THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
THE death of Austin Hale under mysterious circumstances had created a
veritable sensation in Washington, and the residents of the National
Capital read with avidity every newspaper account. To the indignation
of the city editors and the staffs of newspaper men few details were
forthcoming from either Police Headquarters or the Hale residence. Thus
thrown upon their own resources, imagination played a large part in
their “write-ups” of the tragedy which, headed by display type of the
most sensational character, had but served to whet the appetite of the
reading public.
Robert Hale and his family occupied a prominent position, both in the
scientific world and in society, and young Austin Hale, who had been
petted and indulged by his hosts of friends, was genuinely mourned, and
Anna, the waitress, detailed Maud, the parlor maid, to remain at the
front door and receive the visiting cards bearing the message, “With
sincere sympathy,” or perfumed notes of condolence addressed to Mrs.
Hale, Judith, and John Hale.
Mrs. Hale looked with dismay at the formidable pile of notes which Maud
had handed to her with a flourish at the close of dinner.
“I shall have to borrow Polly Davis to acknowledge these messages of
sympathy for me, Robert,” she remarked, laying aside her lorgnette and
addressing her husband who, occupied with a game of solitaire, sat at a
near-by table in the library.
Robert Hale considered the Knave of Hearts before discarding it.
“Very well, if you need Polly’s services you can have her,” he said,
drawing another card from the pack. “But it is for a limited time only,
recollect Polly is behind in my work.”
Judith, knitting industriously in her corner of the big divan, stopped
her busy needles for a moment.
“Polly isn’t looking very well, Father,” she stated slowly. “Don’t give
her additional work; she is not very strong.”
Hale looked displeased. “I am not giving her additional work,” he
protested. “Polly is behindhand, and it is entirely her own fault. She
has been giving too much attention to society and too little to her
duties as my secretary.”
“Tut, Judith,” Mrs. Hale promptly took exception to the implied
criticism of her husband. “Your father is quite right, he has been most
lenient with Polly and her flirtations.”
“I hardly think it is our place to judge Polly.” Judith spoke with
increasing earnestness. “The girl tries hard to keep up with her work,
and your manuscript is not always easy, Father. You ought to recollect,
also, Mother, that she has led a colorless life until this winter. She
has a mother entirely dependent upon her, and they are cruelly poor.”
“All the more reason for attending strictly to her work,” grunted Hale,
but his voice had softened, as it always did when Judith was a special
pleader and that his daughter was much in earnest was plainly evident.
“Can’t you manage those notes yourself, Agatha?”
“Let me answer them for you,” broke in Joe Richards, and, rising from
his seat under a standing lamp where he had been reading an evening
newspaper, he walked over to the divan. “My penmanship used to be
pretty fair, and if Judith will dictate what to say--”
“Of course I will,” Judith’s blue eyes flashed him a grateful message.
“Now, Father, if you will consent, I wish to give Polly a--a vacation.”
Hale raised his head and contemplated her in surprise. “A vacation?”
he echoed. “Come, Judith, that is a different matter; I am willing
not to give Polly additional work, but she must complete her regular
secretarial duties.”
Richards looked from father to daughter. “Can’t I help out there, also,
Mr. Hale?” he asked.
“You cannot,” was the prompt response, and under his tan Richards
felt his color rise. Hale’s manner to him could never be termed
ingratiating. If Judith caught the undercurrent of dislike in her
father’s abrupt refusal she gave no sign of it, as she went placidly on
with her knitting.
“I will see that you are supplied with a secretary in Polly’s place,”
she explained. “And if you consent, Father, I plan to give her and her
mother a trip to Atlantic City.”
“Bless my soul, Judith!” Mrs. Hale dropped the note she was reading and
stared at her. “I think such generosity is quite unnecessary.”
“Please”--Judith laid aside her knitting and her voice was soft and
winning. “Please, dear, let me have my way in this. You, Father, will
benefit.”
Hale, in gathering up his playing cards, dropped half of them on the
floor, and he was some seconds in collecting them, with the assistance
of Richards.
“How shall I benefit?” he asked, acknowledging Richards’ courtesy with
a nod of his head.
“By getting more efficient work,” Judith explained. “Polly is on the
point of a nervous breakdown. Rest and sea breezes will put her on
her feet again; whereas if she is forced to leave you on account of
illness, you will still be obliged to fill her place--perhaps for an
indefinite time.”
Hale stacked the cards neatly before him and rising, put the small
table back against the wall in its customary place. “I’ll think over
your plan, Judith,” he agreed. “But mind you, I can’t promise. Well,
Agatha,”--as his wife, seeing he was about to leave the library, rose
also, a bundle of papers in her hand--“what is it? Do you wish to go on
a vacation, also?”
