her
lessons for a clerkship.
The change from affluence to poverty had produced no alteration in the
affection the two girls bore each other, an affection on Judith’s part
tempered with responsibility, as Polly, her junior by a few months,
came frequently to her for advice--which she seldom if ever followed.
Polly’s contact with the world had borne fruit in an embittered outlook
on life which in some degree alienated her from her former friends,
and she had turned to Judith with the heart-hunger of a nature thrown
upon itself for woman’s companionship. Polly’s dainty blond beauty and
bright vivacity had gained her lasting popularity with men, but with
her own sex she was generally classed as “catty.”
Judith was the first to speak. “Polly--what can I say?” she stammered.
“How comfort you?”
For answer the yellow head was dropped on Judith’s shoulder and dry,
tearless sobs racked her slender body.
“Hush! Hush!” exclaimed Judith, alarmed by her agony. “Polly, Polly,
remember----”
“Remember!” Polly sat up as if stabbed. “Oh, if I could only forget!”
A violent shudder shook her. Regaining her composure by degrees, she
finally straightened up. “There, the storm is over,” and she dashed her
hand across her eyes. “Never allude to this again--promise me.” She
spoke with vehemence, and Judith laid a quieting hand on hers.
“I give you my word never to speak of the subject,” she pledged.
“Not even to your husband?”
“No, not even to Joe.” Her answer, although prompt, held a note of
reluctance.
Polly’s smile was twisted. Opening her vanity box, she inspected her
face in its tiny mirror. A faint shriek escaped her.
“I’m a fright!” she ejaculated, and rising, went over to Judith’s
dressing table and proceeded to powder her nose. Drawing out a box of
rouge, Polly applied some of it to her cheeks. “There, that’s better.”
She turned briskly and looked at Judith. “Do you think your father will
discover it is not natural bloom?” she asked flippantly.
Judith’s answer was a stare; Polly’s transition from grief to pert
nonchalance was startling.
“Father is not very well,” she replied slowly. “Joe went to inquire for
him just before breakfast was announced, and Mother said he was asleep
and could not be disturbed.”
Polly contemplated herself in the mirror. “I am sorry,” she remarked,
but her tone was perfunctory and a brief silence followed. “Gracious,
it is nearly eleven o’clock. Judith, I must fly; for your father left a
pile of correspondence in the den----”
“Wait, Polly.” Judith, who had followed her across the bedroom, laid
her hand against the door. “There is a question you must answer. Were
you--did you,” she stumbled in her speech, “did you know that Austin
was to return here last night?”
The rouge on Polly’s cheeks showed up plainly against the dead
whiteness of her skin.
“I fail to see what business it is of yours if I knew or did not know
of Austin’s contemplated return,” she replied, and before Judith
guessed her intention she had slipped under her arm and bolted through
the boudoir into the hall, leaving Judith staring after her.
The thick carpet deadened Polly’s flying footsteps as she hurried to
the den, a room set aside for Robert Hale’s exclusive use. It adjoined
his bedroom, and there the scientist spent many hours going carefully
over his manuscripts and statistical research work. It was in one sense
a labor of love for, thanks to the timely death of a relative, he had
inherited a large estate which brought in its train a handsome income;
he was, therefore, not dependent upon a salaried position and could
indulge his whims and vagaries. And these same whims and vagaries had,
mingled with an unbridled temper, made the post of secretary to the
eminent scientist no sinecure. Polly Davis had secured the position
through Judith’s influence, and she had remained longer than the
majority of her predecessors, a fact which had won sarcastic comments
from Robert Hale and--nothing more.
Polly paused on reaching the middle of the den and stared at the man
seated with his back to her, bending over Robert Hale’s flat-topped
desk. With infinite care he went over paper after paper, and as he
lifted his hands Polly saw that he was wearing rubber gloves. With the
instinct which seems to warn of another’s presence, he partly turned in
his chair and gazed at the motionless figure behind him. A constrained
silence followed, which John Hale was the first to break.
“Why did you not go to Baltimore?” he asked.
Her reply was slow in coming.
“I have altered my plans,” she stated, and, crossing to her own desk,
she dropped into the revolving chair standing before it.
John Hale watched her for an instant, and not a detail of her
appearance escaped him. There was an ominous tightening of his lips,
and he lowered his gaze that she might not read its telltale message.
Without further comment he removed his gloves, rolled them into a ball
and stuffed them in his pocket. In the lengthening silence Polly’s eyes
strayed to a pile of papers and she swung the typewriter on its iron
supporting-frame, which was attached to her desk, toward her.
