IX

Though the heat in the Pullman was intense the tall woman in the first

seat was heavily veiled. She had come out from the drawing room to allow

more freedom to her maid, who was packing a dressing-case and rolling up

steamer rugs. Her fellow travelers eyed her with curiosity. She was

doubtless some great and exclusive personage, for she had not appeared

in public, not even in the diner. She sank into the vacant seat with an

air of hopeless weariness, yet her restless hands never ceased their

groping, her slim fingers slipped in and out, in and out of the loop of

her long neck chain, or nervously twined one with another in endless

intertouch.

The long journey north was over at last. The weary days and nights of

hurried travel. Only a moment more and the familiar sights and sounds of

the great city would greet her once again. She was going home--to what?

Mrs. Marteen did not dare to picture the future. Pursued, as if by the

Furies themselves, she had been driven, madly, blind with suffering,

back to the scene of disaster--to know--to know--the worst, perhaps--but

to know!

Day and night, night and day, her iron will had fought the fever that

burned in her veins. Silent, self-controlled, she had given no sign of

her suffering and her terror, though her eyes were ringed with

sleeplessness and her mouth had grown stiff with its effort to command.

The tension was torture. Her heart strings were drawn to the snapping

point; her mind was a bowstring never relaxed, till every fiber of her

resistant body ached for relief.

At last they had arrived. At last the hollow rumble of the train in the

vast echoing station warned her of her journey's end. Instinctively she

gave her orders, thrusting her baggage checks into the hands of her

maid.

"I'm going on at once," she said. "Attend to everything. Give me my

little nécessaire. I don't feel quite well, and I want to get home as

quickly as possible."

She hurried away before the servant could ask a question, and was

directed to the open cab stand. As she stepped in, she reeled.

Trepidation took hold upon her, but with enforced calm, she seated

herself, and gave the address to the starter. As the motor drew away

from the great buildings, she threw back her veil for the first time,

and opened a window. The rush of cool air revived her somewhat, but her

heart beat spasmodically, her blood seemed a thin, unliving stream.

Street after street slipped by like a panorama on a screen, familiar,

yet unreal. The world, her world, had changed in its essence, in its

every manifestation.

At last the taxi drew up before the door of her home--was it home still?

she wondered. Her hand trembled so she could not unfasten the latch, and

the chauffeur, descending from his seat, came to her assistance.

"Wait," she said in a strangled voice. "Wait; I may want you."

At the door of her apartment she had to pause, before she rang, to

gather courage, to obtain control of her whirling brain. At last the

ornate door swung inward and her butler faced her with welcoming eye.

"Mrs. Marteen! Pray pardon the undress livery! No word had been

received."

She took note of the darkened rooms. Only one switch, whose glow she had

seen turned on as the servant came to the door, gave light. The place

was hollow and unlived in as an outworn shell.

"Miss Dorothy?" she said, striving to give her voice a natural tone.

The butler h'mmed. "Miss Dorothy has gone, Madam, with Madam's

sister--since yesterday. They left no address, and said nothing about

when they might be expected. Mr. Gard had been with Miss Dorothy in the

afternoon."

Mrs. Marteen caught hold of the broad and solid back of a carved hall

chair and stood motionless, leaning her full weight on its ancient oak

for support.

"That's all right, Stevens," she said at length. "You needn't notify the

other servants that I have returned--for the present. I'm going right

out again. I just stopped in for some important papers I may have need

of. Just light the hall and the library, will you?"

With the falling of the sword that severed her last hope a new

self-possession came to her--the quiet of despair. Her brain cleared,

her fevered pulse became normal, the weariness that had racked her frame

passed from her. She only asked to be alone for a little--alone with her

love and her memories. She quarreled no more with Fate.

