When Marcus Gard dressed that evening he was so absent-minded that his
valet held forth for an hour in the servants' hall, with assurances that
some mighty _coup_ was toward. Not since the days of B.L. & W. or the
rate war on the S. & O. had his master shown such complete absorption.
"He's like a blind drunk, or a man in a trance, he is--he's just not
there in the head, and you have to walk around and dress his body, like
he was a dumb wax-work. If I get the lay, Smathers, I'll tip you off.
There might be something in it for us. He's due for dinner and bridge at
the Met., but unless Frenchy puts him out of the motor, he won't know
when he gets there"--which proved true. Three times the chauffeur
respectfully advised his master of their arrival, before the wondering
eyes of the club _chasseur_, before the Great Man, suddenly recalled to
the present, descended from his car and was conducted to his waiting
host.
The first one of the company to shake hands with him was Victor
Mahr--and Victor Mahr was a friend of Mrs. Marteen. The sudden
recollection of this fact made him cast such a glance of scrutiny at the
gentleman as to quite discompose him.
"What's the old man up to, gimleting me in the eye like that? He's got
something up his sleeve," thought Mahr.
"I wonder did she ever corner _him_?" was the question uppermost in
Gard's mind. He hated Mahr, and rather hoped that the lady had, then
flushed with resentment at the thought that she would stoop to blackmail
a man so obviously outside the pale. His mood was so unusual that every
man in the circle was stirred with unrest and misgiving. Dinner
brightened the general gloom, though there were but trifling inroads
into the costly vintages. One doesn't play bridge with the Big Ones
unless one's head is clear. Not till supper time did the talk drift from
honors and trumps. Gard played brilliantly. His absent-mindedness
changed to savage concentration. He played to win, and won.
"What's new in the art world?" inquired Denning, as he lit a cigar.
"There was a rumor you were after the Heim Vandyke."
"Nothing new," Gard answered. "Haven't had time to bother. By the way,
Mahr, what sort of a girl is the little débutante daughter of Mrs.
Marteen--you know her, don't you?" He was watching Mahr keenly, and
fancied he detected a shifty glance at the mention of the name. But Mahr
answered easily:
"Dorothy? She's the season's beauty--really a stunning-looking girl. You
must have seen her; she was in Denning's box with her mother at 'La
Bohème' last week."
"And," added Denning, "she'll be with us again to-morrow night."
"Oh," said Card, with indifference. "The dark one--I
remember--tall--yes, she's like her mother, devilish handsome. Must send
that child some flowers, I suppose."
Gard returned home, disgusted with himself. Why had he forced his mood
upon these men? Why, above all things, had he mentioned Mrs. Marteen to
Mahr, whom he despised? For the simple pleasure of speaking of her, of
mentioning her name? Why had he suspected Mahr of being one of her
victims? And why, in heaven's name, had he resented the very same
notion? He lay in bed numbering the men of money and importance whom he
knew shared Mrs. Marteen's acquaintance. They were numerous, both his
friends and enemies. What had _they_ done? What was her hold over
_them_? Had she in all cases worked as silently, as thoroughly, as
understandingly as she had with him? Did she always show her hand at the
psychological moment? Did she rob only the rich--the guilty? Was she
Robin Hood in velvet, antique lace and sables? Ah, he liked that--Mme.
Robin Hood. He fell asleep at last and dreamed that he met Mrs. Marteen
under the greenwood tree, and watched her as with unerring aim she sent
a bolt from her bow through the heart of a running deer.
He awoke when the valet called him, and was amused with his dream. Not
in years had such an interest entered his life. He rose, tubbed and
breakfasted, and went, as was his wont, to his sister's sitting room.
"Well, Polly," he roared through the closed doors of her bedroom, "up
late, as usual, I suppose! Well, I'm off. By the way, we aren't using
the opera box next Monday night; lend it to Mrs. Marteen. That little
girl of hers is coming out, you know, and we ought to do something for
'em now and again. I'll be at the library after three, if you want me."
At the office he found a courteous note thanking him for his kindness in
offering to direct her investments and inclosing Mrs. Marteen's cheque
for twenty-five thousand dollars. Gard studied the handwriting closely.
