"It seems as if I just couldn't think."
"Well, don't try, I'll do it for you. How about Daisy, did she take anything with her? She certainly didn't have much time. It must have been after eleven o'clock when she went upstairs and she wrote that note before she left."
"Yes, her suit case is gone. I don't really know how much is missing. Perhaps she hadn't fully unpacked it since she came home."
"Did she have money?"
"I don't know how much. She has her own bank account, and probably has her check book. They know her at the station of course and would cash her check. That makes me think, I wonder how much money I have in the house? Perhaps Daisy has taken it. She is always free to go to my drawer when she runs out of money."
"Don't worry about money. I always carry a few traveler's checks and I had the hotel order tickets and chairs for us. They will come with the taxi in the morning. Now, where do you keep your hat and coat and gloves? Is your hand bag ready? I want you to lie down this minute and get some sleep. No, don't lie and think about Daisy. Just rest back on the Father's promise and relax. Everything is going to be all right!"
So Mrs. Sheldon, ready for her journey all but her dress, wrapped her kimono about her and was tucked up by Mary Dunlap. Surprisingly she went to sleep, worn out with her two nights of vigil.
Mary Dunlap slept too, little cat naps with a keen squint at her wristwatch with the aid of her ever ready flashlight stowed under her pillow.
It was she who slipped down to the strange kitchen at daybreak and made some good strong coffee. It was she who carried it up and made Mrs. Sheldon drink it. It was she who inspected the suit case at the last minute, snapped it shut and carried it down to the door, while Mrs. Sheldon was giving a few last directions to the sleepy maid who had loyally stumbled down to say goodbye just as the taxi drew up at the door.
They had been seated in the train for perhaps an hour when Mrs. Sheldon said with a troubled look:
"I almost wish I had asked Nelson to come with us. He is so dependable where Daisy is concerned, and it doesn't seem quite fair to him to run away without a word. He is so—so—loyal and patient."
"H'm!" mused Mary Dunlap. "Was there—any way you could have asked him? Would Daisy have resented your telling him?"
"I suppose she would. No, I don't suppose there was," said the perplexed mother reversing the order of the questions, "but somehow it seems all wrong not to have him along when we are in trouble."
"Well," said Mary Dunlap thoughtfully, "if the Lord needs him, He'll know how to send him. Don't you fret."
Fortunately both women were dead with sleep, and were able to get some real refreshing rest in their chairs while the miles raced along beneath the wheels, and Daisy drew nearer to New York.
What would Daisy do when she got to New York? Her mother could not keep the question out of her mind, and yet she could not answer it. Oh, what awful experience might she not have if she went to that office and met her old lover! A creature as hardened as he would perhaps think nothing of spiriting her away somewhere, so that her mother might never see her again. If she came early alone to his office and found him by himself, he might tell her any lie, and in her present state of mind, she would believe it.
On the other hand, what if that Mrs. Oliver or her daughters should happen to be there when Daisy arrived, and she should say something to her lover which showed what her relation had been to him, would she and Daisy ever be able to live after such humiliation?
The poor mother could not fathom the answer to her painful thoughts and could only pray over and over again in her heart,—
"Oh Father, keep her, keep my child from falling."
And then like soothing balm there came to her familiar words,—
"Able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the throne—without spot or wrinkle or any such thing."
Oh, how blessedly the old verses learned in childhood came trooping to her groping thoughts, as if the Father were speaking them to her heart, while the train carried her on her way.
The long day was accomplished at last, a day during which both the women slept a good deal and talked a little, finding out common points of contact, common interests between one another, speaking of Daisy now and then; of Nelson Whitney occasionally; of Daisy's wonderful father; and Mrs. Sheldon's girlhood. As the night drew on and the lights began to appear, the two women began to feel as if they had known each other for years, and were bound by ties closer even than sisters might have been. Then there was the long night, to be waked through, thinking of the possibilities of the morrow.
"Now," said Mary Dunlap looking at her wristwatch the next morning after they had had breakfast, and come back to their section, in the sleeper, "it's quarter of nine. We shall be in, in three quarters of an hour, and take a taxi straight to Fifth Avenue if there isn't time to go to a hotel. Nothing opens in New York much before ten o'clock. Daisy got in last night, but all offices were closed. She couldn't have done anything till this morning, and she can't get there much ahead of us. At least if she does, she won't see him, for I'm sure he never comes down to the office before ten, and sometimes later. Take heart, sister, and trust the Father. He is managing this business, and I fancy He could have taken care of Daisy even if we hadn't come along. You know He manages a lot of things without us!"
Mrs. Sheldon blinked back the tears and smiled.
"I know," she said. "I'll try to rest on Him."
And then they began to draw near to the great city, and the two women put on hats and coats, and sat up ready for action. Who knew what the day had in store for them?
NELSON WHITNEY rang the bell of the Sheldon House at exactly quarter past eight the next morning. It was as early as he felt it would be at all courteous to disturb the household, especially as one of the members had not been feeling well the night before.
Mary, the trusted servant of the years, opened the door to him.
"Good morning, Mary," he said familiarly, for he had been almost as much at home in the Sheldon house since childhood as in his own home. "Is Marguerite up yet? I don't like to disturb her, but she was to have some measurements written out for the things she wanted me to get for the Hospital Fair, and I rather think she is expecting me to see to it this morning."
"Miss Marguerite is away, Mr. Nelson," said Mary with disapproval in her voice.
Mary had been with the family too long not to know every time one of the beloved family winked an eye or shed a tear, and Mary felt that things were all wrong just now; the idol of her heart crying and carrying on all day and then running away on the midnight train, and her mother going at daybreak! It certainly was not right.
"Away?" said Nelson. "Why, she was here yesterday, wasn't she? Her mother told me she was lying down with a headache last evening when I telephoned."
"Sure she was here last evening," said Mary, glad to get someone to share her troubles. "I don't know whatever her mother was thinking about to let her go, and her having headaches and crying and all yesterday. But young folks, seems to do about as they please nowadays."
Whitney cast her a pleasant grin, but his eyes showed that he was troubled.
"Well, I guess then I'll have to see Mrs. Sheldon. If she isn't about just ask her, please, if Marguerite left any word with her. Or, if she's asleep yet or anything, just look on Marguerite's desk and see if you find a paper with my name on it. She's likely written it out and left it there."
"M's Sheldon's gone too," burst forth Mary. "She left on the five o'clock with some woman was here all evening and come back and stayed all night, what there was left of it when they got packed."
Whitney looked up startled.
"Mrs. Sheldon has gone too? And she didn't go with Marguerite? That is strange. There wasn't a death in the family or anything near relatives in New York perhaps? I believe they have relatives there, haven't they? Perhaps they telegraphed for Marguerite."
"No, it couldn't a been that, all the Sheldons and Hamptons in New York went to Europe a month ago—went for a year."