The butler preceded her, lighting the way. At the door of the library,

she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Calmly she entered and softly

closed the door behind her. In the blaze of the electrics she saw every

nook and corner of the room--photographically--every tone and color,

every glint and gleam, but her mind fastened itself with remorseless

logic to one thing only--the sliding panel. In her distracted vision it

seemed to move, to slip back even as she gazed. The grain of the wood

appeared to writhe, to creep up and down and ripple as if with the evil

life of what lay behind. She forced herself to walk across the room to

lay her weakened fingers, from which all sense of touch seemed to have

withdrawn, upon that vibrating panel. The face of the safe stood

revealed. Slowly with growing fear she turned the numbers of the

combination and paused--she could not face the ordeal, but with the

releasing of the clutch, the weight of the door caused it to open

slowly, as if an invisible force drew it outward and Mrs. Marteen saw

before her the empty shelves within. As if in a dream she pressed the

spring, and realized that the carefully planned hiding place, was hiding

place no more. She stood still with outstretched arms, as if crucified.

The mute evidence of that opened door was not to be refuted. Her enemy

had triumphed; her own sin had found her out. No self-pity eased the

awful moments. Hot pity poured in upon her heart, but not for herself in

this hour of misery--but for her daughter, for the innocent sweet soul

of truth, whose faith had been shattered, whose deepest love had been

betrayed, whose belief in honor had been destroyed. Where had she fled?

Into whose heart had she poured the torrent of her grief and shame?

Could there be one thought of love, of forgiveness? Ah, she was a mother

no longer. She had sold her sacred trust. She had no rights, no

privileges. She must go--go quickly, efface herself forever. That was

her duty, that was the only way. Like a mortally wounded creature, she

thought only of some small, cramped, sheltered corner, some lair wherein

to die.

With an effort she turned from the room, closed the door, and stood

uncertain where to turn. Down the corridor, at its far end, was

Dorothy's room. The thought drew her. She turned the knob, found the

switch, and hesitated on the thresh-hold. Should she go in? Should she,

the sin-stained soul, dare profane the sanctuary, the virginal altar of

the pure in heart! Yes--ah, yes!--for this last time! She was a mother

still.

She entered, and cast herself on her knees by the little pink and white

bed. She had no tears--the springs of relief were dried in the flame of

her heart's hell. She found Dorothy's pillow, a mass of dainty

embroidery and foolish frills. She laid her hot cheek on its cool linen

surface. In a passion of loss she kissed each leaf and rose of its

needlework garland.

Then she rose to her feet. She must go, she must disappear--now, and

forever from the world that had known her. She would send one message

when the time came--one message--to the one man she trusted, to the one

man who would fulfill her wish--that in the years to come, his watchful

care should guard her child from further harm. But that, too, must wait.

She rose to her feet, and crossed to the dressing-table. There was

Dorothy's picture--her little girl's picture, the one she preferred to

all the others. She slipped it from its silver frame, and clasped it to

her breast. She could not bear to look upon the room as she left it. She

turned off the light, and crept away like a thief. She was trembling

now. The calmness that had been hers as she heard her death sentence,

was gone. Her overtaxed body and mind rebelled. It was with difficulty

that she made her way through the deserted rooms and stumbled to the

street and the waiting cab.

"Where to?" the chauffeur asked.

She gave the name of one of the large hotels. Yes, once in some such

caravanserai, she might elude all pursuit. In one door and out of

another--and who was to find her trace in the seething mass of the

city's life? The simple transaction of paying her fare, and entering the

hotel became strangely difficult. Words eluded her, she was conscious

that the chauffeur eyed her oddly as he handed her her bag.

Then came a blank. She found herself once more out-of-doors, in an

unfamiliar cross street. She saw a number on a lamppost, and realized

that she had walked many blocks. She imagined that she was

pursued--someone was lurking behind her in the shadow of an

area--someone had peeped at her from behind drawn blinds. She started to

run, but her bursting heart restrained her. She tried to still its

beating; it seemed loud, clamorous as a drum; everyone must hear it and

wonder what consciousness of guilt could make a heart beat so loudly in

one's breast. She began walking again as rapidly as she dared. She must

not attract attention. She must not let the shadows that followed her

know that she feared them. If they guessed her panic they would lurk no

longer; they would crowd close, rush upon her in vaporous throngs,

stifling her like hot smoke.