It was firm, flowing, refined, yet daring, very straight as to alignment
and spaced artistically. Good sense, good taste, nice discrimination, he
commented. He smiled, tickled by a new idea. He would not give the usual
orders in such matters. When a lovely lady inclosed her cheque, begging
to remind him of his thoughtful suggestion (mostly mythical) at Mrs.
So-and-So's dinner, he cynically deposited the slip, and wrote out
another for double the amount, if he believed the lady deserving; if
not, a polite note informed the sender that his firm would gladly open
an account with her, and he was sure her interests "would receive the
best possible attention and advice." In this case he determined to
accept the responsibility exactly as it was worded, ignoring the
circumstances that had forced his hand. He would make her nest egg hatch
out what was required. It should be an honest transaction in spite of
its questionable inception. Every dollar of that money should work
overtime, for results must come quickly.
He gave his orders and laid his plans. Never had his business interests
appealed to him as keenly as at that moment, and never for a moment did
he doubt the honesty of the lady's villainy. She would not "hold out on
him."
His first care that morning had been to make a luncheon appointment with
his lawyer, and to elicit the information that, as far as his attorney
knew, the incriminating correspondence had been destroyed when received.
"As soon as your instructions were carried out, Mr. Gard. Of course,
none of us quite realized the changes that were coming--but--what those
letters would mean now! Too much care cannot be taken. I've often
thought a code might be advisable in the future, when the written word
must be relied on."
Gard smiled grimly and agreed. "Those letters would make a pretty basis
for blackmail, wouldn't they? Oh, by the way, you are Victor Mahr's
lawyers, aren't you?"
As he had half expected, he surprised a flash of suspicion and knowledge
in the other's eyes.
"What makes you speak of him in that connection?" laughed the lawyer.
"I don't," said Gard. "I happened to be playing bridge with him last
night and from something he let fall I gathered your firm had been
acting for him. Well, he needs the best legal advice that's to be had,
or I miss my guess." He rose and took leave of his friend, entered his
motor and was driven rapidly uptown.
Still his thoughts were of Mrs. Marteen, and again unaccountable
annoyance possessed him. Confound it! Mahr _had_ been held up. Clifton
knew about it; that argued that Mahr had taken the facts, whatever they
were, to them. Had he told them who it was who threatened him? Then
Clifton knew that Mrs. Marteen was a--Hang it! What possible right had
he to jump to the wild conviction that Victor Mahr had been blackmailed
at all? Because he was a friend of the lady's--a pretty reason that! Did
men make friends of--Yes, they did; he intended to himself; why not that
hound of a Mahr? Clifton _did_ know something. Mahr was just the sort of
scoundrel to drag in a woman's name. Why shouldn't he in such a case?
Then, with one of his quick changes of mood, he laughed at himself. "I'm
jealous because I think I'm not the only victim! It's time I consulted a
physician. I'm going dotty. She's a wonder, though, that woman. What a
brain, and what a splendid presence! But there's something vital
lacking; no soul, no conscience--that's the trouble," he commented
inwardly--little dreaming that he exactly voiced the criticism
universally passed upon himself. Then his thoughts took a new tack.
"Wonder what the daughter is like? I'll have to hunt her up. It's a
joke--if it _is_ on me! Must see my débutante. After all, if I'm paying,
I ought to look her over. She's going to the Opera--in Denning's
box--h'm!"
Gard broke two engagements, and at the appointed hour found himself
wandering through the corridor back of the first tier boxes at the
Metropolitan. Its bare convolutions were as resonant as a sea shell.
Vast and vague murmurs of music, presages of melodies, undulated through
the passages, palpitated like the living breath of Euterpe, suppressed
excitement lurked in every turn, there was throb and glow in each
pulsating touch of unseen instruments. Gard found his heart tightening,
his nostrils expanding. A flash of the divine fire of youth leaped
through his veins. Adventure suddenly beckoned him--the lure of the
unknown, of the magic _x_ of algebra in human equation. So great was his
enjoyment that he savored it as one savors a dainty morsel, lingering
over it, fearful that the next taste may destroy the perfect flavor.
