"Accusing nothing. I know a few things, Brencherly, remember. Baker
Allen told me your office held him up good and plenty to turn in a
different report when his wife employed you, and you 'got the goods on
him.' Now, don't give me any bluff. I want facts, and I pay you for
them, don't I? Well, when you got that story, you looked it up hard,
didn't you?"
Brencherly, thoroughly cowed, nodded assent. "But we couldn't get a line
on it anywhere. If there were any proofs, somebody else had them--that's
all."
"U'm!" said Marcus, and sat a moment silent. When he spoke again it was
with an apparent frankness that would have deceived the devil himself.
"See here, I'll tell you my reason for all this, so perhaps you can
answer more intelligently. Martin Marteen was a friend of mine, and I'm
interested in his little daughter, who has just come out. Theodore Mahr
is attentive to her, and I'm not keen about it, and what you tell me
about his father doesn't make me any happier. What sort of a woman is
Mrs. Marteen--from your point of view? Of course I know her well
socially, but what's her rating with you?"
"Ai, sir," Brencherly answered promptly. "Exceptionally fine woman--very
intelligent. I should say that, with a word from you, she ought to be
able to handle the situation, and any girl living. But the boy's all
right, Mr. Gard, even if Mahr isn't. And after all, there may not be a
word of truth in that romance I spun to you. We couldn't land a thing.
What made us think there might be something in it was that we got it
second hand from an old servant of Mahr's. _He_ told the man that told
us; but the old boy's gone, too."
Gard rose from his chair and resumed his pacing. Brencherly remained
seated, patiently waiting. Presently Gard turned on him.
"That'll do, Brencherly. You may go; and don't let me catch you tipping
Mahr off that I've been having you rate him, do you understand?"
The detective sprang to his feet with alacrity. "Oh, no, Mr. Gard--never
a word. You know, sir, you're one of our very best clients."
Left alone, Gard sat down wearily, ran his hands through his hair, then
held his throbbing temples between his clenched fists. Somehow, on his
slender evidence, that was no evidence in fact, he was convinced of the
truth of Mahr's perfidy; convinced that the lady rated A1 by the keenest
detective bureau in the country had obtained the proofs of guilt and
used them with the same perfect business sagacity she had used in his
own case. It sickened him. Somehow he could forgive her handling such a
case as his. It was purely commercial; but this other was uglier stuff.
His soul rebelled. He would not have it so; he would not believe--and
yet he was convinced against his own logic. He had tried to cheat the
arithmetic when he had tried to make her extortion money an honestly
made acquisition. And she had refused to be a party to the flimsy
self-deception.
Mrs. Marteen was a blackmailer, an extortioner--that was the truth, the
truth that he would not let himself recognize. Her depredations probably
had much wider scope than he guessed. He must save her from herself; he
must somehow reach the submerged personality and awaken it to the
hideousness of that other, the soulless, heartless automaton that
schemed and executed crimes with mechanical exactitude. He took a long
breath of determination, and again grinned at the farce he was playing
for his own benefit. Through repetition he was beginning to believe in
the fiction of his former intimacy with Marteen. True, he had known him
slightly, had once or twice snatched a hasty luncheon in his company at
one of his clubs; but far from liking each other, the two men had been
fundamentally antagonistic. Neither was Dorothy an excuse for his
peculiar state of mind. He was drawn to her with strong protective
yearning. Her childlike beauty pleased him. He wished she were his
daughter, or a little sister to pet and spoil. But it was not for her
sake that he savagely longed to make the mother into something
different, "remolded nearer to his heart's desire." Was it the woman
herself, or her enigmatic dual personality that held him? He wished he
knew. He found his mind divided, his emotions many and at cross
purposes. His keen, almost clairvoyant intuition was at fault for once.
It sent no sure signal through the fog of his troubled heart.
How would it all end? Ah, how would it end? He sensed the situation as
one of climax. It could not quietly dissolve itself and be absorbed in
the sea of time and forgotten commonplace.