She paused for breath in her painful flight. The glare from the entrance

of a moving picture show fell upon her. Somehow, in that light she felt

safe. The shadows could not cross its yellow glare. She breathed more

easily for a moment, then became tense. A man was coming out of the

white and gold ginger-bread entrance, like a maggot from some huge cake.

The man was small, middle-aged, dark, with unwieldy movements and evil,

predatory eyes--"Like Victor Mahr!" she said aloud; "like Victor Mahr!"

The man passed before her and was gone from the circle of light into the

darkness of the outer street. She gave a gasp, and her mad eyes dilated.

The suggestion had gripped her. Sudden furious hate entered her soul.

Victor Mahr--her enemy! The cause of all her heart break. She had

forgotten how or why this was the case; but she knew herself the

victim--he, the torturer. She wanted vengeance, she wanted relief from

her own torment. It was he who held the key to the whole trouble. She

must find him out. She must tear it from him. She strove to think

clearly, to remember where she might find him. She started walking

again; standing still would not find him, that was certain.

Unconsciously she followed the directions her subconscious mind offered.

As she walked, there came a sense of approval. She was on the right

track now. Her footfalls became less dragging and aimless. She was going

somewhere--to a definite place, where she would find something vastly

necessary, imperative to her very life.

She neared a church; passed it. Yes, that was right. It was a landmark

on her road. A white archway loomed before her in the gloom. Her

journey's end--her journey's end! With that realization fatigue mastered

her. She must rest before making any further effort, or she could not

accomplish anything. Her limbs refused to do her bidding. The weight of

her traveling case had become a crushing burden. But before she rested

she must find something important that she had come so far to see--a

house, a large house--what house?

She looked about her at the stately mansions fronting the square. Then

recognition leaped into her eyes, and she sank upon a bench facing the

familiar entrance. Now she could afford to wait. Her enemy could not

escape while she sat watching. He--could--not--escape--

* * * * *

X

As Marcus Gard stood upon the steps of Mahr's residence, and heard the

soft closing of its door behind him, he shut his eyes, drew himself

erect and breathed deep of the keen, cold air. A rush of youth expanded

every vein and artery. He experienced the physical and mental exultation

of the strong man who has met and conquered his enemy. The mere personal

expression of his anger had relieved him. He felt strong, alert, almost

happy. He descended to the street and turned his steps homeward. At last

something was accomplished. The serpent's fangs were drawn. He

experienced a cynical amusement in the thought that the path of true

love had been smoothed by such equivocal means. Neither of the children

would ever know of the shadows that had gathered so closely around them.

But, Mrs. Marteen--what of her? Again the longing came upon him--to know

her awake to herself and to her own soul; to know the predatory instinct

forever quieted, that upsurging of some remote inconscience of the

race's history of rapine in the open, and acquisition by stealth,

forever conquered; to know her spirit triumphant. The momentary joy of

successful battle passed, leaving him deeply troubled. All his fears

returned. The sense of impending disaster, that had withdrawn for the

moment, overwhelmed him once more.

He entered his own home absently, listened, abstracted, to the various

items Saunders thought important enough to mention, dismissed him, and

turned wearily to a pile of personal mail. His eye caught a familiar

handwriting on a thick envelope.

From Mrs. Marteen evidently--postmarked St. Augustine. He broke the

seal, wondering how her letter came to bear that mark. What change had

been made in her plans? He hesitated, panic-stricken, like a woman

before an unexpected telegram. He withdrew the enclosure, noting at a

glance a variety of papers--the appearance of a diary.

"Dear, dear friend," it began, "I must write--I must, and to you,

because you know--you know, and yet you have made me your friend--to

you, because you love my little girl. They are killing me, killing me

through her. I'm coming home, as fast as I can; I don't yet know how,

for I'm heading the other way, and I can't stop the steamer, but I'm

coming. I received a message, the second day out. It had been given to

the purser for delivery and marked with the date--that's nothing

unusual; I've had steamer letters delivered, one each day, during a

whole crossing. I never gave it a thought when he handed it to me, I

never divined. It seems to me now that I should have sensed it. I read

it, and--but how to tell you? I have it here; I'll send it to you."

