“IT WAS SO SUDDEN”
The Hotel Cawthorne was, in some respects, a correct designation but in
others a misnomer. It had rooms to let, or rather suites, and it had a
clerk. So far, a hostelry. It had no dining room, no bar, no billiard
room, no news-stand, no barber shop, no boot-black, no laundry--and in
these respects, at least, it belied its name.
Some childless couples, some aged ones with married children, many young
men, a few confirmed old bachelors, and a few unmarried women roomed
therein. On stormy days, or when their inclinations so prompted, the
tenants could have meals served in their rooms at a marked increase over
hotel rates.
But the “Cawthorne” was exclusive, and for that reason, principally,
Miss Dana had chosen it as her city domicile. Tenants were not
introduced to each other, and one could live a year within its walls
without being obliged to say good morning to any one, with the possible
exceptions of the housekeeper, or the elevator man, but that was not
compulsory, but depended upon the tenant's initiative.
Every hotel has an “out”; at the “Cawthorne” it was an “in.” The “in”
was Mr. Lorenzo Cass, the clerk and general _factotum_. His besetting
sin was inordinate curiosity, but it was this oftentime disagreeable
quality which particularly commended him to the ex-Rev. Arthur
Borrowscale, the owner of the “Cawthorne.”
Mr. Borrowscale had not given up the ministry on account of advanced
age, for he was only forty; nor on account of physical infirmity, for
he was a rugged specimen of manhood and enjoyed the best of health. His
critics, and all successful men have them, declared that he had forsaken
the service of God for that of Mammon. While officiating, he had
received a large salary. Being a bachelor, he had lived economically and
invested his savings in real estate. He was the owner of six tenement
houses--models of their kind, and the “Cawthorne.” Before leaving
college, he had loved a young girl named Edith Cawthorne. She had died,
and at her grave he had parted with her,--and love of women, but,
that sentiment was not wholly dead within him, the name of his hotel
attested.
He had another attribute; he was intensely moral. The “Cawthorne” was
his pride, but he had a constant fear that some undesirable--that is,
immoral--person would find lodgment in his caravansary. For certain
reasons, Mr. Cass was indispensable. He had been a “high roller” until
he came under the Rev. Mr. Borrowscale's tutelage.
“Mr. Cass, you know the bad when you see it--I do not. The reputation of
my house must be like Caesar's ghost--above suspicion.”
He had said “ghost.” He had seen but two plays--“Hamlet” and “Julius
Caesar,” and for that reason his dramatic inaccuracy may be excused.
So Mr. Cass became a moral sleuth, and woe betide an applicant for
rooms, and occasional board, who could not produce unimpeachable
references, and point to an unsullied record in the past.
Miss Dana's respectability and social standing had been abundantly
vouched for, and her financial responsibility had been demonstrated by
monthly payments in advance.
It was the first evening Quincy had been out since his illness.
“Is Miss Dana in?” asked Quincy as he presented his card to Mr. Cass.
“I am quite positive she is. I am strengthened in this belief by the
fact that she had her supper sent up to her room. A fine specimen of
womanhood, and a remarkable appetite for so lovely a creature.”
Quincy had an inclination to brain him with the telephone stand, but
restrained his murderous impulse.
“Will you please send up my card?” was his interrogatory protest against
further enumeration of Miss Dana's charms and gastronomic ability. “No
need to do so, Mr. Sawyer,” for he had inspected the card carefully. “We
have a private telephone in each room. Will you await her in the public
parlour?”
“Hasn't she more than one room?”
“Oh, yes; a three room suite, sitting-room, boudoir, which I am sure she
uses more as a study, a chamber--and private bath.”
Quincy said, “I would prefer to see her in her sitting-room.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass. “Our rules are only prohibitive in
the case of single chambers or alcove suites, when the caller and tenant
are of opposite sexes. The proprietor--he was formerly a clergyman--is
tenacious on certain points.”
