SPECULATION
IT was lacking twenty minutes of noon and Polly Davis frowned
discontentedly as she consulted her wrist-watch. She was under positive
instructions from Robert Hale to complete the compilation of data given
to her the week before. Hale’s cramped and peculiar style of penmanship
was difficult to read at any time, and with her thoughts wandering far
afield, Polly found her task more irksome than usual.
Swiftly her fingers moved over the familiar typewriter keys and with
mechanical exactness she copied--copied, pausing now and then to
decipher a nearly unintelligible paragraph, until she came to the end
of the manuscript notes. But her sigh of relief changed to a swift,
disgusted ejaculation as, dragging the last sheet out of the typewriter
she discovered that she had carelessly reversed the carbon and that
the second copy, intended for Hale’s files, was blank. The impression,
which should have been on it, was stamped, instead, on the back of the
top sheet.
With a gesture of rage she crumpled the sheet in her hand and hurled
it into the scrap basket. In its flight the paper ball just missed
striking Anna, the waitress, whose noiseless entry a second before had
escaped her attention. At sight of the servant Polly lowered her hand,
still raised after flinging the paper ball, and her features relaxed to
their wonted expression.
“I did not mean to bombard you, Anna,” she apologized. “Would you mind
moving the scrap basket over here where it will be more handy? Thanks,”
as the servant complied with her request. “Any letters for Mr. Hale?”
“The postman hasn’t brought the second mail yet, Miss Polly.” Anna
unfolded a small card table and stood it in front of Polly. “I hope
you don’t mind having your luncheon a little earlier to-day, miss. The
Madam gave me this afternoon off to go to the movies.”
“Mind? Well, hardly, I’m ravenous,” and Polly brightened as Anna put a
well-laden tray before her. “You are quite a movie fan, Anna; what are
you going to see to-day?”
“‘The Official Chaperon.’” Anna poured out a steaming cup of tea and
deftly supplied the proper amount of cream and sugar. “They say it is a
thriller.”
“The title is a little more sedate than ‘Without Sin,’” acknowledged
Polly laughing. “I believe that was the last movie you told me of
seeing; perhaps the new one won’t give you a nightmare.”
Anna colored. She was sensitive about the scene she had created ten
days before when her screams had awakened the household from sound
slumber and brought forth a severe scolding from Mrs. Hale on the
subject of attending trashy plays. Robert Hale had interfered in time
to prevent Anna, whose red hair was indicative of her hasty temper,
from giving notice, to the relief of the other members of the family
who liked the silent, well-trained servant.
“‘The Official Chaperon’ is a dandy,” she declared stoutly. “’Least so
the papers say. It’s about a society girl who is under the hypnotic
influence of a rascal, miss, a regular rascal--he even makes her commit
murder.”
Anna brought out the last word with such intensity that Polly actually
jumped.
“I see you are in for another nightmare,” she said, but the smile
accompanying her banter was fleeting. “Isn’t Mr. Austin’s murder
terrible enough without harrowing your soul with further tragedies?”
Before replying Anna removed the cover of the toast dish and placed
its tempting contents almost directly under Polly’s nose.
“It’s terrible, miss; so terrible that I want to forget it.”
Polly’s laugh did not ring quite true. “You take an odd way to do so,”
she remarked. “However, Anna, go and see the hypnotic movie murder, and
my blessings go with you.”
Anna regarded the tray critically for an instant without moving. “You
are not eating, miss,” she remonstrated. “I don’t know what I’ll do
with you and Miss Judith.”
Polly laid down her fork. She had been merely toying with the salad on
the plate before her.
“Has Miss Judith lost her appetite?” she asked.
“Yes, miss.” Anna stepped nearer and spoke more rapidly. “Miss Judith
appears sort of--of in a trance, like.”
“Trance!” Anna had no occasion to complain of inattention. Polly was
regarding the girl’s comely face with deep interest. For the first
time she observed the dark lines under the large eyes and saw that the
soft cream-tint of Anna’s perfect complexion, which she had frequently
envied in the past, was an unhealthy white. “Trance,” she repeated.
“What do you mean, Anna?”
“Exactly that, miss.” Anna spoke with positiveness. “She moves as if
she was in a dream. She don’t eat, don’t talk, and I don’t believe she
sleeps.”
“Dear me!” Polly bit viciously into a piece of chocolate cake. “Well,
it is not surprising, Anna, that Miss Judith is upset. She and Mr.