A sheet of notepaper was pinned to the letter. Sick at heart, Gard

unfastened it. Mahr's name appeared at the bottom. Gard read: "Dear

lady, you forgot to give your daughter the combination of the jewel safe

and its inner compartment before you sailed. I am attending to that for

you, and have no doubt that she will at once inventory the contents. We

are always glad to return favors conferred upon us."

Gard's heart stood still. A sweeping regret invaded him that he had not

slain the man when his hands were upon him. He threw the note aside and

turned again to Mrs. Marteen's letter.

"You see," he read, "there is nothing for me to do. A wireless to

Dorothy? She has doubtless had the information since the hour of my

departure. What can I do? I have thought of you; but how make you, who

know nothing of Victor Mahr, understand anything in a message that would

not reveal all to everyone who must aid in its transmission? That at

least mustn't happen. I am praying every minute that she will go to

you--you, who know and have tolerated me. I can't bear for her to

know--I can't--it's killing me! My heart contracts and stops when I

think of it."

Further down the page, in another ink, evidently written later, was a

single note:

"I've left a message with the wireless operator, a sort of desperate

hope that it may be of some use--to Dorothy, telling her to consult you

on all matters of importance. I've written one to you, telling you to

find her. The man says he'll send them out as soon as he gets into touch

with anyone."

A still later entry:

"Two P.M.--I'm in my cabin all the time. I think that I shall go mad.

That sounds conventional, doesn't it--reminiscent of melodrama! I assure

you it's worse than real. I feel as if for years and years I've been

asleep, and now've wakened up into a nightmare. I _can_ write to you;

that's the one thing that gives me relief. Your kindness seems a shield

behind which I can crawl. I can't sleep; I can only--not think--no, it

isn't thinking I do--it's realizing--and everything is terrible. The

sunlight makes ripples on my cabin ceiling; they weave and part and

wrinkle. I try to fix my attention on them, and hypnotize myself into

lethargy. Sometimes I almost succeed, and then I begin realizing again.

And in the night I stare at the electric light till my eyes ache, and

try to numb my thoughts. Must my little girl know what I am? Can't that

be averted? I know it can't--I know, and yet I pray and

pray--I--_pray!"_

Another sheet, evidently torn from a pad: "The wireless is out of order;

they couldn't send my messages. You don't know the despair that has

taken hold of me. My mind feels white--that's the only way I can

describe it--cold and white--frozen, a blank. My body is that way, too.

I hold my hands to the light, and it doesn't seem as if there was even

the faintest red. They are the hands of a dead person--I wish they were!

But I must know--must know. We are due in Havana to-morrow. I shall take

the first boat out--to anywhere, where I can get a train, that's the

quickest. Oh, you, who have so often told me I must stop and think and

realize things! Did you know what it _was_ you wanted me to do? Have you

any idea what torture _is?_ You couldn't! I don't believe even Mahr

would have done this to me--if he had known; nobody could--nobody could.

Now, all sorts of things are assailing me; not only the horror that

Dorothy should _know_, but the horror of having _done_ such things. I

can't feel that it was I; it must have been somebody else. Why, I

couldn't have; it's impossible; and yet I did, I did, I did! Sometimes I

laugh, and then I am frightened at myself--I did it just then; it was at

the thought that here am I, _writing letters_--I, who have always

thought letters that incriminate were the weakness of fools, the blind

spot of intelligence--I, who have profited by letters--written in anger,

in love, in the passion of money-getting--everything--I'm

writing--writing from my bursting heart. Ah, you wanted me to realize;

I'm fulfilling your wish. Oh, good, kind soul that you are, forgive me!

I'm clinging to the thought of you to save me; I'm trusting in you

blindly. It's five days since I left."