He paced the corridor, nodding here and there, pausing for a moment to
chat with this or that personage, affable, noncommittal,
Chesterfieldian, handsome and distinguished in his clean, silver-touched
middle age.
Inwardly he was fretting for their appearance--his débutante and Mme.
Robin Hood. Of course they must do the conventional thing and be late.
But to his pleased surprise, just as the overture was drawing to its
close, he saw Denning and his wife approaching. Behind them he discerned
the finely held head and chiseled features of the Lady of Compulsion,
and close beside her a slender, girlish figure, shrouded in a silver and
ermine cloak, a tinsel scarf half veiled a flower face, gentle,
tremulous and inspired--a Jeanne d'Arc of high birth and luxurious
rearing. Something tightened about his heart. The child's very
appearance was dramatic coupled with the presence of her mother. What
the one lacked, the other possessed in its clearest essence.
With a hasty greeting to Denning and his diamond-sprinkled spouse, Gard
turned with real cordiality to Mrs. Marteen.
"This _is_ a pleasure!" He beamed with sincerity. "Dear madam, present
me to your lovely daughter. We must be friends, Miss Dorothy. Your very
wise and resourceful mamma has given me many an interesting hour--more
than she has ever dreamed, I believe."
He turned, accompanied them to the box and assisted the ladies with
their wraps. Dorothy turned upon him a pair of violet eyes, that at the
mention of her mother's name had lighted with adoration.
"Isn't she wonderful!" she murmured, casting a bashful glance at Mrs.
Marteen; then she added with simple gratefulness: "I'm glad you're
friends." In her child's fashion she had looked him over and approved.
A glow of pride suffused him. The obeisance of the kings of finance was
not so sweet to his natural vanity. "She's one in a million," he
answered heartily. "She should have been a man--and yet we would have
lost much in that case--you, for instance." He turned toward Mrs.
Marteen. "I congratulate you," he smiled. "She's just the sort of a girl
that _should_ have a good time--the very best the world can give her;
the world owes it. But aren't you"--and he lowered his voice--"just a
little afraid of those ecstatic eyes? Dear child, she must keep all the
pink and gold illusions--" The end of his sentence he spoke really to
himself. But an expression in his hearer's face brought him to sudden
consciousness. Quite unexpectedly he had surprised fear in the classic
marble of the goddess face. The woman, who had not hesitated to commit
crime, feared the contact of the world for her child. It was a curious
revelation. All that was best, most generous and kindly in his nature
rose to the surface, and his smile was the rare one that endeared him to
his friends. "Let her have every pleasure that comes her way," he added.
"By the way, I'm sending you our box for Monday night. I hope you will
avail yourself of it. My sister will join you, and perhaps you will all
give me the pleasure of your company at Delmonico's afterward."
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes turning involuntarily toward the
girl. Then the human dimple enriched her cheeks, and it was with real
_camaraderie_ that she nodded an acceptance.
His attitude was humbly grateful. "I'll ask the Dennings, too," he
continued. "They're due elsewhere, I know, but they could join us."
The curtain was already rising and Gard, excusing himself, found his way
to the masculine sanctuary, the directors' box, of which he rarely
availed himself, and from a shadowy corner observed his débutante and
her beautiful mother through his powerful opera glasses. He found
himself taking a throbbing interest in the visitors at the loge
opposite. He was as interested in Dorothy Marteen's admirers as any fond
father could be; and yet his eyes turned with strange, fascinated
jealousy to the older woman's loveliness. Suddenly he drew in the focus
of his glasses. A face had come within the rim of his observation--the
face of a man sitting in the row in front of him. That man, too, had his
glasses turned toward the group on the other side of the diamond
horseshoe, and the look on his face was not pleasant to see. A lean,
triumphant smile curled his heavy purple lips, the radiating wrinkles at
the corner of his eyes were drawn upward in a Mephistophelian hardness.
It was Victor Mahr. His expression suddenly changed to one of intense
disgust, as a tall young man entered the Denning box and bent in evident
admiration over Dorothy's smiling face. Victor Mahr rose from his seat,
and with a curt nod to Gard, who feigned interest elsewhere, disappeared
into the corridor.
* * * * *