"Well, it's none of my business of course," said Whitney with a grave smile that ended with a sigh, "but what in sixty am I going to do about that committee? They'll be in my hair if I don't get those things for to-night, and they told me Marguerite had the list. She probably forgot to say anything to you about it, Mary, going in such a hurry. Suppose you go up and look around her room and see if you see anything that looks like a list, whether it has my name on it or not."
"Come on in, then," said Mary graciously, and opened the door wider.
Whitney stepped in and stood in the hall, his glance searching toward the open doorway where he had stood two nights before, talking to Mrs. Sheldon. Who was that other woman? Was she connected with this sudden exodus? He had liked her. She seemed a strong true friend. He remembered the twinkle in her eyes, though they had looked grave, even sorrowful as if she was full of sympathy.
He sighed again as he remembered how strange it was to have the family go off this way without telling him. Heretofore he had always been told of every change from day to day. His life had been so closely twined with theirs that they never even changed a piece of furniture from one room to another without asking him gaily how he liked it in its new place, always joyously consulting him about any action. When they were going away, it was always he who got their reservations, checked their baggage, and took them to the station in his car, that is, since he had been old enough to have a car. Before that he attended them in a hired taxi.
But now, the last few months, there had been growing a change. Mrs. Sheldon was just the same, but Marguerite had a certain reserve, as if he didn't matter any more. It was all since that night when the Farr girl brought that Keller fellow with her to their literary club, and introduced him to Marguerite. Whitney had heard him calling her "Daisy" the very first night; "Daisy," the name that belonged exclusively to her mother—and himself—up to that night!
After that, he studiously called her Marguerite. He wanted no name for his girl that he had to share with that man! He was a villain, that's what he was, a middle-aged man coming in and presuming to monopolize a girl almost young enough to be his daughter! What was he anyway, and what did they know about him? He meant to make it his business pretty soon to find out, if he persisted in coming around as he had been doing.
Then Mary's voice sailed down the stairway.
"Was it a list of flower seeds and bulbs, you meant, Mr. Nelson?"
Whitney walked over to the foot of the stairs and looked up.
"No, Mary, it would be lumber, and canvas, and curtain material for the stage setting for the Cantata."
"Oh," said Mary, "this ain't it, then, I'll look again."
Mary went back into the girl's room, and the young man stood there waiting. He moved his position impatiently and drew another sigh, and something crackled under his foot. A paper! Probably that was the list. Marguerite had left it on the hall table and it had blown across the floor when the door was opened.
He stooped and picked it up. Yes, it was Marguerite's writing. Probably some directions about color and fabrics. Maybe a bit of a word of apology for going so hurriedly, or even a friendly goodbye. His heart was lifted at the thought. His eyes plunged into the midst of the words in the dim light of the hall, and grasped, searching for that personal word which he so longed to read. So before he was aware that he was reading a note addressed to someone else, he had gathered the whole unhappy truth.
For an instant he stood with the paper quivering in his hand, a sense of mortification upon him for having read something he shouldn't, yet a great sinking within his soul for the facts that had been revealed in that brief note.
So then Daisy Marguerite had gone away without her mother's knowledge! Marguerite to have done a thing like that! She would never have done that a year ago! Something terrible must have happened to get her wrought up to the degree that she would worry her much-loved mother by doing that.
And of course that explained the mother's hasty leave by the next train. Mrs. Sheldon would never allow that quietly without doing something about it. But why, oh, why hadn't she telephoned to him? That is what she would have done even a few weeks ago! Oh, and what was that other awful thing the note had said? When she had accomplished her strange mission, whatever it was, trying to prove that somebody did not exist, she was going to hunt up that unspeakable villain Keller and marry him! Could any calamity loom greater than that to Nelson Whitney in the whole bright world that had suddenly gone black?
At that instant, while he was turning over those awful facts and trying to make something out of them, he heard Mary's brisk footsteps coming down the stairs. Instantly he crushed the paper he held and drove his hand deep into his overcoat pocket.
"I can't find it nowheres, Mr. Nelson," she said, "would you like to go up and look? You might recognize it when I wouldn't."
Nelson sprang up the steps hastily.
"I'll just take a look about," he said.
But it was not for the list he wanted to go up. He had a feeling that he must look about the apartment where she had last been as if its very walls must cry out and give him a clue to go by, some hope for his anguished soul that was all wrapped up in the little girl he had loved since childhood, the little girl about to step off into danger! What could he do about it?
But the room was in perfect order, as Marguerite's room always was, nothing about to tell any tales, save her little blue sweater, lying on the bed in a heap as if it had suddenly been cast aside. He stood for an instant in the doorway, looking around, walked to her desk and her bureau with a keen swift glance, went back toward the door. Pausing suddenly beside the bed, he picked up the soft little wool garment and laid it to his cheek, just an instant, like a caress, and dropping it, went out of the room and ran swiftly down the stairs.
"D'ya find it?" asked Mary noting triumphantly that he had no list in his hand.
"No, Mary, it wasn't there," he said. "Thank you. She must have forgotten it. I'll have to get along the best way I can without it."
"Well, if it turns up when I go to sweep, I'll phone you to the office, Mr. Nelson."
"Thank you, Mary, and by the way, they didn't say when they were returning, did they? Or give you an address? I might get her on Long Distance you know."
"No, they didn't say. M's Sheldon she did say that ef they decided to stay mor'na day ur so, she'd write and tell me what hotel they put up at. Ef she does, I'll phone ya, Mr. Nelson."
"All right, Mary. Thank you!" said Nelson Whitney, and closing the door behind him, went out into the street.
As he got into his car and threw in the clutch, it suddenly came to him what he must do. His people were off alone, in possible trouble, and he must be at hand ready if they needed him! He must go to New York and find them.
But how could he find them since each detachment of them had the start of him, and might be lost in New York long before he could get there?
He began to calculate distance and time. Marguerite a whole night ahead of him, and her mother several hours' start! When he reached New York, they might have already left it. Marguerite might already be married. And even if he were there, unless he got there ahead and met their trains, how would he know where they had gone?
Stay! Hadn't that note told a place where Marguerite was going? He pulled out the crumpled paper and smoothed it, getting the number fixed in his mind. — Fifth Avenue! Well, at least, he knew one place where she intended to go, if there was such a place. Her note seemed to imply that she doubted it. But there would at least be the number whether the person whose existence she was seeking to disprove, was there or not.
Yes, with only that little clue, and no chance at all of getting there on time, he meant to go after her! For what could her mother do? True she might have more information of her whereabouts than was contained in that note, but even so, she was a woman of another day and generation, a woman used to being cared for, and not accustomed to traveling by herself. That other woman had looked capable, of course, as if she might go around the world by herself, and have no trouble whatever, but who knew whether that other woman—Dunlap her name was, wasn't it—who knew, whether she was going all the way to New York or not?
Yes, he must go! And there was only one way to get there in time to be of use. Could he do it?
He drove hard down to his office, a very new office with a new secretary and office boy, new desks and chairs and typewriter, and new clientele. This was a busy day, too, but that couldn't be helped either. His boss in Chicago was not a hard master, and anyway his secretary was efficient if she was rather old and homely.