Austin were very fond of each other.”
“Until he wished to marry her,” was Anna’s shrewd retort. “Oh, we
servants aren’t blind, miss.”
“No, worse luck!” The low-spoken ejaculation escaped Polly unawares,
and she bit her lip. Apparently it was not overheard, for Anna made no
comment, and Polly asked in haste, “How did you know that Mr. Austin
desired to marry Miss Judith? You were not here at that time.”
“No, miss; but when the cablegram came telling of Miss Judith’s
unexpected marriage to Major Richards, cook told me all about Mr.
Austin’s courtship, and how Mr. Hale encouraged him. It was common
gossip, miss, not only below stairs but in society as well.” Seeing
that Polly had about completed her hastily eaten meal, Anna rearranged
the tray, preparatory to carrying it away. “You weren’t here then
either, miss, were you?”
“N--no.” Polly folded her napkin in its exact creases with due regard
to detail. “Don’t worry about Miss Judith, she will be all right as
soon as the shock of Mr. Austin’s death wears off.”
“Will she, miss?” Anna’s tone expressed doubt. She lifted the tray,
thought a moment, replaced it, and walked to Polly’s side. “Do you
think Miss Judith’s quite happy in her marriage?”
“What!” Polly stared at her questioner in blank astonishment “She and
her husband are ideally happy.”
“Are they, miss?” Anna shook a puzzled head, then bent until her
lips almost touched Polly’s ear. “Major Richards came home from Mr.
Austin’s funeral just in time for dinner, and went out immediately
after--and--he didn’t return until about six this morning.”
“How do you know?” demanded Polly. Her voice was sharp.
“I let him in, miss.” Anna picked up the tray and poised for flight.
“The Major said he had mislaid his latchkey.”
Polly regarded the waitress as she crossed the room, with critical
eyes. In spite of the heavy glass-topped tray, Anna walked with ease,
her fine upright carriage had frequently been commented upon admiringly
by Mrs. Hale’s dinner guests.
Polly turned back to her typewriter with renewed distaste. A glance
at her watch showed that it was after one o’clock. For some minutes
she sat in indecision. Then, tossing her papers into the drawer, she
covered her machine and went home.
She had been gone a bare ten minutes when the door opened and Robert
Hale stepped into the den. On catching sight of the empty chair in
front of the typewriter, he frowned, and, going over to the machine,
lifted its leather cover. A glance at its empty roll brought a shrug of
the shoulders, which was repeated when he looked at his watch. Without
sitting down he scanned the furniture and the scrap basket finally
caught his eye.
Dropping into Polly’s chair, he picked up the basket and examined the
pieces of torn envelopes, then the ball of paper claimed his attention
and he smoothed it out. He read the typewritten words listlessly at
first, then with slowly increasing interest, and finally folded the
sheet with care and slipped it inside his pocket. Five minutes later
he was smoking placidly in his favorite chair in the library.
Judith’s lack of appetite which had so distressed Anna, the waitress,
persisted, and during luncheon she partook of only one hot roll and
sipped a cup of tea. Mrs. Hale, loquacious as ever, paid no attention
to the curt responses of both her husband and daughter, and carried on
a lengthy conversation, much to her own satisfaction and the secret
enjoyment of Maud, the parlor maid, who, in Anna’s absence, was serving
luncheon unaided.
Mrs. Hale’s volatile nature had thrown off the depression of the past
two days and, after the funeral services in the mortuary chapel of Oak
Hill Cemetery, she had recovered from her inclination to hysteria and
was, to all intents and purposes, her normal self again. At least, so
the servants had concluded from her excessive interest in housekeeping
affairs.
Not waiting for the dessert to be passed, Judith pushed back her chair
and rose.
“If you will excuse me, Mother,” she said, “I will try to get a nap; I
did not sleep very well last night.”
Her father regarded her with concern. “My dear child!” he exclaimed,
startled by her pallor, “you look completely used up. Agatha, what do
you mean by permitting Judith to get up this morning? She needs entire
rest.”
“Well, really, Robert,”--Mrs. Hale flushed; her husband seldom
addressed her in that tone--“Judith has a husband to look after her;
I,” primly, “don’t interfere.”
The carmine rose in Judith’s white cheeks, then receded, leaving them
whiter than before. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke.
