Joan snatched at the ring, but he drew back his hand too quickly for
her.
"It's mine. Give it to me!"
"Where'd you get it? Tha'sh what I wanna know!"
"None of your business. Give it--"
"T' hell it ain't my business. I'm your husband--gotta right to know
where you get diamonds"--he sneered--"diamonds like this! I never bought
it."
"No," she flamed back; "you're too stingy!"
"Stingy, am I?" He faltered swaying. "Tha'snough. I'm tightwad, so
s'nother guy gets chansh to buy you diamonds. Tha's way of it, hey?"
"You give me that ring, Charlie," Joan demanded ominously.
"You got anotha good guess coming. What I'll give you is jush two
minutes to tell me name of the fellow't give it to you."
"Don't be a fool, Charlie!"
"I don't intend to be fool--any longer. You tell me or--"
He checked, searching his befuddled mind for a compelling threat.
With a shift of manner, Joan extended her hand in pleading.
"Give me the ring, Charlie, and be sensible. I haven't done anything
wrong. I can explain."
"Well...." Grudgingly he dropped the ring into her palm. But immediately
her fingers had closed upon it, mistrust again possessed him. "Now, you
tell me--"
"Very well," she interrupted patiently. "You needn't shout. I don't mind
telling you now. It's my engagement ring."
"Your _what_?" sharply.
"My engagement ring. I was engaged last summer to Mr. Matthias, before
we began to rehearse the sketch."
"Engaged?" he iterated stupidly. "Engaged for what?"
"Engaged to be married. He was in love with me. I meant to marry him
until you and I met the second time--"
"Meant to marry who?"
"Mr. Matthias. We--"
"Matthias? What Matthias?"
"John Matthias, the author--the playwright. He wrote 'The Jade God.'"
Quard wagged his head cunningly. "Y'mean to tell me you was engaged to
that guy, and--didn't marry him?"
"Certainly. I married you, didn't I, dear?"
"And if that's true, how't happen you didn't give'm back his ring?
_Eh?_"
"I meant to, Charlie, but he was out of town and I didn't know his
address."
"That's likely!" The actor laughed harshly. "Tha'sh _good_ one, that is!
You going to marry him, and didn't know his address. Expect me to
believe that?"
"It's true, Charlie--it's God's truth."
"You're a liar!"
"Charlie--!"
"I say, you're a liar! Wha'sh more, I mean it."
Quard waved his hand, palm down, to indicate his scornful disposition of
her yarn. Then he staggered, steadied himself by clutching the back of a
chair, and conscious how this betrayed his condition, worked himself
into a towering rage to cover it.
"I know better. 'F you'd ever got a chance to marry that feller, you'd
've jumped at it. He'd never've got away. You wouldn't 've given him no
more chance'n you did me--you'd 've pulled wool over his eyes same way.
_I_ know what'm talking about. You're a _liar_, a dam' dirty little
liar, tha's what you are."
Joan's colour deserted her face entirely.
"Charlie! don't you say that to me again."
"And what'll you do? Think I care? I know what you'll do, all right,
because I'm going make you do it."
"What do you mean?"
"Wha's more, I know now who gave you that ring. I was fool not to guess
it before. I didn't give it to you--no! Mist' Matthias didn't give it to
you--no! But somebody _did_ give it to you--_eh?_ Tha's right, isn't it?
And his name--'s name was _Vincent Marbridge_! Wasn't it?"
He thrust his inflamed face close to hers, leering wickedly.
"Marbridge!" Joan echoed blankly.
"Vincent Marbridge--tha's the feller't give you the ring. He's the
feller't could do it, too--got all the money in the world--enough to buy
dozens'r rings--enough to buy you all them good clothes you got hold of
after you threw me down and before I was ass enough to take up with you
again! A' that, you were a fool not to get more outa him."
The insult ate like an acid into the pride of the girl. She flushed
crimson, then in an instant paled again. Her eyes grew cold and hard.