“No, indeed!” Mrs. Hale took her courage in both hands. “Here are some
bills--they have just come in,” hastening to forestall objections.
But, contrary to her expectations, Hale did not indulge in his usual
sarcastic comments regarding her efforts to keep household accounts
systematically--the word “system” was not in Mrs. Hale’s vocabulary.
“Bring the bills to my den,” he suggested, “and I will go over them.
Don’t stay up too late, Judith,” he cautioned, turning back from
the door as Mrs. Hale, much relieved, hastily gathered together her
cherished account books, which never balanced, and scurried out of
the library ahead of him in some trepidation lest he might change his
mind. Hale looked first at Judith and then at her husband. “Don’t let
Judith overtire herself, Joe; we cannot have that.” Wheeling around, he
followed his wife upstairs.
Judith looked up from her knitting as Richards paused by the side of
the divan and regarded her.
“Do you feel ill, dearest?” he asked, and the concern in his tone
brought a touch of color to her wan cheeks.
“No, only--” Judith hesitated. “Father is right, I am very tired--I
couldn’t sleep last night.” Her usually clear voice quivered; another
second and Richards’ arms were around her and her head was pillowed on
his broad shoulder.
“My dear, dear love,” he murmured. “Judith, don’t cry, my darling,
don’t”--in distress, as her self-control gave way. The storm of tears
ceased almost as abruptly as it started, and Judith met her husband’s
tender glance with a brave little smile.
“I am not often inclined to hysterics,” she whispered. “Forgive me,
dear.”
“Forgive you!” Richards laughed softly. “Always, dear heart.
Judith”--and his clasp tightened--“you have no idea how precious
you are to me; how I worship you”--his strong voice grew rough with
emotion. “I am not half worthy of you.”
“Hush!” Judith placed a tender finger across his lips. “Don’t say
that, Joe. The world never held such happiness for me until I met you,
and there has been no shadow until”--she faltered a minute--“until
yesterday.”
“Until yesterday?” Richards’ astonishment was plain. “You mean Austin’s
funeral?”
“No.” Judith colored warmly. “I mean your leaving after dinner last
night without saying anything to me and--and--your getting back so
late, or rather, so early this morning.”
“Good gracious, Judith!” Richards chuckled, then grew grave. “John
asked me to go to the club, and I left word with your father--didn’t he
give you the message?”
“No; Father felt badly early in the evening and went to bed without my
seeing him. Did you stay at the club all night?” again she colored. “I
was awake when you came in this morning.”
“You were!” Richards smiled wryly. “And I thought you asleep and did my
best not to awaken you. At the club I met Sandy Nichols, and he asked
me to run over to Baltimore and try out his new Pierce Arrow--he was
my pal in the A. E. F., you know,” he interpolated. “We expected to be
back before midnight, but we first lost our way owing to a detour, and
then the car broke down on the return trip. I tried to telephone, but
Central declared the house would not answer.”
“Mother had the phone disconnected; she insisted it disturbed Father.”
Judith’s spirits were returning, and the glance she gave him was full
of mischief. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“Judith!” Richards held her face between his hands and gazed straight
into her eyes. “Judith, you weren’t jealous?”
Slowly, slowly her eyes fell before his ardent look and the rich color
mantled almost to her brow. “Yes, I was,” she confessed, and holding
her in close embrace, he kissed her tenderly.
“Judith,” he said, “never doubt my loyalty to you--my devotion.”
He stopped, hesitated, and his voice grew even lower. “You are my
life--my religion.”
“Joe!” Startled by the intensity of his manner, Judith stood up. “You
must not exalt me. I am an ordinary mortal, subject to error.”
“No.” Richards rose and faced her, his hands resting lightly on her
shoulders. “In my eyes you can do no wrong.”
Richards stood tall and straight before her, his six feet two of sturdy
manhood matched by her slender willowy figure, for Judith was above
the usual height for women. Maud, the parlor maid, who had come in
search of Mrs. Hale, felt a sympathetic thrill as she noted the rapt
expression of the lovers and stole away without disturbing them.
“Joe,”--Judith slipped her hand inside his and gave it a gentle
squeeze--“this is the first really happy moment I have known since I
regained my senses in my boudoir on Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday
morning. I do not understand how I came to faint.”
Richards glanced at her for an instant. Then his gaze traveled across
the room and rested on the spot where Austin Hale’s body had lain that
fateful Wednesday morning.
“You had reached the limit of endurance, dearest,” he declared. “Tell
me,”--and again his eyes sought hers--“you heard nothing--no sound of a
struggle, no scream?”
