'I CAN'T MAKE MYSELF LIKE HIM.'
I am not superstitious, and I certainly had no intimation then of the
part these letters would soon play in my World's Fair adventures, nor
of the use I should make of them; but I opened that letter with an
uncomfortable feeling of curiosity and interest, and without even
pausing to look again at the tiny grotesque faces of that little
bridge procession so artistically sketched upon the envelope.
The letter, like its cover, was dated from Boston, and was just four
days old.
'Just received,' I said to myself, as I took up the wrapper to look at
the Chicago postmark. 'Yes, came last night. She must have read it
this very morning, sitting upon some one of those shaded seats on
Wooded Island, and after reading it she must have amused herself by
copying the people passing over the nearest bridge. Ergo, she must
have been alone.' My detective instincts were rousing themselves;
already I was half unconsciously handling that unread letter as if it
were a 'feature' in a 'case.'
She was alone, too, when we met on Midway; that is, I saw no
companion. Could it be possible that the young lady was really alone
in this densely populated place? How absurd! I looked at the letter
again.
It was written in a beautiful flowing hand, and I said, after a
moment's scrutiny, 'Written in haste and under excitement.' There were
eight closely written pages, and having begun their perusal, I read to
the end without a pause. The letter was signed 'Hilda O'Neil,' and
there was no street number nor post-office box, only the name of the
city from whence it came, Boston.
Hilda O'Neil was the name written on the second letter, this and
nothing more; but this no longer surprised me. Miss O'Neil was a New
York girl, and a guest, at the time of writing, of the sister of her
affianced, in Boston. This young man was already in Chicago, making
arrangements for his family, who were to come as soon as informed by
him that apartments in the already crowded city were in waiting. They
were 'all ready for the flitting,' and were now wondering why 'Gerry'
did not wire them. He had written that his plans 'were near
completion,' and that he should telegraph them in two or three days at
the latest, at the time of writing. The three days were just about to
expire, hence the excitement visible in the penmanship of Miss O'Neil.
Betwixt impatience and anxiety she confessed herself 'growing really
fidgety,' especially as 'Gerry' was always so prompt, 'and then--don't
think me silly, dear--but, really, Chicago is such a wicked, dangerous
place, especially now.'
I smiled as I read this paragraph, and thought of Master 'Gerry'
doubtless giving himself a last day or two of freedom from escort
duty, and of fun, perhaps, on Midway. Decidedly, detectives are not
seers.
And the second letter. Since the first did not tell me how or where to
find the owner of the little bag, this letter must. And her
name--would that be revealed? I opened the missive and read it
through, with some surprise and a great deal of admiration.
I had been right in my conjectures of the writer. I found her name
signed in full at the bottom of her last thick sheet of creamy
note-paper; she had penned the letter in her own room that very
morning, and had held it unsealed and only half addressed until she
had applied at her State post-office for the expected letter from her
friend, and this having been received, she had thrust the
newly-written missive into the little bag, hoping, doubtless, soon to
meet her correspondent, who might now be on the way, and to tell her
story--for the letter contained a story--which, doubtless, she would
much prefer to do.
And now, so much can a few written pages do, I almost felt that I knew
June Jenrys, for that was her name, and her friend Hilda O'Neil.
Miss O'Neil's letter had told me first something about herself: that
she was a petted and somewhat spoiled only daughter; something of an
heiress, too, if one might judge from her prattle about charming and
costly costumes and a rather reckless expenditure of pin-money; and
that she was betrothed to Gerald Trent, of the great Boston firm of
Trent and Sons, with the full consent and approval of all concerned.
What life could be more serene? Young, fair, rich; a lover and many
friends; and now _en route_ for the World's Fair, to enjoy it in her
lover's society. Happy girl! the only little speck upon her fair
horizon when she penned that letter was the fact that her dearest
friend and schoolmate was not quite so happy.
And June Jenrys? The two letters taken together had told me this: She
was an orphan, and wealthy, left in her teens to the guardianship of
an aunt, her father's widowed sister, a woman of fashion _par
excellence_. During her niece's minority this lady had tyrannized all
she would, and now, Miss Jenrys having recently come of age, she yet
tyrannized all she could. The aunt was eager to mate her niece to a
man of her own selection and a heavy purse. The niece until recently
had looked with some favour upon a young man, handsome enough--even
Miss O'Neil admitted that--and a gentleman beyond question, but with
no visible fortune. A short time before--but I will let Miss Jenrys
tell this much of her own story, quoting from the fourth page of her
letter:
'I did not mean it so, really, Hilda dear, although it has seemed so
to you. You see, I expected to meet you in Boston ere this, and that
is so much better than writing; and now I must write after all, and
instead of its being from me in Boston to you in New York, it is from
me here in the "White City"--such a city, Hilda!--to you in Boston,
and at Nellie Trent's.