As an outlet for his mental discomfort, his restless spirit busied
itself in hating Victor Mahr. He had always disliked the man; now he
malignantly resented his very existence; Mahr became the personification
of the thing he most wished to forget--the victimizing power of the
woman who had enthralled him. Gard had met the one element he could not
control or change--the past; and his conquering soul raged at its own
impotence.
"There shall be no more of this!" he said aloud. "She sha'n't again.
I'll--"
"I'll what?" the demon in his brain jeered at him. "What will you do?
She will not 'be under obligations.' Perhaps, even, she likes her
strange profession; perhaps she finds the delight of battle, that you
know so well, in pitting her wits against the brains of the mighty;
perhaps she has a cynic soul that finds a savage joy in running down the
faults of the seemingly faultless--running them to earth and taking her
profit therefrom. Who are you, Marcus Gard, to cavil at the lust of
conquest--to sneer at the controlling of destinies?"
"I won't be beaten," declared his ego, "even if I have no weapon. I'll
search till I find the way to the citadel, and if there is none open,
I'll smash one through!"
* * * * *
V
"Mrs. Martin Marteen requests the pleasure of Mr. Marcus Gard's company
at dinner"--the usual engraved invitation, with below a girlish scrawl:
"You'll come, won't you? It's my very last dinner before we go
South.--D."
He took a stubby quill, which, for some occult reason, he preferred for
his intimate correspondence, and scribbled: "Of course, little friend.
The crowned heads can wait." He tossed the envelope on the pile for
special delivery, and speared the invitation on a letter file.
Two months had passed, and he was no nearer the solution of the problem
he had set himself. His affection for the girl had deepened--become
ratified by his experience of her sweetness and intelligence. They were
"pally," as she put it, happily contented in each other's society. On
the other hand, the fascination that Mrs. Marteen exercised over him was
far from being placid enjoyment. She continued to vex his heart and
irritate his imagination. Her tolerance of young Mahr's attentions to
Dorothy drove him distracted, his only relief being that Miss Gard, his
sister, swayed, as always, by his slightest wish, had developed a most
maternal delight in Dorothy's presence, and was doing all in her power
to make the girl's season a most successful one; also, in accord with
his obvious desire--her influence was antagonistic to Mahr, his son and
his motor car, his house and his flowers, everything that was his; in
spite of which, Dorothy's manner toward Teddy Mahr was undoubtedly one
of encouragement. Honesty compelled Gard to own that he could not find
in the boy the echo of the objectionable sire. Perhaps the long dead
mother, who was never a lawful wife, had, by some retributive turn of
justice, endowed him wholly with her own qualities. Gard could almost
find it in his breast to like the big, large-hearted, gentle boy, but
for a final irony of fate--the son's blind adoration of his father, and
that father's obvious but helpless dislike of the impending romance.
Every element of contradiction seemed to be present in the tangle and to
bind the older watchers to silence. What could anyone do or say? And
meanwhile, in the pause before the storm, Dorothy's violet eyes smiled
into her Teddy's brown devoted ones with tender approval.
One move only had Gard made with success, and the doing thereof had
given him supreme satisfaction. The account opened in his office in Mrs.
Marteen's name had been transferred to Dorothy, and with such publicity
that Mrs. Marteen was unable to raise objections. Right and left he told
the tale of his having desired to advise the widow of his old friend, of
his successful operations, of Mrs. Marteen's refusal to accept her just
gains as "too great," and his determination that the account,
transferred to the daughter, should reach its proper destination. The
first result of his outwitting of the beneficiary was a doubling of the
usual letters inclosing a cheque and requesting advice. The secretary
was plainly disgusted, but Gard grimly paid the price of his checkmate,
and by his generosity certainly precluded any accusation of favoritism.
As he read Dorothy's note on the invitation, he chuckled at the thought
of his own cleverness, and rejoiced in the knowledge that his débutante
had become somewhat his ward and protégée.