The sheet that followed was on beflagged yachting paper:

"What luck! I happened on the Detmores the moment I landed. They were

just sailing. I transferred to them. I'm on board and homeward bound. We

reach St. Augustine to-morrow night; then I'm coming through as fast as

I can. I've thought it all over now. Since the wireless messages weren't

sent, I shall send no cable or telegram. I shall find out what the

situation is, and perhaps it will be better for me just to disappear. It

may be best that Dorothy shall never see me again. I shall go straight

home. I'm posting this in St. Augustine; it will probably go on the same

train with me. When you receive this and have read it, come to me. I

shall need you, I know--but perhaps you won't care to; perhaps you won't

want to be mixed up in an affair that may already be the talk of the

town. It's one thing to know a criminal who goes unquestioned and

another to befriend one revealed and convicted. Don't come, then. I am

at the very end of my endurance now. What sort of a wreck will walk into

that disgraced home of mine? And still I pray and pray--"

Gard stood up. A sudden dizziness seized him. Go to her! Of course he

must, at once, at once; there was not a moment to be lost. He calculated

the length of time the letter had taken to reach him since its delivery

in the city--hours at least. And she had returned home to find--what? He

almost cried out in his anguish--to find Dorothy gone, no one at the

house knew where. What must she think?

He snatched up the telephone and called her number, his voice shaking in

spite of his effort to control it.

The butler answered. Yes; madam had returned suddenly; had gone to the

library for something; had asked for Miss Dorothy, and when she heard

she was away, had made no comment, and left shortly afterwards. Yes, she

appeared ill, very ill.

"I'm coming over," Gard cut in. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

He rang, ordered the servant to stop the first taxi, seized his coat and

hat, left a peremptory order to his physician not to be beyond call,

tumbled into his outer garments and made for the street. The taxi

sputtered at the curb, but just as he dashed down the steps a limousine

drew up, and Denning sprang from its opened door. His hand fell heavily

upon Gard's shoulder as he stooped to enter the cab. Gard turned, his

overwrought nerves stinging with the shock of the other's restraining

touch.

Denning's hand fell, for the face of his friend was distorted beyond

recognition. The words his lips had framed to speak died upon his

tongue, as with a furious heave Gard shook him off, entered the cab and

slammed the door. Denning stood for a moment surprised into inaction,

then, with an order to follow, he leaped into his own car and started in

pursuit.

When Gard reached the familiar entrance, his anxiety had grown, like

physical pain, almost to the point where human endurance ceases and

becomes brute suffering. He felt cornered and helpless. At the door of

Mrs. Marteen's apartment a sort of unreasoning rage filled him. To ring;

the bell seemed a futility; he wanted to break in the painted glass and

batter down the door. The calm expression of the butler who answered his

summons was like a personal insult. Were they all mad that they did not

realize?

"Where is Mrs. Marteen?" he demanded hoarsely.

The servant shook his head. "She left two hours ago, at least," he

answered, with a glance toward the hall clock.

"What did she say--what message did she leave?" Gard pushed by him

impatiently, making for the stairs leading to the upper floor and the

library.

The butler stared. "Why, nothing, sir. She asked for Miss Dorothy, and

when none of us could tell her where she went, or why--which we all

thought queer enough, sir--she didn't seem surprised; so I suppose she

knows, sir. Madam just went upstairs to the library first, and then to

Miss Dorothy's room--the maid saw her, sir--and then she came down and

went out. She had on a heavy veil, but she looked scarce fit to stand

for all that, and she went--never said a word about her baggage or

anything--just went out to the cab that was waiting. Then about a half

hour later, Mary, her maid, came in with the boxes. I hope there's

nothing wrong, sir?"

Gard listened, his heart tightening with apprehension. "Call White

Plains, 56," he ordered sharply. "Tell Miss Dorothy to come at once and

then send for me, quick, now!" he commanded; and as the wondering flunky

turned toward the telephone, he sprang up the stairs, threw open the

library door and entered. The electric lights were blazing in the heat

and silence of the closed room. The odor of violets hung reminiscent in

the stale air. The panel by the mantelpiece was thrust back, and the

door of the safe, so uselessly concealed, hung open, revealing the empty

shelves within and the deep shadow of the inner compartment. He saw it

all in a flash of understanding; the frantic woman's rush to the place

of concealment,--the ravaged hiding place. What could she argue, but

that all that her enemy had planned had befallen? Her child knew all,

and had gone--fled from her and the horror of her life, leaving no sign

of forgiveness or pity.