'Well, you must know this, that it was just after Aunt Charl had
"washed her hands of me," matrimonially speaking, for the--well, for
the last time; and I was feeling very high and mighty, and Aunt Charl
quite subdued, for her, that we gave a reception, the last before
Lent. Of course he was there, and I had made up my mind that day that
I would be honest with my own heart in spite of Aunt Charl. "I'm sure
he cares for me," I said to myself, and--well, I knew I liked him a
little. I knew he only waited for the opportunity to speak, and while
I would have died rather than help him make it, I said, "If he does
find the chance--if he does speak, or when he does--well!"
'I shall never forget that night! Aunt was good enough to say that I
was looking my very best. I am sure I felt so. But of course aunt
spoiled it all--her pretty speech, I mean.
'"June," she wheedled, "that handsome Maurice Voisin will be here, and
I happen to know that he admires you very much. Charlie Wiltby says he
is no end of a swell in Paris, and that he is really a rich man, who
prefers to be modest, and avoids fortune-hunting girls. You are old
enough to settle down, and with your fortune and his you might be a
leader in Parisian society. There's no place in the world where money
and good looks together will do so much for one as they will in
Paris." Think of it, Hilda! If I had not felt so at peace with all the
world just then, there would have been an--occurrence then and there.
But I held my tongue, and was even inclined to be a little sorry that
aunt's silly talk was making me feel a genuine antipathy for M.
Maurice Voisin of Paris renown; and really at that time I hardly knew
the man. He is certainly rather good-looking, in a dark, Spanish
fashion, and he is taller and somehow more muscular-looking than the
typical Frenchman. He is certainly polished, shines almost too much
for my liking; but that may be, really, Aunt Charl's fault rather than
Mr. V.'s. That night, at least before supper, I had no word or thought
against him.
'But I must get on about him, and I'll make it very short. You know
how our conservatory is arranged, and that little nook just at the
entrance to the library, where the palms are grouped? Well, I had
danced with them both, and he had just asked me to go with him into
the conservatory, "to sit out a waltz," when M. Voisin came to claim
it. I had for the moment forgotten it, and he had only time to say
just one word--"after."
'Well, I'll be candid, if it does humiliate me; after that waltz I
eluded M. Voisin, leaving him with Aunt Charl, and went into the
conservatory.
'It was so early, and the dancers still so fresh, that no one was
there as yet. I had been stopped once or twice on my way, and when I
entered the conservatory by way of the drawing-room, I fancied for a
moment that someone was standing in the shadow of the palms, just
inside the library door; but I went on, and reached the nook without
being observed. I sat down, quite out of sight, thinking that if he
entered from the ball-room the most direct way I should see him first.
Imagine my surprise, then, when almost instantly I heard a movement on
the other side of the mound of fairy palms, and then at the very first
word came my own name. There! I will not repeat the shameful words,
but it was his voice that owned to an intention to "honour" me with a
proposal, because his finances were getting low, and he must choose
matrimony as the least of two evils, etc. While I sat there, unable to
move, and half stunned by this awful insult, suddenly there was a
quick rustling, a half-stifled laugh, some whispered words, and then
another voice which I did not at first recognise, said, very near me,
"Ah, good-evening, Mr.--a--Lossing! Charming spot, really." Then there
was another movement, some low muttered words, and the sound of
footsteps going across the marble toward the library. Then suddenly,
right before me, appeared M. Voisin. I could not conceal my agitation,
and gave the same old hackneyed reason--heat, fatigue, sudden
faintness. M. Voisin hastened in search of water, and I dropped my
face upon my hands, to be aroused the next moment by _his_ voice,
agitated, hurried, making me a proposal. Then something seemed to
nerve me to fury. I sprang up, and, standing erect before him, said:
'"Mr. Lossing, as I am unfortunately not in the matrimonial market, I
fear I cannot be of assistance to you, much as I regret that the low
state of your finances is driving you to so painful a step. Allow me
to pass!" Before he could reply I had swept past him, and meeting M.
Voisin just beyond the palms, I took his arm and went back to the
ball-room. Hilda, pride and anger held me up then, for I fully
believed him the most perfidious of men. But since, much as I hate
myself for it, there are times when I doubt the evidence of my own
senses, and cannot believe that he ever said those words. The next
morning, while my anger still blazed, he sent me a letter, which I
returned unopened. That is all, Hilda. He left town the same day, I
have been told.
'And now you understand, doubtless, why I am here. M. Voisin, of
course, was not to blame, but I could not disconnect him from the rest
of the hateful experience; and so at the beginning of Lent I packed my
trunks and set out for the country and Aunt Ann's at Greenwood. Dear
Aunt Ann, who is so unlike Aunt Charl!'