The bell of his private telephone rang--only his intimates had the
number of that wire--and he raised the receiver with sudden conviction
that the voice he would hear was Dorothy's. "Well, my dear?" he said.
There was a little gurgle, and an obviously disguised voice replied:
"And who do you think this is?"
"Why, the queen of the débutantes, of course. I felt it in my bones; it
was a pleasurable sensation."
"Wrong," the voice came back, "quite wrong. This is the superintendent
of the Old Ladies' Home, and we want autographed photographs of you for
all the old ladies' dressers--to cheer them up, you know."
"Certainly, my dear madam; they shall be sent at once. To your
apartment, I suppose. Is there anything else?"
"Yes; you might bring them yourself. Did you know that mother has been
ordered off to Bermuda at once? The doctor says she's dreadfully run
down. She won't let me go with her. She wants me to do a lot of things;
and then in three weeks we all go South. Mother's doctor says she
mustn't wait. Isn't it a bore? And Tante Lydia is coming to-day to
chaperon me. Did you get my invitation?"
Gard's heart sank. "Dear me! That's bad news. How long will your mother
be gone?"
"Oh, just the voyage and straight home again. But do come in this
afternoon and have tea; perhaps you could persuade her to stay a week
there--she won't obey me."
"They are very insubordinate in the Old Ladies' Home. I'll drop in this
afternoon. Good-by, my dear."
He hung up the receiver and glowered. "Not well! Mrs. Marteen in the
doctor's care!" He could not associate her perfection with illness of
any kind. It gave him a distinct pang, and for the first time a feeling
of protective tenderness. This instantly translated itself into a lavish
order of violets, and a mental note to see that, her stateroom was made
beautiful for her voyage.
Adding his signature to the pile of letters that Saunders handed him
served to pass the moments till he could officially declare himself free
for the day and be driven to the abode of the two beings who had so
absorbed his interest.
He found Mrs. Marteen reclining on a _chaise-longue_ in her
library-sitting room, the Pekinese spaniel in her lap and Dorothy by her
side. She looked weary, but not ill, and Gard felt a glow of comfort.
"Dear lady, I came at once. Dorothy advised me of your impending
journey, and led me to believe you were not well. But I am
reassured--you do not seem a drooping flower."
Mrs. Marteen laughed. "How 1830! Couldn't you put it into a madrigal? It
really is absurd, though, sending me off like this. But they threatened
me with nerves--fancy that--nerves! And never having had an attack of
that sort, of course I'm terrified. I shall leave my butterfly in good
hands, however. My sister is to take my place; and I sha'n't be gone
long, you know."
"We hope not, don't we, Dorothy? What boat do you honor, and what date?"
Mrs. Marteen hesitated. "I'm not sure. The _Bermudian_ sails this week.
If I cannot go then, and that is possible, I may take the _Cecelia_, and
make the Caribbean trip. It's a little longer, but on my return I would
join Dorothy and Mrs. Trevor, crossing directly from Bermuda to Florida.
It's absurd, isn't it, to play the invalid! But insomnia is really
getting its hold on me. A good sleep would be a novelty just now, and
bromides depress me, so--there you are! I suppose I must take the
doctor's advice and my maid, and fly for my health's sake."
In spite of the natural tone and her apparent frankness, Gard remained
unconvinced. He could not have explained why. All his life he had found
his intuitions superior to his logical deductions. They had led him to
his present exalted position and had kept him there. No sooner had this
inner self refused to accept Mrs. Marteen's story than his mind began
supplying reasons for her departure--and the very first held him
spellbound. Was it another move in her perpetual game? Was she on the
track of someone's secret? Was her scheming mind now following some new
clew that must lead to the discovery of a hidden or forgotten crime--the
burial place of some well entombed family skeleton? He shivered.
Mrs. Marteen observed him narrowly.
"Mr. Gard is cold, Dorothy. Send for the tea, dear--or will you have
something else? Really, _you_ look like the patient who should seek
climate and rest."