“And so am I,” was Quincy's response, for his temper was rising,
“and you will oblige me by communicating with Miss Dana at once, and
informing her of my desire to see her.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass, “but my employer, who, as I have
said, was formerly a clergyman, is tenacious on another point; all
tenants who receive visitors in their rooms must have their names
entered in a book prescribed for the purpose, and also the names of
their callers.”
Quincy's murderous instinct was again aroused, but Mr. Cass was
unmindful of his danger and made the required entry. The humourous side
of the affair then struck Quincy, and taking a memorandum book from his
pocket, he said:
“I, too, am tenacious on one point. I never visit a hotel for the first
time without writing down the name of the clerk. Will you oblige me?”
“Oh, certainly. Cass, Mr. Lorenzo Cass.”
“Do you spell it with a 'C'?” asked Quincy, innocently, as he pretended
to write.
“Oh, certainly. C-a-s-s-.”
“Thank you,” said Quincy.
“We make it a rule, or rather my employer does, that tenants and their
callers shall be treated with civility and their wants attended to
promptly.”
Again Quincy eyed the telephone stand with a view to its use as a
weapon.
“Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Miss Dana--yes, Mr. Cass--Mr. Quincy Adams
Sawyer, Junior, wishes to call upon you in your sitting-room. Is it
agreeable to you? Very well, he will come right up.”
Mr. Cass replaced the receiver with deliberation, first unwinding a
tangled coil in the cord.
“Take the elevator--third floor--number 42--she insisted upon taking
that suite for some personal reason--”
Quincy waited to hear no more but started for the elevator. Mr. Cass
reached it as soon as he did, and motioned for the elevator man to
postpone the ascent until he had finished his remarks.
“The outside door is locked at eleven, Mr. Sawyer, but you have only to
turn the upper handle to insure an exit.”
“Your clerk is quite loquacious,” remarked Quincy as they slowly mounted
upward.
“What's that?”
“He has a sore tongue,” said Quincy, as the elevator door was closed
behind him.
After cordial greetings on both sides, for they had not seen each other
for nearly a year, Quincy exclaimed, as he sank into a proffered easy
chair: “Mary, I am a murderer at heart.”
“That is not strange, Quincy. I have read that the friends of police
officers and detectives often imbibe, or rather absorb, criminal
propensities. Who is the intended victim, and how do you expect to
escape arrest, conviction, and punishment, after incriminating yourself
by a confession to a licensed detective?”
“If I had killed your hotel clerk it would have been due to
emotional insanity, and I should expect an acquittal--and, perhaps, a
testimonial.”
“I got a testimonial to-day from Mr. Isburn. He said I was a wonder.”
“I agree with him.”
Miss Dana flushed perceptibly.
“He had what he considered a good reason for his compliment. I am afraid
yours rests on unsupported grounds.”
“Not at all. Have I not known you since you were a child? Can he say as
much? Did I not work with you on Bob Wood's case? The help you were to
me in trying to solve the mystery of the return of my father's bill
of exchange I will never forget,” and for a long time Quincy and Mary
talked over the miraculous return of his father.
Finally Quincy said, “I interrupted you. You said that Mr. Isburn
considered he had good reasons for complimenting you. Will you tell me
what they were?”
“It is a long story.”
“I'm all attention.”
“Then I'll begin at once. If you need a stimulant at any stage of the
narrative, just signify your want and I'll ring for it.”
“Is there a bar?”
“No, but there's a cellar.”
“I may need some Apollinaris,” said Quincy, as he settled himself more
comfortably in the easy chair; “as my flesh is again strong, I always
take my spirit very weak.”
Mary had that sweetest of woman's charm--a low-pitched voice, and as
she told the story of the loss of the great Isburn ruby and its recovery
Quincy's thoughts were less on the words that he heard than the woman
who uttered them. In his mind he was building a castle in which he was
the Lord and the story-teller was the Lady.
He was awakened from his dream by Mary's query:
“Didn't I fool him nicely?”
