A TRAGEDY OF THE STAGE.
It was several months after the conviction of Grantley and his
confederates that the members of Nick Carter’s household all happened to
meet at the breakfast table--a rather unusual circumstance.
The famous New York detective sat at the head of the table. Ranged about
it were Chick, Patsy Garvan, and the latter’s young wife, Adelina, and
Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman assistant.
It was the latter who held the attention of her companions at that
moment. She was a little late, and had just seated herself. Her flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes gave no hint that she had reached the
house--they all shared the detective’s hospitable roof--a little after
three o’clock that morning.
“You good people certainly missed a sensation last night,” she declared.
“It was the strangest thing--and one of the most pitiable I ever
beheld!”
Nick, who had been glancing at his favorite newspaper, looked up.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
It was Ida’s turn to show surprise.
“Is it possible you don’t know, any of you?” she demanded, looking
around the table. “Haven’t you read of Helga Lund’s breakdown, or
whatever it was?”
Helga Lund, the great Swedish actress, who was electrifying New York
that season in a powerful play, “The Daughters of Men,” had consented,
in response to many requests, to give a special midnight performance,
in order that the many actors and actresses in the city might have an
opportunity to see her in her most successful rôle at an hour which
would not conflict with their own performances.
The date had been set for the night before, and, since it was not to be
exclusively a performance for professionals, the manager of the theater,
who was a friend of Nick Carter’s, had presented the detective with a
box.
Much to Nick’s regret, however, and that of his male assistants, an
emergency had prevented them from attending. To cap the climax, Adelina
Garvan had not been feeling well, so decided not to go. Consequently,
Ida Jones had occupied the box with several of her friends.
Nick shook his head in response to his pretty assistant’s question.
“I haven’t, anyway,” he said, glancing from her face back to his paper.
“Ah, here’s something about it--a long article!” he added. “I haven’t
seen it before. It looks very serious. Tell us all about it.”
Ida needed no urging, for she was full of her subject.
“Oh, it was terrible!” she exclaimed, shuddering. “Helga Lund had been
perfectly wonderful all through the first and second acts. I don’t know
when I have been so thrilled. But soon after the third act began she
stopped right in the middle of an impassioned speech and stared fixedly
into the audience, apparently at some one in one of the front rows of
the orchestra.
“I’m afraid I can’t describe her look. It seemed to express merely
recollection and loathing at first, as if she had recognized a face
which had very disagreeable associations. Then her expression--as I read
it, at any rate--swiftly changed to one of frightened appeal, and then
it jumped to one of pure harrowing terror.
“My heart stopped, and the whole theater was as still as a death
chamber--at least, the audience was. Afterward I realized that the actor
who was on the stage with her at the time had been improvising something
in an effort to cover up her lapse; but I don’t believe anybody paid any
attention to him, any more than she did. Her chin dropped, her eyes were
wild and seemed ready to burst from their sockets. She put both hands to
her breast, and then raised one and passed it over her forehead in a
dazed sort of way. She staggered, and I believe she would have fallen if
her lover in the play hadn’t supported her.
“The curtain had started to descend, when she seemed to pull herself
together. She pushed the poor actor aside with a strength that sent him
spinning, and began to speak. Her voice had lost all of its wonderful
music, however, and was rough and rasping. Her grace was gone,
too--Heaven only knows how! She was positively awkward. And her
words--they couldn’t have had anything to do with her part. They were
incoherent ravings. The curtain had started to go up again. Evidently,
the stage manager had thought the crisis was past when she began to
speak. But when she only made matters worse, it came down with a rush.
After a maddening delay, her manager came out, looking wild enough
himself, and announced, with many apologies, that Miss Lund had
suffered a temporary nervous breakdown.”
Nick Carter had listened intently, now and then scanning the article
which described the affair.
“Too bad!” he commented soberly, when Ida had finished. “But haven’t you
any explanation, either? The paper doesn’t seem to have any--at least,
it doesn’t give any.”
A curious expression crossed Ida’s face.
“I had forgotten for the moment,” she replied. “I haven’t told you one
of the strangest things about it. In common with everybody else, I was
so engrossed in watching Helga Lund’s face that I didn’t have much time
for anything else. That is why there wasn’t a more general attempt to
see whom she was looking at. We wouldn’t ordinarily have been very
curious, but she held our gaze so compellingly. I did manage to tear my
eyes away once, though; but I wasn’t in a position to see--I was too far
to one side. She appeared to be looking at some one almost on a line
with our box, but over toward the other side of the theater. I turned my
glasses in that direction for a few moments and thought I located the
person, a man, but, of course, I couldn’t be sure. I could only see his
profile, but his expression seemed to be very set, and he was leaning
forward a little, in a tense sort of way.”
Nick nodded, as if Ida’s words had confirmed some theory which he had
already formed.
“But what was so strange about him?” he prompted.
“Oh, it doesn’t mean anything, of course,” was the reply; “but he bore
the most startling resemblance to Doctor Hiram Grantley. If I hadn’t
known that Grantley was safe in Sing Sing for a long term of years, I’m
afraid I would have sworn that it was he.”
The detective gave Ida a keen, slightly startled look.
“Well, stranger things than that have happened in our experience,” he
commented thoughtfully. “I haven’t any reason to believe, though, that
Grantley is at large again. He would be quite capable of what you have
described, but surely Kennedy would have notified me before this if----”
The telephone had just rung, and, before Nick could finish his sentence,
Joseph, his butler, entered. His announcement caused a sensation. It
was:
“Long distance, Mr. Carter. Warden Kennedy, of Sing Sing, wishes to
speak with you.”
The detective got up quickly, without comment, and stepped out into the
hall, where the nearest instrument of the several in the house was
located.
Patsy Garvan gave a low, expressive whisper.
“Suffering catfish!” he ejaculated. “It looks as if you were right,
Ida!”
After that he relapsed into silence and listened, with the others. Nick
had evidently interrupted the warden.
“Just a moment, Kennedy,” they heard him saying. “I think I can guess
what you have to tell me. It’s Doctor Grantley who has escaped, isn’t
it?”
Naturally, the warden’s reply was inaudible, but the detective’s next
words were sufficient confirmation.
“I thought so,” Nick said, in a significant tone. “One of my assistants
was just telling me of having seen, last night, a man who looked
surprisingly like him. When did you find out that he was missing?... As
early as that?... I see.... Yes, I’ll come up, if necessary, as soon as
I can; but first I must set the ball rolling here. I think we already
have a clew. I’ll call you up later.... Yes, certainly.... Yes,
good-by!”
A moment later he returned to the dining room.
“Maybe your eyes didn’t deceive you, after all, Ida,” he announced
gravely. “Grantley escaped last night--in time to have reached the
theater for the third act of that special performance, if not earlier.
And it looks as if he subjected one of the keepers of the prison to an
ordeal somewhat similar to that which Helga Lund seems to have
endured.”