He plunged into his morning mail. That must be got out of the way first. Matilda Herrick, the shell-rimmed secretary, had it all in neat order for him; the new orders, the old customers, the complaints, the letter from the head office in Chicago. He went through the piles rapidly, giving a word of direction now and then.
"Get these letters ready for me as soon as you can," he said. "I may have to go to New York to-day. Call up Bainbridge and find out if he is ready to talk business yet. Get Hetherington on the phone and see if he has heard from that order he took yesterday, and send the boy up to my home to get my suit case. He had better go as soon as he has those envelopes addressed. There'll be time."
When Matilda Herrick had taken her gaunt ability out of his private office, he locked his door and went down on his knees beside his desk. He was a young man who traveled under Guidance and went nowhere without orders.
When he got up from his knees there was a look of purpose on his face that had not been there before. He reached for his telephone and called a number.
A hearty voice answered it promptly.
Whitney's face lighted with relief.
"Hello, Bert, is that you?"
"Sure is! Hello, Nell. Glad to hear your voice! How's crops?"
"Oh, growing, growing fast. Say, Bert, flying anywhere to-day?"
"Sure thing. Want to go?"
"If you're going in the right direction. What's your chart?"
"Wherever you say. You never thought you could spare the time to go with me before."
"Happen to be going anywhere within a hundred miles of New York?"
"Flying right to Fifth Avenue, this afternoon, if you'll accompany me. Got a bit of engine trouble to make right, it'll take a couple of hours to fix, then I'm ready. How soon can you start?"
"I could make it any time after one if things go well here."
"Make it snappy and we'll paint New York red to-night."
"I'd prefer white, if you don't mind, Bert."
"O. K. with me Nellie, just so's you go along. Meet me at the field at two o'clock."
Whitney hung up with an awed look in his face.
"It seems to be in the plan," he said to himself reverently, and began to work at several matters of business that he knew must be set right before he could honorably leave his own city.
It seemed beautiful to him the way everything worked out, no hindrances, not a single hitch in the things that must be finished before he left. Every man he called on the telephone was in, every report of sales was such that he could give the important directions concerning them before he went away.
"It's just as if somebody else was working with me to smooth the way," he thought.
The hours of the morning sped. Matilda Herrick had the letters ready for signing in plenty of time. Everything went smoothly.
Nelson Whitney telephoned his mother to pack his suit case for a quick trip, and the office boy did all the rest, including accompanying his chief to the flying field, and driving the car back to the garage again. At two-thirty exactly they were off, through the clear blue ether, Nelson Whitney's first experience in flying.
For a few minutes the thrill of the new sensation occupied every sense, but after he was accustomed to the thought of sailing with the clouds, and looking down upon earth, he began to think of what was before him in New York. Was this a wild-goose chase he was going on? Wouldn't anybody, just anybody think he was a fool to start off with as little warrant as he had had? Wasn't there danger of making his lady everlastingly angry chasing her this way, even if he did find her? Wouldn't even her mother have a right to resent it?
And what, pray, was he to do when he arrived in New York, beyond the mere meeting the trains at the station, and getting in touch with the people he was trying to help? How could he do that? Just walk up smiling and say he knew they were expected so he met them? He hadn't really any warrant for that. Of course he could say that Mary told him what train they had taken, but he would feel like a fool saying that to Mrs. Sheldon. Her keen eyes would see that there was something behind it all, and perhaps she might resent his intrusion into her affairs, though she had always acted, hitherto, as if he belonged to her scheme of life.
And what could he do before her train arrived to keep Marguerite in sight? If he met her train, she would be likely to be indignant. He could not tell her he had found her note on the floor, and read it, though it was addressed to her mother, and that he was here to protect her from whatever evil, real or fancied, threatened her. Assuredly he would meet her train and try to appear as casual as possible, but he shrank inexpressibly from the look of scorn her dear eyes would cast at him.
There was no question but that Marguerite would resent his entrance onto the stage at this point in her career. She had been most haughty and independent of late, and it stung him even to remember her careless indifference.
And failing to get suitable touch with his girl at the train, if he should go to hunt up that number of Fifth Avenue, and should find it there, what would he do? And what if it were not there? And where lived this Keller man who was apparently making all this trouble? Why! He ought to have telephoned somebody and found that out before he left! Here he was thinking he had done everything up in fine shape and he had left out one of the strategic points in the whole matter. Of course he could telephone back when he got to New York, but a lot of time might be lost.
However, was he not traveling under guidance? Could not He who had smoothed the way thus far manage it so that he would go to the right place, do the right thing? Would not the way open as he advanced? He had put himself under the guidance of the greatest Leader in the universe, and there he must trust and not be afraid.
The silver wings that bore him above the earth flew straight on, over wide stretches of the map. Sometimes he looked down wondering, when he saw a railroad train creeping along like a small worm on the earth, if perhaps he might be looking at the very train in which those he went to protect were traveling.
The strange thing about it all was that though he was positive they needed protection, he was not in the least sure from what he was protecting them. Only in the case of the girl, if it should come about that she tried to carry out her threat of marrying that man Keller, he knew he must prevent it. He felt that it could be nothing short of a calamity for her, to say nothing of her mother and himself, if that should ever come to pass. He felt, too, that God was on his side, for had he not put himself and his plans in the hands of God, willing to be guided, willing to have all plans overturned if they were not the right thing? And the way had been smoothed before him. Nothing had been hindered of the least detail to stop him from going through the air.
So the silver wings flew on, and in due time Nelson Whitney arrived in New York.
He did not help his friend in painting the town red. Instead he went directly to the Pennsylvania station and got full details of all trains arriving from the West. He found that Marguerite's train was due to arrive late that evening. He begged off from going with his friend longer than to dinner, and went straight back to the station where he made himself well acquainted with the various exits of the train, and found the best place to watch and await her.
It had not been hard to discover just where the train would come in, and he had established himself behind the great iron bars just above the train floor, where he could look down upon the disembarking passengers without being seen by them unless they deliberately turned around and looked up, but near enough to the train gate to get to her at once if he should see she was in any need of a friend, or was at all hesitant which way to turn.
During the long day, he had had full opportunity to plan what he would say when he met her. He would tell how he had called at the house for her list, and Mary had said she had gone to New York on the midnight train. So when he was invited to fly with his friend to the same city, he thought he would meet her train and ask her about the list, in case he went back the next day. That was a perfectly reasonable story as well as being absolutely true, for his friend had many times invited him to fly, and had told him to call him when he could go.
Nevertheless he wished to reconnoiter before he approached her. It was even conceivable that that Keller person might have somehow got in touch with her, and be traveling with her. His blood boiled at the thought, and he stood for twenty long minutes till the train arrived, thinking over what he should do if that were the case. He decided that he would in any event go to the gate and speak to Marguerite. It might even be that a face from home might influence her, hinder her, from any foolish thing she might be going to do. At least he would ask where she was staying, and perhaps let her know that her mother was on the way, just casually, as if of course she knew it.
