THE NEW LINK
Steingall and Clancy were highly amused by Carshaw's account of the
"second burning of Fairfield," as the little man described the struggle
between Winifred's abductors and her rescuer. The latter, not so well
versed in his country's history as every young American ought to be, had
to consult a history of the Revolution to learn that Fairfield was
burned by the British in 1777. The later burning, by the way, created a
pretty quarrel between two insurance companies, the proprietors of two
garages and the owner of a certain bullock, with Carshaw's lawyer and a
Bridgeport lawyer, instructed by "Mr. Ralph Voles," as interveners.
"And where is the young lady now?" inquired Steingall, when Carshaw's
story reached its end.
"Living in rooms in a house in East Twenty-seventh Street, a quiet place
kept by a Miss Goodman."
"Ah! Too soon for any planning as to the future, I suppose?"
"We talked of that in the train. Winifred has a voice, so the stage
offers an immediate opening. But I don't like the notion of musical
comedy, and the concert platform demands a good deal of training, since
a girl starts there practically as a principal. There is no urgency.
Winifred might well enjoy a fortnight's rest. I have counseled that."
"A stage wait, in fact," put in Clancy, sarcastically.
By this time Carshaw was beginning to understand the peculiar quality of
the small detective's wit.
"Yes," he said, smiling into those piercing and brilliant eyes. "There
are periods in a man's life when he ought to submit his desires to the
acid test. Such a time has come now for me."
"But 'Aunt Rachel' may find her. Is she strong-willed enough to resist
cajoling, and seek the aid of the law if force is threatened?"
"Yes, I am sure now. What she heard and saw of those two men during the
mad run along the Post Road supplied good and convincing reasons why she
should refuse to return to Miss Craik."
"Why are you unwilling to charge them with attempted murder?" said
Steingall, for Carshaw had stipulated there should be no legal
proceedings.
"My lawyers advise against it," he said simply.
"You've consulted them?"
"Yes, called in on my way here. When I reached home after seeing
Winifred fixed comfortably in Miss Goodman's, I opened a letter from my
lawyers, requesting an interview--on another matter, of course. Meaning
to marry Winifred, if she'll take me, I thought it wise to tell them
something about recent events."
Steingall carefully chose a cigar from a box of fifty, all exactly
alike, nipped the end off, and lighted it. Clancy's fingers drummed
impatiently on the table at which the three were seated. Evidently he
expected the chief to play Sir Oracle. But the head of the Bureau
contented himself with the comment that he was still interested in
Winifred Bartlett's history, and would be glad to have any definite
particulars which Carshaw might gather.
Clancy sighed so heavily on hearing this "departmental" utterance that
Carshaw was surprised.
"If I could please myself, I'd rush Winifred to the City Hall for a
marriage license to-day," he said, believing he had fathomed the other's
thought.
"I'm a bit of a Celt on the French and Irish sides," snapped Clancy,
"and that means an ineradicable vein of romance in my make-up. But I'm
a New York policeman, too--a guy who has to mind his own business far
more frequently than the public suspects."
And there the subject dropped. Truth to tell, the department had to
tread warily in stalking such big game as a Senator. Carshaw was a
friend of the Towers, and "the yacht mystery" had been deliberately
squelched by the highly influential persons most concerned. It was
impolitic, it might be disastrous, if Senator Meiklejohn's name were
dragged into connection with that of the unsavory Voles on the flimsy
evidence, or, rather, mere doubt, affecting Winifred Bartlett's early
life.
Winifred herself lived in a passive but blissful state of dreams during
the three weeks. Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she wondered if every
young man who might be in love with a girl imposed such rigid restraint
on himself as Rex Carshaw when he was in her company. The unspoken
language of love was plain in every glance, in every tone, in the merest
touch of their hands. But he spoke no definite word, and their lips had
never met.
Miss Goodman, who took an interest in the pretty and amiable girl, spent
many an hour of chat with her. Every morning there arrived a present of
flowers from Carshaw; every afternoon Carshaw himself appeared as
regularly as the clock and drank of Miss Goodman's tea. They were weeks
of _Nirvana_ for Winifred, and, but for her fear of being found out and
her continued lack of occupation, they were the happiest she had ever
known. Meantime, however, she was living on "borrowed" money, and felt
herself in a false position.