Then followed some details of their arrival at the World's Fair and an
amusing account of the good lady's first impressions, which were so
large and so astounding that she was obliged to '"remain at home and
take the entire day to think things over in." Think of it, Hilda, shut
up like a hermit just two blocks from the gate! Is not that like
nobody on earth but sweet, slow, obstinate, countrified Aunt Ann?--of
whom, thank heaven, I am not one bit ashamed, in spite of her Shaker
bonnet. But I can't lose a day of this wonder, and fortunately dear
Aunt Ann never dreams of tabooing my sight-seeing. When I proposed to
come alone this morning, the dear soul said:
'"Well, I should hope thee could. Only two straight blocks between
here and the gate at Fifty-seventh Street, and if thee can manage to
get lost with all those guards and guides, to say nothing of the maps
and pictures, thee is a stupid niece, and thee may just go back to thy
Aunt Charlotte Havermeyer." If Aunt Charl could only hear that! Well,
dear, I have promised myself a happy time here with Aunt Ann when she
is not occupied with her meditations, and yourself soon, and without
Aunt C.; but, alas! everybody will visit the Fair; and yesterday,
upon Midway, whom should I see but M. Voisin! He was attired as I have
never seen him before, quite _négligée_, you know, and wearing a
Turkish fez. It was very becoming. He did not see me, and for this I
was thankful. I did not come to the World's Fair to see M. Voisin, and
even to please Aunt Charl I can't make myself like him.'
I put down this letter and smiled over its sweet ingenuousness, and
singularly enough I joined the fair writer in heartily disliking M.
Voisin.
'He was altogether too conveniently near at the scene of that unlucky
proposal,' I muttered to myself, and then I turned to the other
letter. I wanted to see what I could make, between the two, out of
young Lossing.
'I have asked you twice,' Miss O'Neil wrote, 'about your affair with
young Mr. Lossing. Your aunt is entirely at a loss, only she declares
she is sure that you have refused him, and that in some way he has
offended you; and I thought him almost perfect, a knight _sans
reproche_, etc.; and he is so handsome, and frank, and manly. What
happened, dear? It is so strange that he should vanish so utterly from
society where he was made so much of; and no one seems to know where
he went, or when, or why, or how. Gerry says he was a perfect
companion, "and as honourable as the sun." There, I'll say no more.'
My reading was broken in upon at this point by a prolonged chuckle,
and I looked up to see Brainerd wideawake and staring at me.
'Well,' he queried promptly, 'have you found out her name?'
'Yes; it is June Jenrys.' As I spoke I returned Miss O'Neil's letter
to its decorated envelope, and replaced the two in the bag. 'I'll tell
you about them,' I said, as I put it aside. Somehow I felt a sudden
reluctance at the thought of seeing those two letters in the hands and
under the eyes of an inveterate joker like Dave. 'I'm no wiser in the
matter of address, however.' And then I told him the purport of the
letters in the fewest words possible.
'Do you know,' said Dave, when I had finished my recital, 'I don't
like that Voisin, not even a little bit. I think he's a bad lot.'
I smiled at this. There was not a jot of romance in Dave Brainerd's
make-up, and not a great depth of imagination; but he was the keenest
man on a trail, and the clearest reasoner among a large number of
picked and tried detectives. It amused me to think that both had been
similarly impressed by this man as he had been set before us; but I
made no comment, and to draw away from a subject which I felt it
beyond our province to discuss I asked:
'Dave, what did you mean this afternoon, when we opened that bag, by
saying that the owner was a clever woman? Upon what did you found that
remark?'
'Why, upon the fact that she did not put her purse in that convenient,
but conspicuous, little bag; in consequence of which she is, or was,
only slightly annoyed, instead of being seriously troubled at its
loss. By the way, or rather to go out of the way, do you know that
they have in the French Government Building a very fine and complete
exhibition of the Bertillon identification system? I want to get to it
bright and early in the morning.'
I moved to his side and sat down upon the bed. We were both admirers
of this fine system, and for some moments we discussed it eagerly, as
we had done more than once before; and when I put my head upon my
pillow at last, it was with J. J. and her interests consigned to a
secondary place in my mind, the first being given over to this
wonderful French system, the pride of the Paris police and terror of
the French criminal.
But we little know what a day, or a night, may bring forth.
Someone rapped at our door at an unpleasantly early hour, and the
summons brought Dave out of bed with a bound, and in another moment
had put all thought of the previous night out of our heads.
'Will you come to the captain's office at once, gentlemen?' said a
voice outside, and I caught a glimpse of a guard's blue uniform
through the half opened door. 'There's been a big diamond robbery
right under our noses, and they're calling out the whole force.'