He would be able to judge a great deal from the way she took what he said.
In the mean time, while he mused, in not a little anxiety, forgetting for the moment his Guide, the train came in. The stream of people like ants, came filing up the iron stairs to the gateways, and not one of them escaped the anxious eye of Nelson Whitney, as he stood in his sheltered nook behind a bunch of train flags and gate signs and waited.
But Marguerite did not appear.
She did not even come up in the elevator, which was in full view from his position. He was sure he had not missed her, yet a frenzy of anxiety seized him. Perhaps she had seen him and had evaded him while he was looking the other way!
Where was Marguerite?
WHAT had happened to Marguerite was this.
She had never been to New York before, although she had traveled with her father and mother now and then in other directions. She knew nothing, of course, about the city save what she had gleaned from occasional references to it in novels. When the porter of the Pullman asked her before they reached Manhattan Transfer whether she was going uptown or downtown she looked at him bewildered for an instant. Then reasoning that an office building would likely be downtown, and she wanted to be near to the place where she intended going the first thing in the morning, she answered after that instant's hesitation,—
"Oh, yes, downtown. I'm going downtown."
"Then you get out at Manhattan Transfer, lady," said the porter eyeing her a bit questioningly, she thought, because she had said downtown at that time of night.
Manhattan Transfer looked wide and desolate and empty. There were few passengers so late and there seemed to be no official in charge. Marguerite stood aimlessly for a few minutes, looking this way and that, wandering up, and then down, looking off at the dim distance of stars and weird lights. Was this the great New York about which she had heard so much?
But at last a train came. A brakeman on the step, swinging a lantern, and yelling some unintelligible thing condescended to listen to her plea.
"Where you wantta go, lady? Uptown or downtown?" The same mystical question, and it must have been all wrong the way she answered it before.
"Oh, I don't know which," she cried, almost in tears, for she was suddenly realizing her lonely situation at this late hour. "I want to go to a good respectable hotel."
"You go uptown lady, then. You get on the next train that comes by, over that side of the platform; be 'long in five minutes now. Take you to the Pennsylvania Station, good hotel right across the street. All Aboard!"
And he swung away, leaving her more desolate than ever, for now the wind-swept platform was empty of the few travelers who had been waiting for this train, and Marguerite dared not go in search of any official who might be inside the shelters lest she miss her train. Thus it was that she arrived at the great station almost an hour later than the train by which she should have come. Emerging into the gloom, and climbing the midnight stairs into the wide upper area, she felt smaller and more alone even than when she had stood on the high barren sweep of Manhattan Transfer.
There was noise and light here, a blare of it, and a strange midnight clatter that frightened her.
If it had not been for a kindly agent of the Traveller's Aid who happened by just as she emerged from the iron gate, and said, noting her hesitancy, "Can I help you?" she might have stood there all night perhaps, afraid to venture into that vast empty floor like a little vessel setting sail to an unknown port.
But the friendly Traveller's Aid soon had the weary girl safely established in the great hotel across the way, and possessed of all the information she needed to get herself to the desired number on Fifth Avenue in the morning.
Mind and body cannot continue forever in a state of violent emotion without some rest, and Marguerite, finding herself at last in a quiet room with a luxurious bed, and nothing she could possibly do until morning, succumbed to her weariness and fell into a deep sleep.
She intended quite fully to waken about seven o'clock, get herself in readiness for her errand, and then try to get in touch with Rufus Keller. She thought she had a pretty good idea where to telegraph him, and felt that if she did so, it would only be a matter of a few hours before she had word that he was coming to her at once.
She was not well enough versed in the ways of travelers to leave an order at the hotel desk to have them call her at seven, and if she had been, she would have been too confident that it was unnecessary. She had prided herself for years on her ability to set herself to waken any time at all, and never fail to waken on the minute. However that was, it turned out that she slept on straight past seven, past eight, past nine, past ten, past eleven, and never wakened till quarter to twelve o'clock, dazed and vague as to where she was or why she was there.
Meantime at ten o'clock Mary Dunlap and Mrs. Sheldon arrived in the city, and took their way briskly, attended by a porter carrying their luggage, straight through the tiled tunnel and into the Pennsylvania Hotel, where they were given a room one floor below where Marguerite slept her exhausted sleep.
"We had better not wait for anything," said Marguerite's mother anxiously, giving a push and a pat to the straggling locks about her temples and walking nervously toward the door.
"My dear, you are going to have a cup of coffee before we stir a step," said Mary Dunlap firmly. "I told the boy as we came up in the elevator to have it sent up at once and it's not going to take three minutes to drink it. I tell you nothing is doing in New York until ten, and she can't get away right at once. There is no use running risks. You are going on your nerve, and that might give out at the wrong time and spoil everything. There, he is knocking now. Sit down and drink it. Then we'll call a taxi and be there in no time! It is quite early yet and I'm positive Mr. Oliver—I mean Keller—never goes down to his office before half past ten at the earliest."
But Nelson Whitney had not been able to sleep. He had laid himself properly in bed of course and closed his eyes. He had committed himself and his wishes and his girl to the care of One who was infinitely powerful, infinitely able, infinitely willing to bring order out of confusion, and he was resting on that; but he lay there staring into the night and facing a thing that might be coming to him on the morrow. Supposing he should find that Marguerite had already gone to that other man, and that, unworthy though he believed him to be, she was now irrevocably committed to him, for better, for worse. Could he give up his will in the matter, his joy, his very life, and give up his girl to a sorrow he felt was inevitable if she married Keller?
Whitney did not oversleep. He arose far earlier than he had set himself to be about. He tried to eat some breakfast, but it was as dust and ashes in his mouth. He went out to walk, but the exercise was merely mechanical. He did not see the buildings he passed, nor notice anybody on the street. He was going over the probable program for the morning, trying to decide which thing he should do first.
If he went to the train to meet Mrs. Sheldon, he would be late in getting to Fifth Avenue when Marguerite would be likely to be arriving. If he went to Fifth Avenue first, he would be too late to meet the train. He finally decided that it was more important to find Marguerite than her mother, for the mother would communicate with Mary at home as soon as she located in a hotel and if he found Marguerite, he could telephone to Mary and have little trouble in locating Mrs. Sheldon afterward. Marguerite was of course the first consideration.
He had no trouble in finding the number on the avenue that had been indicated in Marguerite's note, and was somewhat reassured, but also not a little troubled to find the name, "R. H. Oliver, Manager," in gold letters on the rich glass of the heavy mahogany door. Just what effect would it have upon the girl who had taken this wild midnight journey to prove there was no such person? He pondered this as he sought out the janitor and asked a few questions about the usual hour of opening the offices in that building.