Judith shook her head and the pathetic look which Richards had grown to
know crept into her eyes. “I am deaf.”
“But with this, dear,” and he touched the earpiece of the
“globia-phone” which she was wearing. “Surely you could hear something.”
“I did not have it on Tuesday night,” she explained. “My head ached
and when I braided my hair I took it off, for even the slight weight
of the instrument intensified the pain. And you must remember that the
walls of this house are sound-proof; I could not hear, even when I was
wearing this earphone, anything transpiring downstairs while I was in
our boudoir.”
“In our boudoir!” The words slipped mechanically from Richards. “Don’t
you recollect, dearest, that I found you unconscious in the front hall
downstairs?”
“In the front hall?” Judith faltered and dropped her eyes. “Why--I--I
thought you found me in our boudoir. I revived there.”
“I carried you upstairs.” Richards bit his lip as a faint “Oh!” broke
from Judith. She made no other comment, and he continued, “How did it
happen that your earphone was in your father’s safe?”
“I suppose he picked it up and absent-mindedly put it there.”
“But, Judith,”--Richards glanced away from her--“your father stated
that he was taken ill with the ‘flu’ on Friday a week ago, and that he
did not come downstairs until yesterday. How then could he have put the
earphone in the safe on Tuesday night?”
“I did not say he put it there Tuesday night,” Judith spoke a bit
sharply. “It may have been there for days and I never would have missed
it, for I have about every ear instrument ever invented. Father is
always buying some new invention, and you will find them scattered all
over the house, much to Mother’s annoyance.” Judith had spoken with
unusual rapidity and she came to a breathless pause.
“Judith,”--Richards hesitated a brief second--“what brought you
downstairs on Tuesday night?”
“I was looking for you,” she confessed. “You said that you would return
early”--with faint reproach.
“Did you see Austin?” The question came with marked reluctance, and in
the deepening silence Richards caught the tick-tock of the clock over
the fireplace. His hands tightened their clasp and he grew conscious
that hers had grown cold.
“I had no knowledge of Austin’s presence in the house,” she stated and
winced. “Don’t, Joe, you are hurting me”--and Richards awakened to the
fact that he had pressed her hands with such force that her wedding
ring had cut into the delicate flesh.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, and, raising her hands, pressed them to his
lips.
“Joe,”--Judith had grown singularly pale and the hand she disengaged
from his and laid on his arm was not quite steady--“believe me, dear,
when I say that I heard nothing on that Tuesday night preceding or
following Austin’s death.”
“You heard nothing,” Richards repeated; neither looked at the other.
“I believe you, sweetheart.” He kissed her gently. “You must not worry
so, Judith; you will make yourself ill, and I fear I have kept you up
talking much too long,”--in deep contrition as the dock chimed ten.
“Come, dear.” And with his arm thrown protectingly about her shoulders,
he strolled with her to the door.
As they passed the card table Judith caught sight of a playing card
lying on the rug and her orderly instinct caused her to stoop and pick
it up just as the portières parted and Mrs. Hale dashed breathlessly
into the library.
“You haven’t gone upstairs!” she exclaimed, much relieved. “The most
dreadful thing has happened.”
“What?” demanded Judith and her husband in unison.
“Anna has fallen and sprained her ankle.”
“Is that all?” Judith’s relief took the form of a short laugh.
“All? Good gracious, to have a waitress laid up is serious enough,
without having that waitress, Anna,” Mrs. Hale spoke in scandalized
disapproval. “Anna is the most useful person in the house.”
“I know she is,” agreed Judith. “I spoke in haste, Mother, but you
frightened me; I thought something had happened to--to Father.”
“Let me call a doctor,” suggested Richards practically and walked
toward the desk phone. But Mrs. Hale stopped him.
“I have already telephoned,” she explained. “McLane is detained at the
hospital with a serious case and can’t come, but he gave me explicit
directions over the phone, and I shall carry them out.” Mrs. Hale had
unbounded confidence in her medical knowledge, a confidence, however,
not shared by the members of her family. “But I find that we have no
arnica in the medicine chest.”
“Let me go for it,” volunteered Richards and, not waiting for Mrs.
Hale’s voluble thanks, he started for the door, pausing only to call
to Judith. “Run upstairs, Judith, don’t wait for me.” Snatching up his
hat and overcoat, he disappeared out of the house, in his haste never
hearing Mrs. Hale’s parting injunction. She turned with a worried air
to her daughter.
“I declare, Judith, I forgot to ask him to get bandages.”
“I have some.” Judith slipped her arm inside her mother’s. “Come up to
my boudoir and then I will go with you to see Anna.”