“You certainly did. And so he's going to give you a half-interest in the
business. If he keeps his word”--
“Which I very much doubt,” interrupted Mary.
“I'll buy the other half and we'll be partners.”
He came near adding “for life,” but decided that such a declaration
would be inopportune. “Why should you engage in business, Quincy? You
are not obliged to work.”
“That's the unfortunate part of it. I wish I were. I have so much money
that I don't know what to do with it, except let it grow. But, speaking
seriously, I've no intention of remaining a do-nothing. I'm treasurer
of my father's grocery company but I have no liking for mercantile
business. I can give away, but can neither buy nor sell--to advantage. I
heard a story not long ago that set me thinking.”
“I told you my story, Quincy, why not tell me yours?”
“I will. It's a mystery--unsolved, and, I think, unsolvable. But I
feel that my vocation will be the solving of mysteries. My mother wrote
detective stories and I must have inherited a mania for mysteries and
criminal problems. But I'll tell you what set me thinking.”
Then he related the story that had been told him by Jack and Ned. As he
concluded, he asked: “Do you think it was signed?”
“Of course it was, but not by the dead man.”
“By whom, then?”
“By Mrs. Bliss. She materialized the form by her mediumistic prowess,
but she signed the will.”
“But Jack and Ned saw the form, as they called it, take the pen and
write his name.”
“They thought they did. She hypnotized them so they saw whatever she
impressed upon their minds.”
“Can sensible, highly educated people be so influenced?”
“The bigger the brain the more easily influenced. She couldn't have so
impressed an idiot, or an illiterate, unreceptive man. Let me tell you
how a hundred people were fooled lately.”
“I should be delighted to hear you tell it.”
“You should have sympathy for them, after your spiritualistic
experience,” said Mary with a smile.
“There is a married couple in this city whom we will call Mr. and Mrs.
Cartwright, because those are not their names. They have been married
less than two years. He is 68 and she 28, so you see it was what they
call a December and May union. It was worse. He is a bank president
and his god is money--his diversion sitting in his elegant library and
reading _de luxe_ editions of the world's literary masterpieces. She is
young, and beautiful, and craves society, attention, admiration.
“She didn't get the last two at home, but society furnished them. He
attended her to parties and receptions and then went back to his library
until it was time to escort her home.
“One night when he went for her she could not be found. No one had seen
her leave--she had mysteriously disappeared. Mr. Isburn gave me the
case. I'll make the story short for it is eleven o'clock.”
“I know how to get out. Mr. Cass told me.”
“Your knowledge of a method of egress does not warrant an extension of
your visit to midnight, does it?” asked Mary laughingly.
“Considering the attractions presented, I think they do,” replied
Quincy, banteringly.
She resumed her story.
“There was a man in the case, young, handsome, and wealthy. Just such a
man as she should have married. They had planned an elopement to Europe.
Not together. She was to go to Liverpool, he was to follow later to
Paris, and there meet her. Quite ingenious, wasn't it? Our agent at
Liverpool was called to locate her and prevent her inamorata from
communicating with her, at the same time using his influence to induce
her to return to Boston without meeting her lover. His powers of
persuasion, I mean our agent's, must have been great, for she consented.
“A month later she attended a reception next door to the house from
which she disappeared, and silenced the tongue of scandal by saying that
she had been hastily summoned to the bedside of a sick friend, her chum
at Wellesley, and had returned home only the day previous. Her last
statement was true. Good detective work by a good detective, and a
great, big white lie fooled her friends and acquaintances, but if I were
her husband she would not lack attention or admiration in the future,
and I would furnish it.”
“When I get married, I will bear your admonition in mind.”
“I have another admonition. If you meet Mr. Cass when you go down, be
nice to him. Why, when you know him, he is a treasure. I can bear his
inquisitiveness, for it shields me from others. This is my sanctuary,
and Mr. Cass protects me from the literary wolves--the reporters. He
thinks I am a writer because I have so many books, and, to him, an
author is next to an angel. Was he rude to you? You must forgive him,
for he is my Saint George who protects me from the Dragon.”