He was still pondering it as he set out to walk a regular beat, up the avenue, across the street, down the avenue, across and back again, varying it occasionally by a quick detour into one of the side streets where he turned about and returned the other way. He did not care to be noticed, as he kept his anxious vigil. As the minutes passed into an hour and then dropped into long minutes again, his heart sank with the fear lest after all somehow he had missed her. Perhaps she had come down to the office building ahead of him, or perhaps she had looked up the name in the city directory, discovered that it really was there, and had changed her course. Why had he not thought of that before? Yet what else could he have done than he had done? He had no clue but this, and must follow it to its reasonable end.
There were not many people on that part of the avenue so early, and he had no difficulty in getting a good look at each one. He felt reasonably certain that she could not have got by since he had arrived, so he tramped back and forth like a lion in a cage, not daring to go beyond the bounds he had set himself lest somehow she escape him. The thought that was aching into his heart now was what possible connection could there be between this man Oliver and the fellow Keller whom his girl had declared her intention of marrying after she had proved that there was no such person as Oliver?
A dim possibility was stealing through his mental turbulence, but he rejected such an explanation of the situation, as unworthy of a decent man to think about another, even about one whom he distrusted. Yet again and again it recurred. Had someone been trying to make his little girl see that the man with whom she seemed to be infatuated was unworthy of her? Had she set out to disprove what they had told her? It must be something of that sort of course, but what?
By the time that he had tramped nearly two hours away in anxious watching, he was in a mood to wish he could get his hands on this Keller man and give him a good thrashing. He felt more and more confident that he deserved it, even though he might be none of the unworthy kinds of villain that his imagination had been conjuring.
It was still five minutes to the hour the janitor had mentioned as opening time for offices when he finally tramped back to the building and entered the elevator. He had considered staying outside in the street till he saw Marguerite arrive, but rejected the idea as futile. She would be very likely to see him if he came too near, and perhaps evade him, for it was most likely that she wanted none of her friends with her on this expedition, else she would surely have confided in her mother.
He had considered also secreting himself somewhere in the hallway, at a good vantage point to watch for her, if there were such a hiding place, but rejected that idea also, because if anything was going to happen, he wanted to be there to see what it was. He felt that it was his right to understand the case, seeing he was going to try to help Marguerite. How else could he know whether or not he might be intruding where even angels should not tread? No, he must be in the office, and well placed where she would not notice him, or he might never find out whether he even had a right to try to help her. He must fathom this mystery himself. It was not anything Marguerite's mother could tell him, else he felt sure she would have called for him in the middle of the night even, to accompany her and help her in her trouble. That it was a terrible trouble to the mother he had no doubt.
He had a bad half minute when several young women came hurriedly into the hall and rushed for the elevator. Perhaps she was among them, and this would be by no means the place he had planned to meet Marguerite, in the elevator!
But the young women were none of them the girl he sought; they were obviously secretaries hastening to their various jobs, and he drew an involuntary breath of relief as the elevator shot up to the floor to which he was going. The young women all got out at different stops by the way.
He was glad that he was the only one in the elevator when it stopped at the ninth floor, and he could get off and take his bearings once more without observation. Then he noticed that the door of R. H. Oliver's office was standing ajar, and with quickened pulse he hurried down the hall.
NELSON WHITNEY pushed the door of R. H. Oliver's office open quickly and stepped within with an air of stealthy triumph. He looked around furtively with keen eyes, half fearful at what he might see.
But there was no one there but an elderly girl taking off her hat and coat at the back of the room. She hung them on a couple of pegs in a shadowy corner, patted her hair into prim shape before a small mirror, and put a last dab of powder on a thin angular nose. He paused and watched her uncertainly.
"Is Mr. Oliver in yet?" he asked as she turned inquiringly and came toward him, her folded gloves and a large flat purse in her hand.
"Oh, no!" she said with a tang of amusement in her voice that set him down for a country ninny. She glanced at the clock. "He never gets down before half past if he does then."
Whitney cast a quick searching gaze around the room once more, as if perchance the girl he sought might be hiding somewhere in the shadows.
"Mind if I wait here?" he asked, ignoring the contempt in the girl's voice.
"Help yourself," said the girl in a chilly tone.
She unlocked the desk, and slung a typewriter out into the open from some hidden recess, laid her pocketbook and gloves in a drawer, took out a dust cloth and proceeded to polish her desk and clean her typewriter. She had the appearance of not even remembering that the young man existed. Presently she began to hum a jazzy little radio tune to further shut him out of her immediate circle.
This just suited Whitney. He deliberately took in every corner of the room, the beautiful furniture and the rich Oriental rug, and selected a shadowy alcove behind the main door, facing toward the windows on the other side of the room. It was a dark little corner, gloomy in fact, the alcove being formed by the ground glass partition of an inner office that ran out from the main wall ten feet and then down to the back of the room. The angle of these walls would partly hide him, even from the girl at her desk which stood well out in the middle of the room. The gloom of the corner would not call attention to his presence.
He drew a carved walnut chair into the right position to give him a view of the room and yet not bring him into notice and sat down. After a calm minute or two, he unfurled a morning paper which he could not possibly have read to advantage in the dim light, and prepared to hide behind it at the approach of footsteps. Surely he ought to be able to remain incognito here, for a while at least till matters developed, seeing that none of the people who were likely to have a part in the little drama about to be played had the slightest idea that he was in that part of the country. They would scarcely recognize his shoes and trousers, nor his hands, and that was all that the paper and the gloom would reveal. He would just sit quietly here and see what happened.
The secretary finished her morning cleaning and began typing some letters. The minutes ticked slowly by on the magnificent mahogany grandfather clock that stood six feet against the opposite wall between the two high windows. Nelson Whitney began to tell himself that he was a fool, and had come on a fool's errand. Probably nobody would come at all that he expected. Probably the morning would go by, and the man Oliver would arrive and he wouldn't even know him from any other man, let alone knowing what to say to him.
For the next five minutes he busied himself planning what errand he might possibly have for visiting an unknown man in his office. A perusal of the ground glass door into the hall did not help him. It bore over Oliver's name the legend "Ransom, Oliver, Bates and Company" nothing more. He did not know whether they sold bonds or automobiles or insurance. They might be almost anything. There wasn't a scratch of anything in the room that he could see that would give the slightest clue. There was nothing on the wall within his vision but a framed etching of old New York.
What should he do? Should he say he was waiting for friends who were to meet him there? Should he tell the man when he arrived that he must have come to the wrong address? It seemed that he would appear a fool in almost anything he might say, yet he held his ground and sat behind his paper trying to frame a reasonable excuse for his presence. He decided that he might perhaps ask if the man wanted to employ a helper. There was Jack Rector at home who was crazy to get a job in New York. Yet what kind of a job would this be? Something that could be sold? Jack would make a keen young salesman.
The minutes dragged on. The secretary typed incessantly and paid no more attention to him than if he had been an empty chair. The room was as still as an empty cell, sealed from the roar and rumble of the city noises.