Sick, and faint, Gard turned away. One door in the corridor stood open,

left so, he divined, by the hurried passing of the mother from the empty

nest, Dorothy's room, all pink and white and girlish in its simplicity.

One fragrant pillow, with its dainty embroidered cover, was dented, as

if still warm from the burning cheek that had pressed it in an agony of

loss. Nothing about the chamber was displaced; only an empty photograph

frame lying upon the dressing table told of the trembling, pale hands

that had bereft it of its jewel. She had taken her little girl's picture

with the heartbroken conviction that never again would she see its

original, or that those girlish eyes would look upon her again save in

fear and loathing. The empty case dropped from his hands to the

silver-crowded, lace-covered table; he was startled to see in the

mirror, hung with its frivolous load of cotillion favors and dance

cards, his own face convulsed with grief, and turned, appalled, from his

own image. His resourceful brain refused its functions. He could not

guess her movements after that silent, definitive leave taking. He could

but picture her tall, erect figure, outwardly composed and nonchalant,

as she must have stood, facing the outer world, looking out to what--to

what? A mad hope rose in his breast. Would she turn to him? Would her

instinctive steps lead her to seek his protection.

Yes. He must be where she could find him; he must be within reach. It

could not be that she would pass thus silently into some unknown

life--or-- He would not concede the other possibility.

Turning blindly from the room, he descended to the lower floor, where

the butler, with difficulty suppressing his curiosity, informed him that

Miss Dorothy had answered that she would return to town at once.

Gard hesitated, then turned sharply upon the servant. "Your mistress has

been ill, as you know. We have reason to believe that she is not quite

herself. If you learn anything of her, notify me at once. No matter what

orders she may give, you understand, or no matter how slight the

clew--send for me."

Once again in the street, he paused, uncertain. His eye fell upon

Denning's limousine drawn up behind his waiting cab. Fury at this

espionage sent him toward it. Thrusting his face In at the open window,

he glared at his pursuer.

"What are you here for?" he snarled.

Denning looked at him coldly. "To see that you keep faith, that's all.

Your personal concerns must wait. Have you forgotten that you are to

take the midnight train to Washington? I'm here to see that you do it."

Gard wrenched open the door of the car. "You are, are you? Let the whole

damned thing go!" he cried. "Send your proxies. This is a matter of life

and death!"

"I know it," said Denning; "it is--to a lot of people who trust you; and

you are going to do your duty if I have to kidnap you to do it. You have

two hours before your train leaves. My private car is waiting for you.

Make what plans you like till then; but I'll not leave you; neither will

Langley--he's following you, too. Come, buck up. Are you mad that you

desert in the face of shipwreck?"

Gard turned suddenly, ordered his taxi to follow and got in beside

Denning. His mood and voice were changed. "I've got to think. Don't

speak to me. Get me home as soon as you can."

He leaned back, closed his eyes and concentrated all his energies. In

the first place, Denning was right--he must not desert, even with his

own disaster close upon him. He owed his public his life, if necessary.

As a king must go to the defense of his people in spite of every private

grief or necessity, so he must go now. The very form of his decision

surprised him. He realized that his yearning for another soul's

awakening had awakened his own soul. He had willed her a conscience and

developed one himself. But, his decision reached with that sudden

precision characteristic of him, his anxious fears demanded that every

possible precaution be taken, every effort made that could tend to save

or relieve the desperate situation he must leave behind him. First of

all his physician--to him he must speak the truth, and to him alone.

Brencherly should be his active tool. Mahr must be impressed.

Springing from the motor at his own door, he snapped an order to his

butler, and sent him with the cab to bring the doctor instantly. Once in

the library, he telephoned for the detective. He then called up Victor

Mahr, requested that however late he might call, a visitor be admitted

at once, on a matter of the first importance and received the assurance

that his wishes would be complied with; he asked Denning, who had

followed him, to wait in another room, thrust back the papers on his

table and settled himself to write.