"Well, any news?" was always Carshaw's first question as he placed his
hat over his stick on a chair. And Winifred might reply:
"Not much. I saw such-and-such a stage manager, and went from such an
agent to another, and had my voice tried, with the usual promises. I'm
afraid that even your patience will soon be worn out. I am sorry now
that I thought of singing instead of something else, for there are
plenty of girls who can sing much better than I."
"But don't be so eager about the matter, Winifred," he would say. "It is
an anxious little heart that eats itself out and will not learn repose.
Isn't it? And it chafes at being dependent on some one who is growing
weary of the duty. Doesn't it?"
"No, I didn't mean that," said Winifred with a rueful and tender smile.
"You are infinitely good, Rex." They had soon come to the use of
Christian names. Outwardly they were just good friends, while inwardly
they resembled two active volcanoes.
"Now I am 'infinitely good,' which is really more than human if you
think it out," he laughed. "See how you run to extremes with nerves and
things. No, you are not to care at all, Winnie. You have a more or less
good voice. You know more music than is good for you, and sooner or
later, since you insist on it, you will get what you want. Where is the
hurry?"
"You don't or won't understand," said Winifred. "I know what I want, and
must get some work without delay."
"Well, then, since it upsets you, you shall. I am not much of an
authority about professional matters myself, but I know a lady who
understands these things, and I'll speak to her."
"Who is this lady?" asked Winifred.
"Mrs. Ronald Tower."
"Young--nice-looking?" asked Winifred, looking down at the crochet work
in her lap. She was so taken up with the purely feminine aspect of
affairs that she gave slight heed to a remarkable coincidence.
"Er--so-so," said Carshaw with a smile borne of memories, which
Winifred's downcast eyes just noticed under their raised lids.
"What is she like?" she went on.
"Let me see! How shall I describe her? Well, you know Gainsborough's
picture of the Duchess of Devonshire? She's like that, full-busted,
with preposterous hats, dashing--rather a beauty!"
"Indeed!" said Winifred coldly. "She must be awfully attractive. A
_very_ old friend?"
"Oh, rather! I knew her when I was eighteen, and she was _elancee_
then."
"What does _elancee_ mean?"
"On the loose."
"What does _that_ mean?"
"Well--a bit free and easy, doesn't it? Something of that sort. Smart
set, you know."
"I see. Do _you_, then, belong to the smart set?"
"I? No. I dislike it rather. But one rubs with all sorts in the grinding
of the mill."
"And this Mrs. Ronald Tower, whom you knew at eighteen, how old was she
then?"
"About twenty-two or so."
"And she was--gay then?"
"As far as ever society would let her."
"How--did you know?"
"I--well, weren't we almost boy and girl together?"
"I wonder you can give yourself the pains to come to spend your precious
minutes with me when that sort of woman is within--"
"What, not jealous?" he cried joyously. "And of that _passee_ creature?
Why, she isn't worthy to stoop and tie the latchets of your shoes, as
the Scripture saith!"
"Still, I'd rather not be indebted to that lady for anything," said
Winifred.
"But why not? Don't be excessive, little one. There is no reason, you
know."
"How does she come to know about singing and theatrical people?"
"I don't know that she does. I only assume it. A woman of the world,
cutting a great dash, yet hard up--that kind knows all sorts and
conditions of men. I am sure she could help you, and I'll have a try."
"But is she the wife of the Ronald Tower who was dragged by the lasso
into the river?"
"The same."
"It is odd how that name keeps on occurring in my life," said Winifred
musingly. "A month ago I first heard it on Riverside Drive, and since
then I hear it always. I prefer, Rex, that you do not say anything to
that woman about me."
"I shall!" said Rex playfully. "You mustn't start at shadows."
Winifred was silent. After a time she asked:
"Have you seen Mr. Steingall or Mr. Clancy lately?"
"Yes, a couple of days ago. We are always more or less in communication.