Nelson Whitney was still pondering possibilities when there came at last the clang of an elevator, and steps, leisurely steps, outside the door. His heart stood still and then leaped forward in great bounds for it was a woman's step. Had the moment arrived at last? And if his girl should see him, how would she take it? Would she think he, too, was in league against her and be angry? He withdrew still further into the depths of his paper, and the door swung open and admitted a lady.
The secretary jumped up, all smiles.
"Oh, good morning Mrs. Oliver! Aren't you downtown early? Didn't Mr. Oliver come with you? I thought he was expecting to be in the office this morning. There are some checks for him to sign."
Whitney lowered his paper and saw a woman about forty years old, a sweet-faced woman with a lovely smile, and faultlessly dressed.
"Good morning, Miss Flinch," she said pleasantly. "Why, no, Mr. Oliver and Katharine came down earlier. Hasn't he come yet? He said he would surely be here by this time. I expected to find him in his office hard at work, or else ready to chide me for being ten minutes later than I promised. I was waiting for Gloria. She was to drive back with the car and get me, but she telephoned that they had a flat tire, and she would meet me here. Hasn't she come yet either?"
"No, Mrs. Oliver. But I guess they'll be here presently," assured the secretary.
"Of course," said the lady. "Well, I'll just step into Mr. Oliver's office and write a note. I was afraid I wouldn't have time to write it at home, but it really ought to go."
The secretary smiled and the lady retreated through the ground glass door of the inner office. The typewriter clicked on.
The clang of the elevator was becoming more frequent now, and there were more and more footsteps going down the marble corridor. Whitney scarcely realized that the hall door had opened again until he heard a woman's clear voice speaking to the secretary.
"Has Mr. Oliver come in yet?"
"No," said the secretary severely.
"How soon do you expect him?"
"Almost any time now," said his keeper ungraciously. "Did you have an appointment?"
"No," said the woman, "but he knows me well."
"He's very busy this morning," interrupted the secretary. "He's been away for three weeks and there are a lot of things for him to attend to. I don't know if he'll have time to see anybody," and she cast a belligerent look toward the newspaper and the legs over in the gloomy alcove.
"Don't worry," said the dominant voice of Mrs. Dunlap pleasantly, "I shall not keep him a second. I merely want him to endorse a check for me. I'm a personal friend. I'll just wait till he comes."
The secretary looked as if she thought that was a doubtful statement, but she assented silently and went on typing.
Whitney wondered what there was about that voice that reminded him of something recent? He lowered his paper and shot a glance at the woman and then he saw there was another with her, a quiet, shrinking woman with gray hair, and a sweet profile that he had known all his life. And the other one was the woman that had been calling on Mrs. Sheldon when he went to see Marguerite!
Well, at least he would not have to search for them. They were here. Now, what should he do? Reveal himself to them at once and try to make some plan? But no—there were more footsteps coming that way, and the clang of the elevator continually now. It would not do to be caught saying good morning to them if Marguerite should walk in. And besides—just what should he say how explain his presence there? Should he confess that he had read a letter that was not intended for his eyes? Strange he had not remembered to think that all out and have some plan. He had had all night to plan it and he had not done it.
The two women had stood hesitating a moment by the desk, but Mrs. Dunlap went into action as Whitney stole a glance over his paper.
"Let's sit over here by the window," she said in a tone as if she were quite at home.
She went to the corner she had indicated and whirled the chairs about so that they would face away from the room, and put their occupants with their backs toward anyone entering. But Mrs. Sheldon did not follow immediately. She lingered hesitantly by the desk an instant longer, a worried wistful look in her sweet eyes.
"My—daughter—hasn't come in yet, has she?" she hazarded. "She was to—that is, she was expecting—I mean we expected to meet her here."
She glanced apologetically toward her companion, and then back wistfully to the secretary.
"Nobody been in this morning but that man," said the secretary still ungraciously, indicating with a sweep of her capable white hand the legs in the alcove surmounted by the newspaper.
Daisy's mother gave a quick frightened glance toward the alcove without realizing that those legs had often been a familiar sight in her house. She retreated half frightened to the chair Mrs. Dunlap smilingly offered, and the two women sank down quietly with two magazines that Mrs. Dunlap produced from the window seat. Again the click of the typewriter was the only sound that was heard.
The postman came in presently and left a great stack of mail which gave the secretary a rest from her typing while she went resolutely through the letters, sorting them into piles.
There were many footsteps going down the corridor now, and the three whose hearts were listening for a certain step, could not be certain at all. The mother started nervously whenever any one approached the door.
The elevator was clanging incessantly. Presently a nervous step came down the corridor, almost breathlessly, as if the owner had hurried, then hesitated a moment in front of the door. The knob turned, slowly, almost timidly.
Somehow Whitney knew that step—knew in his heart that she had come at last, and felt the horror that would be in her white face as she discovered the name she had come to disprove shining golden in the noonday light. The paper in his hand trembled and he dared to peer around it at the little white frightened, almost belligerent face of the girl he loved.
She stood in the doorway for an instant and swept the room with her glance, not carefully for she was too nervous, and she was not looking for people from home. Whitney was at one side, almost behind her now, for she was standing in the middle of the room wide-eyed, and she had scarcely noticed the backs of the two women shrinking into their chairs in the window corner earnestly reading magazines.
She went straight up to the desk and her voice trembled a little as she asked her questions.
"Is this Mr. R. H. Oliver's office?"
Miss Flinch surveyed her impersonally before she nodded.
"May I see him at once?" asked Marguerite, growing more certain of herself now, and speaking excitedly.
"He isn't here yet."
"Not here?" the little catch in Marguerite's voice could be heard around the room. "How soon will he be in? I've got to catch a Western train and there's only three quarters of an hour."
"I can't say when he'll be in," said the secretary regarding her indifferently. "It might be in five minutes, it might be half an hour."
"But you're sure he is coming? This morning?"
"Positive," said the laconic secretary. "His wife's in the private office waiting for him now. There's all these people waiting to see him, and he's awfully busy besides. He's got to sign a lot of letters and meet two men at one o'clock, and he's taking his wife and children off for a holiday. If that isn't a full day, I don't know where you come in. But you can sit down and wait if you think there's any chance for you."
"Oh, I won't keep him but an instant. If I can just see him!"
The secretary waved her to a chair.
"You'll have to take your turn," she warned her.
Marguerite cast a swift appraising glance around the room, at the two huddled figures in the chairs by the window, two oldish backs upon whom her glance scarcely rested and a pair of gentlemanly legs surmounted by a newspaper. Strangers in a land that was strange to her, what could they mean to her but hindrances to her completed race? It was hours later than she had meant to be, and she ought to get out of New York, and away to seek her beloved.
She knew that her mother would presently stir up something. She was not a woman to lie idly by and see her only daughter lost in the world, with an undesirable marriage in the offing. She would presently set something going somehow to hinder. Her mother was never balked when the welfare of one beloved was concerned. She simply must get a train right away as soon as she had seen this man. Of course he would not be the right one. Of course that lying Mrs. Dunlap had merely given the name of some one she knew as a bluff to gain her point. And as soon as she laid eyes on the man and saw he was not anyone she had ever seen before, she would apologize pleasantly, say she must have the wrong address, and depart.