"No one knows anything," he scrawled, "neither Dorothy nor anyone else."

With succinct directness he covered the whole story--explained,

elucidated. Through every word the golden thread of his deep devotion

glowed steadily. Would the letter ever reach her? Would her eyes ever

see the reassuring lines? He refused to believe his efforts useless. She

must come. He sealed and directed the letter, as Brencherly was

admitted. Gard turned and eyed the young man sharply, wondering how

much, how little he dared tell him.

"Brencherly," he said slowly, "I'm giving you the biggest commission of

your life. You've got to take my place here, for I'm going to the front.

I've got to rely on you, and if you fail me, well, you know me--that's

enough. Now, I want discretion first, last and all the time. Then I want

foresight, tact, genius--everything in you that can think and plan. Here

are the facts: Mrs. Marteen has come back--suddenly. She's been ill. Her

mind, from all I can learn, is affected. She has delusions; she may have

suicidal mania. She has disappeared, and she must be found--as secretly

as possible. Her delusions and illness must not become a newspaper

headline. I needn't tell you it would make 'a story.' There's one chance

in fifty that she may come here, or telephone for me. You are not to

leave this room. Answer that telephone--you know her voice, don't you?

You are to tell her that I have her letter and she has nothing to worry

about; that I have had charge of all her affairs in her absence; that

her daughter knows of her return and wants her at once. Tell her that I

have left a letter for her--this one. When Miss Marteen calls up, tell

her to go to her home; that her mother has come back, but has left

again, and is ill; that I'm doing all in my power to find her. Tell her

to call me at once on the long distance telephone to Washington, at the

New Willard. Wherever I have to be I'll arrange that I can be called at

once. Do you understand?

"Dr. Balys will be here in a few moments. He will have the hospitals

canvassed. If you locate her, Brencherly, send my doctor to her at once.

Get her to her own apartment, and don't let her talk. I want you to pick

a man to watch the morgue; to look up every case of reported suicide

that by any chance might be Mrs. Marteen--here or in other cities." Gard

felt the blood leave his heart as he said the words, though there was no

quaver in his voice. "If they should find her, don't let her identity be

known if there is any chance of concealing it, not until you reach me.

Don't let Miss Marteen know. Put another man on the hotel arrivals. She

left St. Augustine--Here--" He--jotted down times and dates on a slip.

"Work on that. Keep the police off. I'll have Balys stay here, unless he

locates her in any of the hospitals. My secretary is yours; and there

are half a dozen telephones in the house; you can keep 'em all going.

But, mind, there must be no leak. Watch her apartment, too. Question her

maid up there. Of course that letter on the table there might interest

you, but I think I had better trust you, since I make you my deputy.

This is no small matter, Brencherly. Honesty is the best policy--and

there _are_ rewards and punishments."

The strain of grief and anxiety had set its mark on Gard's face. His

deadly earnestness and evident effort at self-control sent a thrill of

pitying admiration through the detective's hardened indifference. A rush

of loyalty filled his heart; he wanted to help, without thought of

reward or punishment. He felt hot shame that his calling had deserved

the suspicion his employer cast upon it.

"I'll do my honest best," he said with such dear-eyed sincerity that

Gard smiled wanly and held out his hand.

"Thank you," he said simply.

The interview with the doctor lasted another half-hour. Time seemed to

fly. Another hour and he must leave to others the quest that his soul

demanded. Unquestioning and determined, Denning took him once more in

the limousine. They were silent during the drive to Victor Mahr's

address. Gard descended before the house, leaving Denning in the car.

"Don't worry," he said as he closed the door of the automobile. "I'll

not be long; I give you my word."

Denning smiled. "That's all that's wanted in Washington, old man. You've

got a quarter of an hour to spare."

Denning switched on the electric light and, taking a bundle of papers

from his inside pocket, began to pencil swift annotation.

Gard ran lightly up the steps. It was quite on the cards that Mrs.