"That will do," she said bitterly. "You've said enough--too much. After
all I've endured from you--your drunkenness, your--"
There was a maniac glare in the eyes of the man as he thrust his face
still closer.
"And what'll you do, eh?" he shouted violently. "What'll _you_ do?"
She turned her face aside, in disgust of his reeking breath.
"And what'll _you_ do? Tell me that!"
"I'll leave you--"
"You betcha life you'll leave me. I knew _that_ before you come into
this room!"
"And I'm sorry I didn't go long ago--"
"The hell you are!" In a gust of uncontrollable frenzy, Quard struck her
sharply over the mouth. "You go--d'you hear?--you damn'----"
In blind fury Joan flung herself upon him, sobbing, biting, scratching,
kicking. He reeled back before that unexpected assault, then, sobered a
trifle by its viciousness, caught her wrists, held her helpless for an
instant, and threw her violently from him. She fell to her knees,
lurched over on her side....
The door slammed: he was gone.
[Illustration: The door slammed. He was gone.]
She knew the man too well not to know he would make instantly for the
nearest bar; the only question was what guise intoxication would assume
in him, this time. It was possible that he would drink himself raving
mad and return fit for murder.
She must make her escape with all possible expedition....
Instantly Joan sat up, dried her eyes, convulsively swallowed her sobs,
and felt of her bruised mouth.
Before her on the carpet the diamond ring winked sardonically in the
sunset light.
She pondered savagely the wide and deep damnation it had wrought in her
life.
It seemed impossible that only a few minutes had elapsed since she had
entered this room, an affectionate, patient, and not unhappy wife. Now
she sifted her heart and found in it not one grain of the love it had
once held for Quard. This alone would have rendered irrevocable her
decision to leave him.
The thing was over--settled--finished.
She gave a gesture of finality.
With all her heart she hoped that the sketch would go to the devil
without her....
Rising, she went to the mirror, to stare incredulously at the face it
presented for her inspection, a cruel caricature, lined, distorted,
blowsy, stained with tears. At this vision, hysteria threatened again.
With a great effort she fought it down, and controlled and smoothed out
the muscles of her face. Now she was more recognizable. Even her mouth
was not seriously disfigured; he had struck with the flat of his hand
only; her lips were sore and slightly but not markedly swollen. A veil
would disguise them completely.
At the wash-stand she devoted some very valuable moments to sopping her
face with cold water, and particularly her mouth and eyes. The treatment
toned down the inflammation of weeping, rendered her flesh firm and cool
once more, and left her with a feeling of spiritual refreshment, with
nerves again under control and her will even more inalterably fixed than
before.
Rouge and powder completed her rejuvenescence.
Turning to her trunk, she took out the tray--and paused with a low cry
of consternation. From the tumbled and disordered state of its contents,
it was plain that, having discovered the ring, Quard had searched
diligently for further confirmation of his suspicions.
With quickening breath, the girl dropped to her knees and hastily but
thoroughly ransacked and turned out upon the floor all her belongings.
Within a brief period she satisfied herself of one appalling fact: Quard
had not only insulted and struck her and cast her off--he had stooped to
rob her. Her hands were tied: she had not money enough to leave him.
Probably, with the low cunning and fallacious reasoning of dipsomania,
he had pouched her savings with that very thought in mind. Meaning to
break with her, to have his scene and satisfy his lust for brutality, he
had also planned to prevent Joan's leaving the cast of "The Lie" until a
successor could be found and broken in. Penniless (he had argued) she
would be obliged to play on, at least until Saturday, to earn her fare
back East.
It was Quard's practice to carry his money in large bills folded in a
belt of oiled silk which he wore buckled round his waist, beneath his
underclothing--with a smaller fund for running expenses in a leather
bill-fold more accessibly disposed. But Joan (finding a money-belt
uncomfortable because of her corsets) had adopted the shiftless plan of
secreting her savings in a pocket contrived for that purpose in an old
underskirt. And since she had always held her husband rigidly to account
for her individual fifty dollars per week, she had managed thus to set
aside about three hundred dollars. Unfortunately, it had been their
habit to carry duplicate keys to one another's luggage by way of
provision against loss.