"Perhaps you're right," he said slowly. "Perhaps I _will_ go--perhaps
with you. It would be pleasant to have your society for so many weeks,
uninterrupted and almost alone. I'll think of it--if I can arrange my
affairs."
He had been watching her closely, and seemed to surprise in the depths
of her eyes and the slow assuming of her impenetrable manner, that his
suggestion was far from receiving approval.
"But, my dear sir," she answered, "much as that would be my pleasure,
would it be wise for you? Everyone tells me the next few weeks will be
crucial. Your presence may be needed in Washington."
"Well, I suppose it will," he retorted almost angrily. "But I've a
pretty good idea what the result will be, and my sails are trimmed."
"Then do come," she invited cordially; "it will be delightful!" She had
read the meaning of his tone; knew quite as well as he that her words
had brought home to him the impossibility of his leaving. She could
afford to be pressing.
More and more convinced of some ulterior motive in Mrs. Marteen's
departure, his irritation made him gruff. Even Dorothy, seeing his
ill-temper, retired to the far corner of the room, and eyed him with
surprise above her embroidery. Feeling the discord of his present mood,
he rose to take his leave.
"Do arrange to come," smiled Mrs. Marteen, with just a touch of irony in
her clear voice.
"You are very kind," he answered; "but, somehow, I'm not so sure you
want me."
He bowed himself out and, sore-hearted, sought the crowded solitude of
the Metropolitan Club. His next move was characteristic. Having got
Gordon on the wire, he requested as complete a list as possible of the
passengers to sail by the _Bermudian_ and the _Cecelia_. A new
possibility had presented itself. If the psychological moment in
someone's affairs was eventuating, something for which she had long
planned the dénouement. That person might be sailing. If only he could
accompany her, perhaps in the isolated world of a steamer's life, he
might bring his will to bear--force from her a promise to cease from her
pernicious activities, and an acceptance of his future aid in all
financial matters--two things he had found it impossible to accomplish,
or even propose, heretofore. But she was right; the moment was critical,
and his presence might be necessary in Washington at any moment.
When, later that night, the lists were delivered at his home, he spent a
throbbing half-hour. There were several possibilities. Mrs. Allison was
Bermuda bound; so was Morgan Beresford. Both had fortunes, a whispered
past and ambitions. The Honorable Fortescue, the wealthy and impeccable
Senator, the shining light of "practical politics," was Havana bound on
the _Cecelia_, so was Max Brutgal, the many-millioned copper baron. Mrs.
Allison he discarded as a possibility. He was sure that Mme. Robin Hood
would disdain such an easy victim and refuse to hound one of her own
sex. Looking over the list, he singled out Brutgal, if it were the
_Cecelia_, and Beresford, if it were the _Bermudian_. Beresford was
devoted to the lovely and somewhat severe Mrs. Claigh. He might be more
than willing to suppress some event in his patchwork past.
Gard threw the lists from him angrily. After all, what right had he to
interfere? What business of his was it which fly was elected to feed the
spider? He went to bed, and passed a sleepless night trying to
determine, nevertheless, which was the doomed insect. He would have
liked to prevent the ships from leaving the harbor, or invent a
situation that would make it as impossible for Mrs. Marteen to leave as
it was for him to accompany her.
A few days later, when Mrs. Marteen finally announced her intention of
departing on the longer cruise, Gard seriously contemplated a copper
raid that would keep Brutgal at the ticker. Then he as furiously
abandoned the idea, washed his hands of the whole affair and did not go
near Mrs. Marteen for three days. At the end of that time, having
thoroughly punished himself, he relented, and continued to shower the
lady with attentions until the very moment of her final leave taking. He
accompanied her to the steamer, saw her gasp of pleasure at the bower of
violets prepared for her and formally accepted the post of sub-guardian
to Dorothy.