“There is no cause for interference, Mother,” she protested. “Joe
insisted upon my remaining in bed to-day, but I disobeyed him.”
Robert Hale laid down the cigar he was about to light and again
regarded her.
“Where was Joe last night?” he inquired, and at the question Judith
stiffened.
“He had to motor to Baltimore on business,” she explained. “In
returning, his chauffeur drove recklessly and they met with an
accident, so that Joe never reached home until about six o’clock this
morning.”
“So Anna told me.” Hale was looking at his cigar and not at his
daughter. “Hard on Joe to be sleepless for three nights running. When
he comes in ask him to look me up.”
“Yes, Father.” Judith had taken a few steps toward the entrance to the
central hall, when her mother’s shrill voice reached her.
“Why isn’t Joe here for luncheon?” she asked.
“He is lunching with friends at the Alibi Club.” Judith laid one hand
on the portière nearest her and, turning, faced her parents. “Why are
you so interested in Joe’s whereabouts?”
“What a question?” Hale laughed lightly. “We are interested in
everything which concerns you, Judith; and surely your husband is of
paramount importance. Run along, dearest, and get that needed sleep,”
and, rising, Hale crossed the room and kissed her. The lips which
Judith barely touched to his were cold, and without another word she
hastened to her room.
Hale stood in the doorway gazing thoughtfully into space; and his
expression gained in seriousness. “_The_ Alibi,” he muttered. “Bah!
_an_ alibi.”
Once in her bedroom, Judith locked the communicating door between it
and her boudoir; thus secured from interruption, she paced up and down
her room, her footfall on the heavy carpet making no sound. Back and
forth, back and forth--utter physical fatigue finally caused her to
drop into a chair.
But while soft upholstery brought rest to her tired body, it gave no
mental relief. What had come over her to lie--lie--lie--she, who had
been brought up by her New England grandmother to abominate even the
“delicate” white lie of society. And she had lied, not to an outsider,
but to her father and mother, and lied about her husband.
Judith drew a long breath. She had “explained” Richards’ absence by
drawing on her imagination. In reality she had no knowledge where he
had gone after dinner the night before. She had pretended to be asleep
when he came in at nearly seven in the morning and thrown himself on
the outside of the bed. He had slept the sleep of utter exhaustion,
and she had forborne to wake him, had forborne to question him when
he finally awoke--and he had volunteered no explanation. He had not
returned for luncheon, having left her with the remark that a stroll
down town would freshen him up--and that was all.
A few bitter tears forced themselves under Judith’s closed eyelids; it
was the first rift in their happy married life. His manner had been
affectionate, tender, but----
Judith dashed her hand across her eyes and rose. It took her but a
short time to change her house gown for a becoming suit. She was about
to leave the room when a thought struck her. Going over to the mantel,
she opened the small leather box and took from under its coiled wires
the locket which had so engrossed her attention on Wednesday morning.
She balanced the locket in her hand in indecision, then, closing the
box, she went to her bureau and from its upper drawer took out a jewel
box, opened it, and dropped the locket among the other pieces of
jewelry the box contained, locked it, and put the box back in place
inside the drawer.
On her way to the front door Judith encountered her mother and was
promptly stopped.
“Judith!” Mrs. Hale’s accents indicated a crescendo of astonishment.
“My dear, didn’t you hear your father say that you were to go to bed?”
“Now, Mother, please”--Judith placed her finger lightly against Mrs.
Hale’s rouged lips. “Not another word. As you said at luncheon, I am
a married woman now, and--I know best.” Before Mrs. Hale could frame
another remonstrance, she had run out of the front door and sprung into
her electric car and driven off.
Traffic regulations prevented Judith from parking her car in front
of the tall office building where “Latimer and House,” had their
stock-brokerage office, and she was obliged to walk almost a block,
a distance which she covered in record time and arrived, somewhat
breathless, in the anteroom of that firm. At her request to see the
senior partner, she was at once taken to Frank Latimer’s private
office. With characteristic directness she plunged at once into her
errand.
“I have come to see you on business, Frank,” she began, taking the
chair his clerk placed for her. “Confidential business.”
Latimer signed to his clerk to withdraw and then turned to her.
“Anything I can do?” he asked. “I am entirely at your service, Judith.”
“Thanks.” Judith’s quick smile enhanced her beauty, and Latimer
regarded her with admiration. He and her Uncle John had been her pals
since the days when she wore short frocks. “I want your advice about
some bonds, Frank.”