“Pardon me if I go on with my work.” Her voice was cold and formal.
Slowly John Hale rose to his feet, and the bigness of the man filled
the small room. Polly looked only at her typewriter.
“I am sorry I detained you.” His voice matched hers in tone and quality.
Polly raised her eyes and contemplated him. “Did you find what you were
looking for in your brother’s desk, Mr. Hale?” she inquired.
Hale’s answer was indirect. “Mr. Hale,” he repeated. “Why not--John?”
“No.”
The finality of the monosyllable brought an angry flush to John Hale’s
bronzed cheeks, and without another word he swung on his heel, only to
pause at the door and again address her.
“Austin’s funeral will take place to-morrow,” he announced, and the
next second he was gone.
Many minutes passed before Polly moved, then rising, she walked over
to Robert Hale’s desk and went feverishly through his drawers, one
question uppermost in her mind--what had John Hale been looking for?
She had about completed her self-imposed task when a voice over her
shoulder caused her to catch her breath.
“Why are you searching among my husband’s papers?” asked Mrs. Hale.
Polly swung around in Robert Hale’s comfortable chair.
“How you startled me!” she confessed, with a faint tinkling laugh, a
laugh which had irritated Mrs. Hale in the past. “Dear Mrs. Hale, how
noiselessly you move.”
“Do I?” tartly.
“I never heard you enter the room.” Polly moved back to her own desk.
“Your husband must find you a perfect treasure when you are attending
him during his illness.”
Mrs. Hale flushed and promptly forgot to utter the sympathetic
platitudes she had prepared when on her way to find Polly. Austin Hale
ever engaged to such a chit of a girl? The idea was unbelievable. And
John, her staid, solemn brother-in-law, in love with her! Mrs. Hale
snorted. Joe Richards should be given a piece of her mind for putting
such ideas in her head; she would even speak to Judith about it.
“Why were you going through my husband’s papers?” she asked, and her
manner in putting the question was anything but agreeable. “I insist
upon an answer.”
Polly’s eyes opened innocently. “Surely, Mrs. Hale, the matter is not
secret. I was looking for a memorandum which your husband left for
me. It was about so square,”--demonstrating with her fingers,--“on
yellowish paper.”
Polly, when moving her hands, dislodged a package of papers and they
fell to the floor. In stooping to pick them up, she missed seeing Mrs.
Hale’s quick start and sudden change of color. When she raised her
head, she found Mrs. Hale’s cold blue eyes were regarding her with
disconcerting intensity.
“Was John in here a moment ago?” she asked, and Polly was conscious of
flushing hotly; the question was unexpected.
“Didn’t you see him leave, Mrs. Hale?” she asked sweetly, and this time
it was Mrs. Hale who flushed. There were occasions when she actively
disliked her husband’s accomplished secretary.
“I met him in the hall,” she explained coldly. “But I was not sure
whether he had just left here or my husband’s bedroom. Please remember,
Polly, that Mr. Hale is ill and that the sound of your typewriter
carries into the next room.”
“In that case”--Polly drew her chair closer to her desk with a
businesslike air and picked up her pen--“I will write answers in long
hand to these business communications, unless you wish something
further”--and she waited in polite expectancy.
“I want nothing”--Mrs. Hale drew herself up. “Kindly make as little
noise as possible, Polly. Above all, don’t let that telephone ring,”
pointing to the instrument which stood almost at the girl’s elbow.
“I shall be as quiet as possible,” Polly promised, and Mrs. Hale,
satisfied that she had made Polly understand that she was capable of
issuing orders in her husband’s absence, walked toward the hall door.
Polly’s voice halted her as she was on the point of leaving the room.
“Is Mr. Hale very ill?” she asked.
“No, oh, no,” Mrs. Hale spoke with positiveness. “But Dr. McLane said
that he was under the effects of a sedative. I was in our bedroom a
moment ago and Robert was sound asleep. Polly,”--she hesitated and
fingered her hand bag--“if you come across a memorandum bearing my
name, be _sure_ to let me see it,” and with a whisk of her skirts she
hastened away.
Polly stared at the highly glazed surface of Robert Hale’s expensive
stationery and then at her penholder. Suddenly she pitched the latter
from her and, rising, methodically searched the entire room, taking
care that her movements made no noise.
In his comfortable four-post bed in the darkened room adjoining his
den, Robert Hale smiled to himself as he dragged the eider-down quilt
up about his ears and lay still. His daughter Judith had not inherited
his acute hearing.