So that now she was left with less than twenty dollars in her
pocket-book.
She paced the floor in wrathful meditation, pondering means and
expedients. Once or twice she noticed the ring, but passed it several
times before she paused, picked it up, and abstractedly placed it on her
finger.
It did not once occur to her that she could raise money by hypothecating
the jewel at a pawn-shop: by hook or crook she was determined to regain
her own money. She was wondering what good it would do her to threaten
Quard with arrest. Had a wife any right to her earnings, under the law?
After a time, she opened her handbag, found her personal bunch of keys,
and unlocked her husband's trunk. Her pains, however, went for nothing;
she investigated diligently every pocket of his clothing without
discovering a piece of money of any description. But one thing she did
find to make her thoughtful--Quard's revolver....
Removing this last, she relocked the trunk and rang for a bell-boy. Then
she put the weapon on the bureau and covered it with her hat.
The youth who answered had an intelligent look. Joan appraised him
narrowly before trusting him. She opened negotiations with a dollar tip.
"I want you to find my husband for me," she said. "If he's anywhere
around the hotel, he'll probably be in the bar. But look everywhere, and
then come and tell me. You needn't say anything to him. I just want to
know where he is. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'm."
"You'd know him if you saw him--Mr. Quard, the actor?"
"Yes, ma'm."
"That's all. Hurry."
As soon as the boy was gone she turned again to her luggage, selecting
indispensable garments and toilet articles and packing them in a
suit-case. By the time a knock sounded again upon the door, she had the
case strapped and locked.
"He ain't nowhere about the house, ma'm," the bell-boy reported. "He was
in the bar a while, but he's went out."
Joan nodded, was dumb in thought.
"Do you want as I should go look for him, ma'am?"
"Can you leave the hotel?" Joan asked quickly.
"I'm just going off-duty now, ma'm; the night shift came on about ten
minutes ago, at six o'clock."
"And you think you could possibly find him?"
"He took a cab, ma'm. The driver's stand is in front of the hotel. If I
can find him, I can find where your husband went. Anyhow, it ain't hard
to follow up a gentleman as--"
"As drunk!" Joan put in when the boy hesitated.
"Yes, ma'm."
Joan weighed the chance distrustfully; but it was at least a chance, and
this was no time to be careful. Taking a five-dollar gold-piece from her
scanty store, she gave it to the boy.
"Go find him," she said. "And if he seems to know what he's doing--just
hang around until he doesn't: he won't keep you waiting long. Then bring
him to me. But first take this suit-case down to the Union Ferry house,
check it in the baggage-room, and give me the check when you bring him
back. And--don't say anything to anybody."
"Yes, ma'm--no, ma'm."
Supperless, she sat down to wait, Quard's revolver ready to her hand.
Twilight waned; night fell; hours passed. Motionless and imperturbable,
Joan waited on, the tensity of her mood betrayed only by the burning of
her baleful, dangerous eyes.
At half-past nine a noise of scuffling feet, gruff voices and heavy
breathing in the hallway, following the clash of an elevator gate,
brought her to her feet. Going to the bureau, she opened a drawer and
put the revolver away.
There would be no need of that, now.
Answering a knock, she threw the door wide. Two porters staggered in,
one with the shoulders, one with the feet of Quard. The bell-boy
followed. When they had lugged to the bed that inert and insensate thing
she had once loved, Joan tipped the men and they departed. The boy
lingered.
"Is there anything more I can do, ma'm?"
"Where did you find him?"
"Down on the Coast. I don't know what wouldn't've happened to him if you
hadn't sent me after him. He was up an alley--had been stuck up by a
couple of strong-arms. I seen 'em making their get-away just as I come
in sight."