While she was dressing she had remembered a way to find Rufus. She would get that minister friend of his that was to have married them, on the long distance telephone, and find out how best to reach him. The rest would be easy of course. Then she would get away from New York as fast as possible, somewhere, anywhere, it didn't matter much, just a little way, so she could not be traced, and then get off and telephone Rufus. She would plan to meet him wherever he said and be married at once. Perhaps she might even suggest this to the minister friend of his when she found the address, just say they were going to be married at once, that all difficulties had been cleared away or something like that.
How fortunate it was that she remembered the name and address of that minister so well. She had watched Rufus writing out the telegram as he argued, and he had written Rev. Lee Spencer, D.D. so beautifully. He had a wonderful, bold way of writing that thrilled her to watch, it seemed so masterful!
All these thoughts went racing through Marguerite's mind as she dropped into a chair near the desk facing the entrance, her eyes glued to the door that she might get the first glimpse of the man as he entered.
Mrs. Dunlap half leaned over toward Mrs. Sheldon to whisper, and then thought better of it. They exchanged lifted eyebrows, and a question stood in their eyes for an instant. Then suddenly a quick eager young step came rushing down the corridor. The door opened with a rush and closed with a bang as a slim pretty girl entered panting as if she had run up several flights of stairs.
"Oh, Miss Flinch," she gasped, "has Daddy come yet? I've simply ruined myself running up all the stairs. I couldn't wait for the elevator. I was afraid Dad and Mother wouldn't wait for me. Oh hasn't he come yet? Oh, I'm glad! But Muth is here isn't she? I thought she would be. I telephoned her I had a flat tire, and I had to leave the tiresome old car in a garage away uptown, and walk three blocks to get a bus, and then it didn't come forever and an age. The bus service in this town is the limit isn't it? Did you say Muth was here?"
"Yes, Miss Gloria, she came half an hour ago. She's in your father's office writing a letter."
"Oh, I know. She said it simply had to go or she couldn't go with us. You know, Miss Flinch, it's her birthday, and Daddy came home especially for it. We're going off on a spree. Daddy won't tell us where, but we're going in the new car, and it's to be a surprise party for us all. Muth doesn't even know which way we are taking.
"But I can't think what's keeping Daddy and Katharine. You know, Miss Flinch," Gloria lowered her voice with a glance toward the ground glass partition, "they've gone to get her present. She doesn't know a thing about it of course. Katharine picked it out weeks ago and she and I had it put away till Daddy would get back. We knew he'd love it for her, and I know it's just what she wants. It's a platinum wristwatch and bracelet with diamonds and sapphires all set around the edge. Oh, it's perfectly darling. She'll show it to you of course. But I'm just dying to see what she says when he gives it to her. Oh, dear! Why don't they come? I do hope there isn't some stupid old mistake. Perhaps some dumbbell of a salesman has sold it to someone else. Wouldn't that simply be unbearable? Perhaps they've had to hunt around for another. But I never saw any as precious as this one."
"I wouldn't worry, Miss Gloria," said the secretary fondly. "They've likely been delayed in traffic. There! There's the elevator! Maybe they're coming now. Yes, I think that's Mr. Oliver's step."
"Oh, it is, it is! The day is saved," cried Gloria tragically.
The door opened and another very pretty girl scarcely older than the first entered, and behind her a gentleman.
"There! Daddy! You're late yourself. I've won the bet and you've got to pay up! A five-pound box of chocolates! Remember! You promised! And a new pair of slippers for the party! Muth and I've been here a long time—and I had a flat tire, too, and a lot of trouble."
The gentleman stepped in and closed the door, gave a quick glance at the legs and the newspaper in the alcove, another toward the window where huddled the two women, and then faced toward the desk where for the instant his two daughters had so grouped themselves as to completely hide the white-faced girl from his vision.
Gloria boomed forth again:
"Now, Daddy, you've simply got to come into the office and show it to her at once. I can't wait another second. I'm dying to see what she thinks of it. Come on in now before Miss Flinch gets you into a lot of tiresome checks and letters you have to sign. Come on, Daddy it won't take long, and then Muth can enjoy it while she waits."
Gloria caught his hands and pulled him toward the door of the inner office, and Katharine moved to follow, when suddenly the man saw the white-faced girl. She had risen from her seat, and exclaimed eagerly, pleadingly, as if somehow the sight of her eyes, the hearing of her ears had deceived her, and this was some horrible dream which would presently be explained:
"Rufus! Oh Rufus—I've come—!"
The man turned ashen color, and looked as if he were going to drop. He stopped where he stood, apparently unable to move further, feebly drawing his hands away from the eager girls who kept trying to draw him on.
"Go! Go!" he said to them in a voice that sounded more like a croak. "Go to your mother! I'll come in a moment!"
There was something in his voice that made the girls obey, though reluctantly.
"What is the matter now?" murmured Gloria, impatiently. "Didn't you get it? Didn't he like it, Kath?"
"Yes, and he's crazy about it. I'm sure I don't know what's the matter. Some tiresome old business probably. It's always that way."
As the inner door closed on them, Gloria's perplexed voice asked:
"What did that girl mean 'Rufus'?"
IT WAS Mrs. Dunlap who took command of the situation, stepping into the picture at exactly the most awful moment of revelation when several lives seemed about to fall into chaos.
"Oh, Mr. Oliver," she said in her pleasant, commanding tone coming forward with a fountain pen and a bit of blue paper in her hand, until she stood exactly before the shrinking girl, and the ghastly man, "Good morning! I won't detain you but an instant. I just stepped in to ask if you would kindly endorse this check for me so that I can cash it. I found myself suddenly out of money, and near your office, and I knew you would help me out."
She held out the check and pen, and the desperate man reached for them as a drowning man would reach for a rope flung out to him. He even tried to summon a smile of graciousness to his stiff lips, and naturalness to his voice as he assented:
"Why, certainly, Mrs. Dunlap—I'm—delighted to be able to do anything for you."
There was a high-strained quality to his voice and his attempt at a laugh was a decided failure. His hand was shaking, as he wrote his name, Ralph H. Oliver across the back of the check. It was an old blank one which Mrs. Dunlap had carried with her in her purse for several months in case of emergency. That morning she had made it out to herself, signed with her maiden name and endorsed it. But the man who endorsed it again was not even noticing whether it was a check or not. He was only bestirring his clever brain to get him out of this situation, and by the time the name was written, he had made his decision. He would ignore this girl, and get himself out of the room at once, and out of the building, even if he was obliged to emerge through the tenth-story window to the street. Anything no matter how ghastly, was better than what would probably happen if he remained.
He swung himself around to face Mrs. Dunlap, and put Marguerite out of range, as he handed over the check with a hand that was shaking visibly.