“Surely.” Latimer drew a pad and pencil toward him. “Have you decided
on your investment?”
“I am not going to buy--I wish to sell.”
“Oh!” Latimer showed his surprise, but she gave him no opportunity to
say anything further.
“How much would ten one hundred dollar bonds of the Troy Valve Company
bring?” she asked.
Latimer again glanced at her in surprise. “They are selling above par,”
he said. “Wait”--and he consulted a printed table of figures--“to be
exact, 125-1/2--they fell off a point in yesterday’s market.”
“Let me see”--Judith did a sum in mental arithmetic--“that would net me
about $1250.”
“A little more than that,” Latimer completed his memorandum. “If you
hold the bonds for forty-eight hours they will recover--industrials are
in great demand now.”
“But I want the money.”
“But Judith,” he remonstrated, “don’t sacrifice your bonds. Why not ask
your father for a loan?”
“No,”--Judith tempered the refusal--“Father wouldn’t understand. I need
the money for--for an emergency.”
“Well, see here, Judith,”--Latimer pulled out his check book--“won’t
you let me help out?”
Judith flashed him a look of gratitude. “Don’t think I am
unappreciative of your generous offer,” she exclaimed, “if I decline
it.”
“All right, Judith,” and Latimer returned his check book to the desk
drawer. “But don’t sell your bonds. You can raise a thousand at any
bank by giving them as collateral with your note.”
Judith’s expression altered. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she exclaimed.
“Perhaps that would be better.”
“Then if it will be of assistance to you I’ll arrange it at the bank.”
Judith nodded a vigorous assent. “Will one thousand be enough?”
Judith considered a second. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Have you the bonds with you?”
“No, they are in our safe at home.” Judith glanced at her wrist-watch
and saw that it was half-past two. “I’ll bring the bonds to-morrow
morning; that will be time enough. I have the numbers here, however,”
and drawing out her bank book from her bag, she turned to its back
pages. “They run from 37982 to 37991.” She was on her feet before
Latimer had laid down his pencil. “I must hurry, Frank.” Impulsively
she clasped his hand in both of hers. “I can’t begin to thank you.”
“Nonsense!” Latimer patted her gently on the shoulder. “I am only too
glad, Judith, to be of service. How is your father?”
“Oh, he is all right again.” Judith could not restrain her impatience
to be off. “Mother’s rather fidgety; so are we all”--and an
involuntary sigh accompanied the words. “Austin’s death was a shock we
have not recovered from. It’s--it’s numbed us”--hunting about for a
word.
“I understand,” and Latimer looked sympathetically at her as he
escorted her through his private entrance into the corridor and to the
elevator shaft. “The newspapers said there were no new developments in
the case. Are you still annoyed by the police?”
“Not to-day,” Judith stopped at the stairs. “I can’t wait for the
elevator; it’s only a few flights, so good-by.” And waving her hand,
she almost ran down the steps.
As Latimer reëntered his private office he found his head clerk
standing by his desk with a number of papers in his hand.
“These bonds have just been offered,” he explained, extending the
papers and Latimer glanced at them. The next second he snatched up his
memorandum pad and compared the figures noted thereon with the numbers
engraved on the Troy Valve bonds--37982. With quickened interest
Latimer turned over the bonds--each of the ten numbers tallied with
those on the memorandum pad.
“Where did you get these Valve bonds?” he demanded.
“One of our new customers--I forget his name--has just sold them to
cover his margins.”
Latimer stared at his clerk. “Is the customer still here?”
“Yes, sir; at least he was a few minutes ago.”
Latimer strode to the outer office door and opened it slightly; over a
dozen men and women were grouped about the ticker at the other end of
the room.
“Which is the customer?” he demanded, keeping his voice low.
The clerk peered over his shoulder.
“There--that’s him,” he exclaimed; Latimer’s excitement, though
subdued, had communicated itself to him and his grammar went astray.
“There, he’s going out of the front door.”
And Latimer, looking eagerly across the office, was just in time to
recognize the clear-cut features and the straight soldierly figure.
Joseph Richards had disposed of the ten bonds owned by his wife--which
Judith desired to sell--to cover his margins in stock speculations.
Latimer sat down in the nearest chair conscious of a feeling of
faintness for the first time in his life.