As the tugs dragged out the unwilling vessel from her berth, he caught a
glimpse of Brutgal, his coarse, heavy face set off by an enormous
sealskin collar, join Mrs. Marteen at the rail and bid blatantly for her
attention. Gard turned his back, took Dorothy by the arm, and, in spite
of her protestations, left the wharf. His motor took Tante Lydia and
Dorothy to their apartment, where he left them with many assurances of
his desire to be of service.
He sent a wireless message and was comforted. He wondered how, in the
old days that were only yesterdays, people could have endured separation
without any means of communication, and he blessed the name of Marconi
as cordially as he cursed the name of Brutgal. To exasperate him
further, the rest of the day seemed obsessed by Victor Mahr. He was in
the elevator that took him up to his office; he was at the club in the
afternoon; he was a guest at the Chamber of Commerce banquet in the
evening, and was placed opposite Marcus Gard. Despite his desire to let
the man alone, he could not resist the temptation to talk with him.
Mahr, whatever else he might be, was no fool, and even as Gard seemed a
prey to nervous irritation, so Mahr appeared to experience a bitter
pleasure in parrying his adversary's vicious thrusts and lunging at
every opening in the other's arguments. Both men appeared to ease some
inner turbulence, for they calmed down as the dinner progressed, and
ended the evening in abstraction and silence, broken as they parted by
Gard's sudden question:
"And how's that good-looking son of yours, Mahr?"
Mahr shot an underbrow glance at Gard, and took his time to answer.
"If he does what I want him to," he said at last, "he'll take a year or
two out West and learn the lumber business--and I think he will."
"Good idea," said Gard curtly. "Good-night."
One day of restlessness succeeded another. Ill at ease, Gard felt
himself waiting--for what? It was the strain of anxiety, such as a miner
feels deep in the heart of the earth, knowing that far down the black
corridor the dynamite has been placed and the fuse laid. Why was the
expected explosion delayed? One must not go forward to learn. One must
sit still and wait. A thousand times he asked himself the meaning of
this latent dread. He set it down to his suspicions of Mrs. Marteen's
departure. Then why this fibril anxiety never to be long beyond call?
Surely, and the demon in his brain laughed with amusement, he did not
expect her to send him a cryptic wireless--"Everything arranged;
operation a success; appendix removed without opposition," or "Patient
unmanageable; must use anesthetic."
Four days had passed, four miserable days, relieved only by a few
pleasant hours with Dorothy and the enjoyment he always found in
watching her keen delight in every entertainment. He went everywhere,
where he felt sure of seeing her, and could he have removed Teddy Mahr
from the obviously reserved place at Dorothy's side, he could have
enjoyed those moments without the undercurrent of his troubled fears.
That Mahr was rebelliously angry at the situation was evident. Gard had
seen the look in his eyes on more than one occasion, and it boded evil
to someone. What had he meant when he spoke of his son's probable
absence of a year or more "to study the lumber business"? Gard
approached the young man and found him quite innocent of any such plan.
"Oh, yes," he had answered, "father's keen on my being what he calls
practical, but," and he had smiled frankly at his questioner, "I
wouldn't leave now--not for the proud possession of every tree, flat or
standing, this side of the Pacific."
Dorothy, when questioned, blushed and smiled and evaded, assuring Gard
that of all the men she had met that season he alone came up to her
ideal, and employed every artifice a woman uses between the ages of nine
and ninety, when she does not want to give an answer that answers. The
very character of her replies, however, convinced Gard that there was
more than a passing interest in her preference. There was something
sweetly ingenuous in her evasions, a softness in her violet eyes at the
mention of Teddy's prosaic name that was not to be misunderstood. Gard
sighed. Still the sense of impending danger oppressed him. He found
himself neglectful of his many and vital interests. He took himself
severely in hand, and set himself to unrelenting work, fixing his
attention on the matters in hand as if he would drive a nail through
them. Heavy circles appeared under his eyes, and the lines from nose to
chin sharpened perceptibly. More than ever he looked the eagle, stern
and remote, capable of daring the very sun in high ambitious flight, or
of sudden and death-dealing descent; but deep in his heart fear had
entered.
* * * * *