But I have nothing to report. They're keeping track of Voles and Mick
the Wolf, but those are birds who don't like salt on their tails. You
know already that the Bureau never ceases to work at the mystery of your
relation with your impossible 'aunt,' and I think they have information
which they have not passed on to me."
"Is my aunty still searching for me, I wonder?" asked Winifred.
"Oh, don't call her aunty--call her your antipodes! It is more than that
woman knows how to be your aunt. Of course, the whole crew of them are
moving heaven and earth to find you! Clancy knows it. But let them
try--they won't succeed. And even if they do, please don't forget that
I'm here now!"
"But why should they be so terribly anxious to find me? My aunty always
treated me fairly well, but in a cold sort of a way which did not betray
much love. So love can't be their motive."
"Love!" And Carshaw breathed the word softly, as though it were pleasing
to his ear. "No. They have some deep reason, but what that is is more
than any one guesses. The same reason made them wish to take you far
from New York, though what it all means is not very clear. Time,
perhaps, will show."
The same night Rex Carshaw sat among a set which he had not frequented
much of late--in Mrs. Tower's drawing-room. There were several tables
surrounded with people of various American and foreign types playing
bridge. The whole atmosphere was that of Mammon; one might have fancied
oneself in the halls of a Florentine money-changer. At the same table
with Carshaw were Mrs. Tower, another society dame, and Senator
Meiklejohn, who ought to have been making laws at Washington.
Tower stood looking on, the most unimportant person present, and anon
ran to do some bidding of his wife's. Carshaw's only relation with Helen
Tower of late had been to allow himself to be cheated by her at bridge,
for she did not often pay, especially if she lost to one who had been
something more than a friend. When he did present himself at her house,
she felt a certain gladness apart from the money which he would lose;
women ever keep some fragment of the heart which the world is not
permitted to scar and harden wholly.
She grew pensive, therefore, when he told her that he wished to place a
girl on the concert stage, and wished to know from her how best to
succeed. She thought dreamily of other days, and the slightest pin-prick
of jealousy touched her, for Carshaw had suddenly become earnest in
broaching this matter, and the other pair of players wondered why the
game was interrupted for so trivial a cause.
"What is the girl's name?" she asked.
"Her name is of no importance, but, if you must know, it is Winifred
Bartlett," he answered.
Senator Meiklejohn laid his thirteen cards face upward on the table.
There had been no bidding, and his partner screamed in protest:
"Senator, what are you doing?"
He had revealed three aces and a long suit of spades.
"We must have a fresh deal," smirked Mrs. Tower.
"Well, of all the wretched luck!" sighed the other woman. Meiklejohn
pleaded a sudden indisposition, yet lingered while a servant summoned
Ronald Tower to play in his stead.
Carshaw knew Winifred--that same Winifred whom he and his secret
intimates had sought so vainly during three long weeks! Voles and his
arm-fractured henchman were recuperating in Boston, but Rachel Craik and
Fowle were hunting New York high and low for sight of the girl.
Fowle, though skilled in his trade, found well-paid loafing more to his
choice, for Voles had sent Rachel to Fowle, guessing this man to be of
the right kidney for underhanded dealings. Moreover, he knew Winifred,
and would recognize her anywhere. Fowle, therefore, suddenly blossomed
into a "private detective," and had reported steady failure day after
day. Rachel Craik had never ascertained Carshaw's name, as it was not
necessary that he should register in the Fairfield Inn, and Fowle, with
a nose still rather tender to the touch, never spoke to her of the man
who had smashed it.
So these associates in evil remained at cross-purposes until Senator
Meiklejohn, when the bridge game was renewed and no further information
was likely to ooze out, went away from Mrs. Tower's house to nurse his
sickness. He recovered speedily. A note was sent to Rachel by special
messenger, and she, in turn, sought Fowle, whose mean face showed a
blotchy red when he learned that Winifred could be traced by watching
Carshaw.
"I'll get her now, ma'am," he chuckled. "It'll be dead easy. I can make
up as a parson. Did that once before when--well, just to fool a bunch of
people. No one suspects a parson--see? I'll get her--sure!"