Three quarters of an hour later, the arnica applied and the swollen
ankle neatly bandaged, Judith came downstairs in quest of a decanter of
whiskey which her father kept carefully secreted in the dining room.
Anna had expressed a desire for a “nightcap” and Mrs. Hale had begged
Judith to prepare it for her.
Judith poured out a liberal portion of Scotch, replaced the decanter
in its recess behind the sideboard, and then hastened toward the door,
intending to add the hot water when she reached Anna’s bedroom. As she
passed the drawn portières across the entrance to the library, her
eyes caught a ray of light showing between its folds. Judith halted in
surprise and, parting the portières, looked inside the library. Seated
in her father’s favorite chair was her uncle, John Hale. By his side
stood Frank Latimer, both with their backs partly turned toward her.
Her uncle’s raised voice reached her in the stillness and she caught
the mention of her husband’s name.
“I know very little about Joe Richards’ antecedents,” John Hale stated.
“He seems a good fellow, whole-souled, well-set-up--educated. We knew
nothing of Judith’s marriage until her cable came.”
“How about Richards’ financial standing?”
“Why do you ask, Frank?” John Hale regarded his friend in surprise.
Latimer moved nearer. “The question is prompted by our long friendship,
John, by my affection for Judith.” The gravity of his manner startled
the listening girl. “I had to see you to-night; I could not rest until
I did.” Latimer polished his round spectacles and adjusted them with
care. “What we say is in confidence. It is imperative that I get some
information about Richards, particularly as to his financial standing.
Has he money?”
“He appears to have plenty of ready cash,” admitted John Hale slowly.
“I heard to-day that he has applied for a position with the Ludlow
Locomotive Works.” He paused. “Tuesday Richards went to our bank and
asked for a loan, offered to supply bonds as collateral, and gave us as
references--that is how I learned of the transaction.”
“Did the bank make the loan?”
“Not yet; the treasurer consulted me, and has the matter under
advisement.” Again he paused. “It greatly depends upon the bonds he
offers.”
Latimer stared at his companion. “Good Lord!” he groaned, and again
wiped his glasses. “Listen, John, and don’t breathe a word of what I
say, d’ye hear?”
“I won’t,” and the pledge rang out clearly.
“Judith came to my office this afternoon and asked me to sell ten bonds
of the Troy Valve Company. I advised her to borrow from her bank,
offering them as collateral, and before she left she gave me the bond
numbers, 37982 to 37991. She hadn’t been gone five minutes when my
clerk brought me in ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company bearing those
identical numbers. See for yourself,” and he laid a bundle of papers in
John Hale’s hand. “The bonds had been sold to us not ten minutes before
to cover margins in stock speculations when the market fell to-day.”
“Well, go on,” urged John Hale.
“The speculator and the man who sold the bonds are one and the same
person--Joseph Richards. Now, how did Richards get hold of Judith’s
bonds which, mind you, she expected to bring to me to-morrow?”
John Hale, who had followed Latimer’s slow speech with absorbed
attention, answered almost automatically.
“Robert confided to me this evening that on careful examination of
the contents of his safe to-day, he found that Judith’s bonds were
missing.” He stopped, then added, “We have not told Judith.”
As the full meaning of her uncle’s words dawned on Judith she swayed
upon her feet and in desperation clutched the glass and prevented it
from slipping through her shaking fingers. Very softly she tiptoed
through the dining room and out into the central hall. At the
stairs she paused and, raising the glass, swallowed some of Anna’s
“nightcap.” She was hardly conscious of the fiery undiluted liquor
which burned her tongue and throat, but under the false strength it
engendered she hurried up the staircase and came face to face with her
husband on the top landing.
His face cleared at sight of her. “I was hurrying to find you,” he
explained, and took the glass from her. “Your mother told me that she
had sent you for this. I’ll take it to Anna. Go to bed, dearest.” And
he sped away as Judith turned into their boudoir.
With slow, uncertain steps Judith made her way to her dressing table
and fell rather than sat in the chair standing before it.
Her bonds had been stolen--Joe had sold them to Latimer to cover losses
in speculation. The words rang their changes--but their distinct
meaning beat itself against her brain and, with a low moan of anguish,
she bowed her head upon her arms, thereby displacing the playing card
which she had picked up earlier that evening in the library and flung
unheeded on her dressing table. The red of it caught and held her eye,
and suddenly she laughed loudly--unrestrainedly.
“The Knave of Hearts!” she gasped between her bursts of merriment.
* * * * *
As Judith’s hysterical laughter echoed through the open door into the
boudoir, a figure just entering it, paused, listened a moment, then
with bent head, retreated cautiously into the hall and stole silently
away.