Quincy was mollified to a certain extent. “Do I look like a Dragon? If
I am one, history came near being reversed, for at one time your Saint
George's hold on life was frail.”
Late in the afternoon of the next day Quincy made another call on Mary.
He had telephoned and learned that she was in her room. Mr. Cass
was temporarily absent from his desk and Quincy went at once to the
elevator.
“I axed Mr. Cass about his tongue,” said the elevator man.
“Was it better?” asked Quincy.
“He said I was labourin' under a misapprihinsion. What's that?”
“He meant that it was improving,” said Quincy, as he hurried from the
elevator.
“How did you get home last night?” was Mary's salutation as he entered.
“I groped my way down two flights of stairs in the dark. When I opened
the front door by the upper handle as Mr. Cass had kindly instructed me
to do, I found that gentleman on the steps. 'Quite late,' said he. 'Not
for me,' said I. At that moment my auto drew up at the curb.”
“A narrow escape from a Cass-trophe,” exclaimed Miss Dana. “Pardon the
pun, but sometimes he is insufferably loquacious.”
Quincy smiled grimly. “He wasn't through with me. He followed me. 'My
employer.' he began, 'is very tenacious on several points, and one of
them is the acceleration of matrimonial preliminaries, commonly called
courting, in the house which he owns and successfully conducts with my
humble assistance. Will you allow me to ask you a question?'
“Alexander had opened the auto door, and I stood with one foot on the
step.”
Quincy was silent for a moment. Miss Dana's curiosity was excited.
“What did he ask you to do?”
“His question was--'are you going to marry Miss Dana?'”
“Preposterous!” cried Miss Dana. “I shall leave the 'Cawthorne'
to-morrow. What answer did you give to so impertinent a question?”
“I said, not to-night. Not until to-morrow. Then I jumped in, slammed
the door, and off we went leaving Mr. Cass fully informed as to my
intentions.”
Mary thought, under the circumstances, that a change of subjects was
necessary.
“I am working on the Harrison case. I don't believe he poisoned his
wife. I think the law killed an innocent man.”
“Another Robert Wood affair? Have you seen your little namesake, Mary
Wood?”
“Yes. I am going to spend to-morrow in the laboratory making toxic
analyses.”
“I've been very busy to-day.”
“Not working?”
“No, getting ready to. I've bought out an established business.”
“You said you disliked business.”
“Not this kind. You were right about Isburn. He didn't mean what he said
about giving you a half-interest in the agency.”
“I'm not disappointed. I didn't think he did. Why should he pay me for
returning what I took from him as a professional joke?”
“Well I fixed it up with him, and he will sail for Europe with his niece
as soon as we can take charge.”
“We? Why, what _do_ you mean, Mr. Sawyer?”
“I mean that I've engaged to pay Mr. Isburn one hundred thousand dollars
for his agency, a one-half interest to become mine and the other half to
be transferred to my wife as soon as I am married, which will be soon.”
“Then you will be my employer,” and Mary's blue eyes were opened as wide
as they could be.
“Within a week, I shall be Mr. Isburn. I shall not use my own name.”
His manner changed instantly.
“This morning I met an old college friend. He was doing the historical
points of old Boston with his father and his father's friend, a Rev. Mr.
Dysart of Yonkers, New York.”
Miss Dana started, and exclaimed, involuntarily, “Mr. Dysart--not Mr.
Octavius Dysart?”
“Yes, that was the name. Why, do you know him? I'll be honest, I know
you do.”
“My mother was born in Yonkers, and Mr. Dysart was the clergyman who
officiated at my father's wedding. He used to call on us whenever he
came to Boston. But how did he know that you knew me?”
“He said he was going to Fernborough to see your father, and I availed
myself of the opportunity to mention my acquaintance with you. He wished
you could come and see him.”
“Where is he? Of course I will go.”