Again the stiffening lips wrinkled themselves into a ghastly semblance of a smile as he spoke, his manner an attempt at the debonair:
"Mrs. Dunlap, I think my wife is in my private office, and she will never forgive me if I do not call her. She will want to see you if only for a moment. Let me go and call her."
"Oh, I'll call her, Mr. Oliver!" said the secretary eagerly, half rising from her desk.
"No, no, Miss Flinch. I'll call her myself. I want you to get those letters out before the next mail please. It is very imperative. I'll just call her."
"Indeed, Mr. Oliver, I cannot possibly wait a moment," interrupted Mrs. Dunlap. "Tell Mrs. Oliver for me that I am returning this way in a week or two and I will call her up and make an appointment to see her. But now I really must hasten away. I have friends here with me who are in haste. By the way, of course you know them." She stepped back and turned toward Mrs. Sheldon who had risen and come forward, her eyes stern, her face full of indignation and dislike. "My friend Mrs. Sheldon. I think you have already met in her home town and Miss Sheldon, her daughter? And now we mustn't keep you an instant."
Nelson Whitney had long ago discarded the enveloping newspaper and was on his feet, standing in the shadow of the alcove, with eyes only for the white-faced girl. When the others stepped before her and hid his vision, he came forward into the light, forgetting that he did not intend to reveal his identity just now, forgetting everything but that the beloved eyes were filled with sudden awful comprehension, and agony, the beloved lips were trembling visibly, and his darling looked like a white lily stricken and about to fall.
Sudden revelation had made him, too, wise as to the situation; for when Mr. Ralph Oliver turned to hand Mrs. Dunlap the endorsed check, the light from the windows fell full upon his ashen face, and Whitney recognized him at once as Rufus Keller, and the whole dastardly truth burst upon him. For an instant his desire to take the scoundrel by the collar and thrash him, or fling him from the room almost overcame him, as he took another step forward; and then suddenly a new element entered the scene in the appearance of the two girls and their mother from the inner office!
A wave of utter fear that passed over the face of Oliver, gave Whitney quick comprehension once more, and he saw suddenly what sorrow it would mean to these other innocent ones, as well as to his dear girl, if further revelations were made at that moment. Not for a second would he have hesitated for the sake of the villain, for he deserved every inch of punishment that was coming to him; but even in this crisis, it came to Nelson Whitney like a flash that there was one who had said, "Vengeance is Mine!"
Who was he to judge this cringing soul, and bring sorrow to these trusting other ones? Therefore he stopped where he stood, just behind the man who had done his best to shatter the joy of at least four lives, and waited. He was not even aware that he had come out of his hiding, or that his presence would presently need explanation. He just stood there as if he had been called to place by some higher power than himself, ready for the moment when he would be needed.
Oliver was a clever man, a cunning actor, else he could not so long have deceived those who loved him. He was quick to clutch again at the slender rope thrown out to him. With a suave distant manner, not too gracious, he acknowledged the introduction, standing where he was, and giving them but a polite lifting of the eyelids that swept them both in a cold distant glance:
"I believe we have met before—Winfield, was it? Or one of those little towns out that way? I am traveling so much and meeting so many—"
Nelson Whitney marveled at the colossal assurance that could speak such words so coolly, and then his attention was suddenly drawn to Mrs. Sheldon. She had drawn her sweet patrician dignity up about her as a garment, and seemed to stand fully two inches taller than her usual height, as she looked straight into the eyes of the man who had tried to deceive her only daughter. There was an instant's pause, as if her eyes could say to him all that her lips had been forbidden for the sake of others to do, and then her voice broke into clear contempt as she said:
"And our friend Mr. Whitney, Nelson Whitney of Wellsburgh! I think you have met him also, Mr.—Oliver?"
It was a masterly stroke, and conveyed to the wretched man all that a woman of Mrs. Sheldon's birth and breeding could never have said in words.
Oliver wheeled and faced Whitney, a look of genuine fright in his eyes. Just a flash, and then he turned quickly back and waved toward the three who were advancing eagerly from the office door:
"Here comes my wife now, and my daughters. I knew they would be delighted to see you. Mrs. Dunlap, will you do the honors and excuse me just a moment? There is a telegram I must send at once!" he glanced at his watch. "I had forgotten it."
He turned furtively, and Nelson Whitney was reminded of his dog at home who when he was reproved was in the habit of stealing from the room, half crouched, his tail between his legs, and stealthily looking back as he slithered out of the room.
So Ralph Oliver slunk from the room into his inner office, and locked the door. The keen ears of Mrs. Dunlap heard the grate of the key.
Yet before he had fairly turned away from them, the room was thrilled with a clear voice:
"We really ought all to go at once. Nelson and I have been planning to see Grant's Tomb and the Museum. Will you take me there now, Nelson?"
It was Marguerite, the old sweet challenge of her friendly voice startling him into life once more. It was more than an appeal. It was as if she went back ten years to their childhood days when they had planned to see all the wonders of the world together. It had been a long time since she had appealed to him for anything, and his heart leaped high with joy. Take her to the Museum? Yes, take her to the world's end if she chose!
He took two good steps and was beside her, drawing her arm within his, and so together they acknowledged the introduction to a scoundrel's lovely wife and daughters, with which Mrs. Dunlap noisily and skillfully covered the retreat of the enemy, the victory completely in her own hands. There was even a lilt in her voice as she told Mrs. Oliver what a dear woman Mrs. Sheldon was; although her heart was aching with mother love as she saw the brave white anguish which the victim was showing as she held up her head and stood her ground, her knees were shaking under her.
Mrs. Sheldon took the hand of the other mother, and said with a warmth of feeling strangely keen for a mere acquaintance.
"I have wanted to meet you. I have heard such beautiful things about you, and now I see that they are all justified."
Nelson Whitney saw that the little gloved hand on his arm was fluttering as if in ague, and tenderly he laid a strong hand possessively over it, and took the burden of the conversation as the introduction came their way, leaving nothing for his dear girl to do but try to smile.
That she did it bravely and well, and that the strangers did not suspect her state of mind was shown by the comments of Gloria later, when, the telegrams all sent, the letters dictated, and the checks signed, they started in the new car on their delayed holiday, several hours late by the new watch flashing on Mrs. Oliver's beautiful wrist.
"Wasn't that girl perfectly darling!" she said to her sister. "She has a face like Muth's cameo pin, and the way she looked at her sweetheart was just too dear!"
"How do you know he was her sweetheart? She may have a dozen others," said the wiser Katharine.
"No, I'm positive. Didn't you see how he put his hand over hers right there in the office before us? And she let him. She isn't the kind of girl that lets a man do things like that unless she's engaged to him. My! But his eyes were handsome. He looked down at her as if he just could eat her. Well, I don't blame him. She is sweet. She's precious! I wish she lived where we could know her. I've got a crush on her myself, and I think he's a humdinger. I'd like to be bridesmaid at the wedding!"