Marteen in her anguish and despair might make an effort to see and

upbraid the man whose hatred and vengeance had wrecked her life. Mahr

must be warned of all that had taken place, and schooled to meet the

situation--to confess at once that his plans had been thwarted, that his

tongue was forever bound to silence and that his intended victim was

free. He, Marcus Gard, must dictate every word that might be said,

foresee every possible form in which a meeting might come, and dictate

the terms of Mahr's surrender. Words and sentences formed and shifted in

his mind as he waited impatiently for his summons to be answered. The

butler bowed, murmuring that Mr. Mahr was expecting Mr. Gard, and

preceded him across the anteroom to the well-remembered door of the

inner sanctum, which he threw open before the guest, and retired

silently.

Closing the door securely behind him, Gard turned toward the sole

occupant of the room. Mahr did not heed his coming nor rise to greet

him. The ticking of the carved Louis XV clock on the mantel seemed

preternaturally loud in the oppressive silence.

Suddenly and unreasonably Gard choked with fear. In one bound he crossed

the room and stood staring down at the face of his host. For an instant

he stood paralyzed with amazement and horror. Then, as always, when in

the heart of the tempest, he became calm, and his mind, as if acting

under some heroic stimulant, became intensely clarified. Mahr was dead.

He leaned forward and lifted the head; the body was still warm, and it

fell forward, limp and heavy. On the left temple was a large contusion

and a slight cut. The cause was not far to seek. On the table lay an

ancient flintlock pistol, somewhat apart from a heap of small arms

belonging to an eighteenth century trophy.

Murder! Murder--and Mrs. Marteen! His imagination pictured her beautiful

still face suddenly becoming maniacal with fury and pain. Gard

suppressed an exclamation. Well, he would swear Mahr was alive at half

after eleven, when he had seen him. If anyone knew of her coming before

that, she would be cleared. No one knew of his own feud with Mahr; no

one suspected it. His word would be accepted.

Mahr's face, repulsive in life, was hideous in death--a mask of

selfishness, duplicity and venomous cunning from which departing life

had taken its one charm of intelligence. He looked at the wound again.

The blow must have been sudden and of great force. Acting on an impulse,

he tiptoed to one of the curtained windows, unlocked the fastening and

raised it slightly. A robbery--why not? Silently moving back into the

room, he approached the corpse and with nervous rapidity looted the dead

man of everything of value, leaving the torn wallet, a wornout crumpled

affair, lying on the floor. He opened and emptied the table drawers, as

if a hurried search had been made. Slipping the compromising jewels into

his overcoat pocket, he turned about and faced the room like a stage

manager judging of a play's setting. The luxurious furnishings, the long

mahogany table warmly reflecting the lights of the heavily shaded lamp;

the wide, gaping fireplace; the lurking shadows of the corners; the

curtain by the opened window bellying slightly in the draught; above, in

the soft radiance of the hooded electrics, the glowing, living, radiant

personality of the Vandyke; below, the stark, evil face of the dead,

with its blue bruised temple and blood-clotted hair.

Gard strove to reconstruct the crime as the next entrant would judge

it--the thief gliding in by the window; the collector busy over the

examination of his curios; the blow, probably only intended to stun; the

hasty theft and stealthy exit.

His heart pounded in his breast, but it was with outward calm that he

crossed the threshold, calling back a "Good-night," whose grim irony was

not lost upon him. In the hall, as he put on his hat, he addressed the

servant casually:

"Mr. Mahr says you may lock up and go. He does not want to be disturbed,

as he has some papers that will keep him late. Remind Mr. Mahr to call

me at the New Willard in the morning; I may have some news."

As he left the house he staggered; he felt his knees shaking. With a

superhuman effort he steadied himself--Denning must not suspect anything

unusual. He descended the steps with a firm tread, and pausing at the

last step, twisted as if to reach an uncomfortably settled coat

collar--his quick glance taking in the contour of the house and the

probability of access by the window. The glimpse was reassuring. By

means of the iron railing a man might readily gain the ledge below the

first floor windows. He entered the limousine and nodded to Denning.

"All right," he said. "On to Washington."

* * * * *