“He is staying with Mr. Larned, my college mate's father, who lives
in Jamaica Plain, but he will not be there until this evening. He's
attending a religious conference this afternoon and goes to Fernborough
early to-morrow.”
“Then I can't see him.”
“Why not? I'm going out this evening--small party invited--entirely
informal--half my auto is at your service.”
“Will you get me back to the hotel before the doors are closed? I shall
pack up to-morrow.”
“I promise,” said Quincy. “I will come for you at seven sharp.”
Punctually at seven, a closed auto stopped before the “Cawthorne” and
Quincy alighted. Mary stepped from the elevator, wearing a new spring
costume and a marvellous aggregation of flowers upon her hat, walked to
the door without looking at Mr. Cass, and before he could frame one of
his employer's tenacious points and follow her, she had been handed into
the auto and whirled swiftly away.
“Is Alexander driving?” she asked. “No. He's asleep--up too late last
night. We have a strange _chauffeur_. I selected him for that reason.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I didn't wish anybody to know where we had gone.”
“Why not, pray?”
“I mean, what we'd gone for.”
“Nonsense. Why, a friendly call--what more?”
“Are your gloves on?”
“No, I didn't have time. I'll put them on now.”
“No hurry--plenty of time. You are agitated. Allow me to feel your
pulse.”
“You are funny to-night, Quincy.”
“Not funny--just happy.”
Quincy took forcible possession of her half-resisting hand and slipped a
diamond solitaire on the proper finger.
“Why, what are you doing? Isn't it a beauty? Is this the great Sawyer
diamond? Whose is it?”
“It's yours. It is an engagement ring. It's the first step towards
keeping my promise to Mr. Cass, and he's tenacious, you know. I told you
all about it when I called this afternoon. So, please don't say 'this is
so sudden.'”
“Are you crazy, Quincy?”
“No, sane. Delightfully so. I told Mr. Cass I couldn't marry you until
to-day. I got the license this noon.”
They were passing through a dimly-lighted street, but, occasionally, the
street lamps threw flashes across two earnest faces. She endeavoured to
remove the ring.
“Mary,” said Quincy, “if you allow the ring to remain, I shall be a very
happy man, dear,--for I love you. I have loved you ever since the day
that I thrashed Bob Wood, and when I lay exhausted, you looked down at
me with those beautiful blue eyes and said 'all for me!' I am all for
you,--are you for me?”
He put his arm about her and drew her towards him; their lips met.
A bright light shone in the auto windows--but they were sitting
erect--they even looked primly.
“It is a long ride,” she ventured.
“Too short,” he replied, “and yet, I wish we were there.”
Again she spoke: “This is a most unprecedented affair. Can it be real,
or are we actors?”
“We are detectives, and they always do unexpected and unprecedented
things.”
“What will your father say--you a multimillionaire and I a poor girl who
works for a living?”
“My mother was poor and blind when my father married her.”
“Yes, I know; but she wrote a book and became famous.”
“You're a 'wonder' now, and you will become famous.”
“What will your friends say?”
“If they wish to remain my friends they will either say nothing, or
congratulate me. How shall we be married--in church? I'll spend a
hundred thousand on our wedding, if you say so.”
“No. As little publicity as possible. Use the money to help those
poor creatures who are sick with the disease called crime; that is
the symptom. The cause is often bad environment, and the poverty which
prevents improvement.”
“What a philosopher you are. That simple ceremony suits me exactly,
Mary. What a sweet name you have. Why not have Mr. Dysart perform the
ceremony? We'll be married with a ring.”
Mary laughed: “Where will you get yours?”
“Detectives are always prepared for emergencies. I bought them this
noon, after I procured the license. They seemed to go together.”
“Well, Quincy, I think you are the most presumptuous mortal in
existence. How dared you do such a thing--so many things, I mean?”
“Was not the prize worth even more of an endeavour? I have always
thought _Young Lochinvar_ was a model lover. But here we are.”
