Mrs. Marteen was dressing for the street; her hands were gloved, her
sable muff swung from a gem-studded chain, her veil was nicely adjusted;
yet she hesitated, her eyes upon a busy silver clock that already marked
the appointed hour. The room was large, wainscoted in dark paneling; a
capacious fireplace jutted far out, and was made further conspicuous by
two settees of worm-eaten oak. The chairs that backed along the walls
were of stalwart pattern. A collection of English silver tankards was
the chief decoration, save straight hangings of Cordova leather at the
windows, and a Spanish embroidery, tarnished with age, that swung beside
the door. Hardly a woman's room, and yet feminine in its minor touches;
the gallooned red velvet cushions of the Venetian armchair; the violets
that from every available place shed their fresh perfume on the quiet
air, a summer window box crowded with hyacinths, the wicker basket, home
of a languishing Pekinese spaniel, tucked under one corner of the table.
Mrs. Marteen continued to hesitate, and the hands of the clock to travel
relentlessly.
Suddenly drawing herself erect, she walked with no uncertain tread to
the right-hand wall of the mantel and pushed back a double panel of the
wainscoting, revealing the muzzle of a steel safe let into the masonry
of the wall. A few deft twirls opened the combination, and the metal
door swung outward. Within the recess the pigeonholes were crammed with
papers and morocco jewel cases. Pressing a secret spring, a second door
jarred open in the left inner wall. From this receptacle she withdrew
several packets of letters and a set of plates with their accompanying
prints. Over them all she slipped a heavy rubber band, laid them aside
and closed the hiding place with methodical care. The compromising
documents disappeared within the warm hollow of her muff, and with a
last glance around, Mrs. Marteen unlocked the door and descended to the
street, where her walnut-brown limousine awaited her. Her face, which
had been vivid with emotion, took on its accustomed mask of cold
perfection, and when she was ushered into the anxiously awaiting
presence of Marcus Gard, she was the same perfectly poised machine,
wound up to execute a certain series of acts, that she had been on the
occasion of her former visit. Of their friendly acquaintance of the last
ten days there was no trace. They were two men of business met to
consult upon a matter of money. The host was thoroughly disappointed.
For ten days he had lost no opportunity of following up both Dorothy and
her mother. Dorothy had responded with frank-hearted liking; Mrs.
Marteen had suffered herself to be interested.
"How's my débutante?" he asked cordially, as Mrs. Marteen entered.
"She's very well, thank you," the marble personage replied. "I came in
answer to your note."
"Rather late," he complained. "I've been waiting for you anxiously, most
anxiously--but now you're here, I'm ready to forgive. Do you know, this
is the first opportunity I have had, since you honored me before, of
having one word in private with you?"
She ignored his remark. "I have brought the correspondence of which I
spoke."
"I never doubted it, my dear lady. But before we proceed to conclude
this little deal I want to ask you a question or two. Surely you will
not let me languish of curiosity. I want to know--tell me--how did you
ever hit upon this plan of yours?"
She unbent from her rigid attitude and answered, almost as if the words
were drawn from her against her will: "After Martin, my husband
died--I--I found myself poor, quite to my astonishment, and with Dorothy
to support. Among his effects--" She paused and turned scarlet; she was
angry at herself for answering, angry at him for daring to question her
thus intimately.
"You found--" prompted Gard.
"Well--" she hesitated, and then continued boldly--"some letters
from--never mind whom. They showed me that my husband had been most
cruelly robbed and mistreated; men had traded upon his honor, and had
ruined him. Then and there I saw my way. This man--these men--had
political aspirations. Their plans were maturing. I waited. Then I
'wondered if they would care to have the matter in their opponents'
hands.' The swindle would be good newspaper matter. They replied that
they would 'mind very much.' I succeeded in getting back something of
what Martin had been cheated out of--"