The Rev. Mr. Dysart received them with pleasant words of welcome, and
reminiscences of life in Yonkers, and memories of Mary's mother,
held Cupid in abeyance for an hour. Quincy passed the license to the
clergyman who read it and looked up inquiringly.
“It's all right, isn't it?” Quincy asked.
“Why yes,--but--I never supposed--why, of course--but when?”
“Now, at once,” said Quincy. “We must be home by eleven, for they lock
the doors.”
The simple ceremony was soon over.
“Can you give Mrs. Sawyer a certificate, Mr. Dysart?”
“Fortunately, yes. I bought some to-day, for I needed them.”
He went into an adjoining room to fill it out.
“Mary, my darling, I am a rich man--richer than I deserve to be, for I
have created nothing--but I would give every dollar of my fortune rather
than lose you. Does your wedding ring fit? Mine is all right.”
“It ought to be--you had a chance to try yours on.”
“I am a designing villain, Mary. While you were telling that story last
night, you will remember that I walked about the room. One of your rings
was on the mantelpiece and I tried it on.”
When the clergyman handed Mrs. Sawyer the certificate, Quincy passed him
his fee.
“You've made a mistake, Mr. Sawyer. This is a hundred dollar bill.”
“It ought to be a thousand. I'll send you a check for the difference
to-morrow--for yourself, or your church, as you prefer.”
As they descended the steps, the clergyman raised his hands.
“I wish you both long life and prosperity, and may Heaven's blessing
fall upon you.”
“Back to the 'Cawthorne,'” said Quincy, as he pressed a small roll of
paper into the _chauffeur's_ hand--which roll of paper a friendly street
light showed to be a five dollar bill.
“What will that horrid Mr. Cass say?”
“I'll fix him,” replied Quincy. “Just await developments, patiently, my
dear.”
It was a quarter of eleven when they reached the hotel. Mr. Cass was at
his desk, the light turned down in anticipation of the closing hour.
“The certificate, darling,” Quincy whispered.
“Please turn up the light, Mr. Cass, and read that.”
Mr. Cass adjusted his _pince-nez_. Quincy was relentless. His turn had
come.
“Is that in proper form, Mr. Cass? I know your rules are strict, and
that your employer holds you to them tenaciously,” and there was a
strong accent on the last word.
“Would your reverend employer object to your harbouring a newly-married
couple for one night? Show him your wedding ring, Mrs. Sawyer. We must
satisfy his moral scruples.”
Mr. Cass regarded them attentively. Then he said, slowly: “I anticipated
such a result, but wasn't it rather sudden?”
“We shall lose the elevator,” cried Mary. “It shuts down at eleven.”
“Shall we go on a tour?” asked Quincy the next morning.
“I can't leave the Harrison case. I must follow a clue this morning.”
“Where shall we live, Mary? In grandfather's house on Beacon Street, or
shall I build a new one? I'll make it a palace, if you say so.”
“Well, I sha'n't say so--but let's live anywhere but here.”
“We'll bid Mr. Cass a long farewell--but I admire his tenacity. He's a
sort of moral bull-dog. I might use him in my business.”
“Our business, Quincy.”
“That's so--we are partners professionally, and lovers ever.”
As she disengaged herself from his embrace, Mary exclaimed: “I've
planned a model honeymoon for us, Quincy. You must go over the Harrison
case with me. I'm sure _we_ can prove that he was an innocent man,
and--”
“We'll find the real criminal, Mary, and bring him to justice.”
“It will be a long and tedious investigation. I may have to visit every
drug store in the city.”
“That's easy. I'll buy you a touring car--I will act as _chauffeur_--”
“Why a touring car--why not a runabout just for two?”
“As you say, my dear. Your word is law--or the next thing to it. By the
way, Mary, we must live on Beacon Street.”
“Why, must?”
“Because Mr. Strout has bought a house on Commonwealth Avenue, and
we must keep the line drawn sharp between the old families and the
_nou-veaux riches!_”
THE END.