"Well, what else could I do? And I didn't harm anybody, did I? I didn't say anything about myself that wasn't true. All I did was to use some good names. And not one of them would ever have known if you hadn't called that woman up on the telephone. They were all customers of the place where I worked. I knew their names and addresses. I couldn't go and ask them to give me references, could I? I couldn't even do that with the one I'd spoken to. So I gotsome stationery and wrote myself references—that's all."
Mary pondered the confession.
"If it had only been one reference," she began, "but you had five or six."
"I only intended to write one," declared Nell. "But what was the use of being a piker, I thought. So—well I plunged."
"Yes; you plunged," agreed Mary. "And now look at the fix I'm in."
"But you've got a wonderful place!"
Mary smiled bitterly.
"Oh, yes; it's wonderful enough. I'm not only holding it under a false name, but now it turns out that even the references were false. And"—she looked sharply at Nell as something else occurred to her—"perhaps it doesn't end even there. Tell me—is your name really Nell Norcross?"
"Why, Mary Wayne! Of course it is!"
"Well, how could I be sure. I'm false; the references are false. Why couldn't your name be false, too? That would be the finishing touch; that would leave me—nowhere. And I'm just about there, as it is."
"But IamNell Norcross, I tell you. I can prove that."
"Oh, I suppose so," said Mary, wearily. "So am I Nell Norcross, according to the references. If you've committed a crime, I suppose I have, too. They call it compounding it, don't they? Oh, we're both in; I dare say I'm in deeper than you, because I've been taking money for it."
"You haven't cheated them, have you? You've worked for it."
"Yes, I've worked. But—why, in Heaven'sname, Nell, didn't you tell me all this before I started?"
"I was too sick."
"You weren't too sick to give me the references and send me off to take the job."
"But I was too sick not to have you take it," said Nell. "One of us had to go to work. And if I'd told you, you wouldn't have done it."
"That's true enough," assented Mary. "I wouldn't have dared. It took all the nerve I had, as it was. But now what am I going to do?"
"Why, you'll go right on sticking to your job, of course."
"And keep on being a liar, and a hypocrite, and a falsifier, and maybe some kind of a forger—— Why, I believe I am a forger! I signed your name to some kind of a bail bond!"
"Oh, well; you told me the case was settled, Mary. So you don't have to worry about that."
"I can worry about my conscience if I like," declared Mary, resentfully.
"Yes; but you can't eat your conscience, or buy clothes with it, or hire a room—or anything."
Mary stared down at the floor for a while.
"I suppose I've got to keep on taking care of you until you're well," she remarked.
Nell winced.
"I—I hate to be a charity patient," she faltered. "I'll make it all up to you some time. But if you'll only keep on for the present——"
Mary reached forward impulsively and took her hands.
"I don't mean to suggest that," she said. "You're not a charity patient; you got my job for me. Of course I'll look out for you, Nell. I'll see it throughsomehow, as long as it's necessary. There; don't worry, dear. I'm not angry. I'm just staggered."
Nell leaned forward and kissed her.
"You're a darling!" she said. "And just as soon as I'm strong I'll get a job for myself."
Mary looked at her thoughtfully.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose you might write yourself some more references."
"Mary Wayne!"
Mary Wayne was in weak, human fear. The confession of Nell Norcross had not merely served to revive half-forgotten apprehensions, but had overwhelmed her with new ones. She wanted to quit. She did not dare. For where could she get another place, and who would take care of Nell? Circumstances were driving her toward a life of perpetual charlatanism, it seemed, but for the present she could not even struggle against them.
Mary was neither a prude nor a Puritan, so it may as well be said that what troubled her most was not the practice of deception. It was the fear of discovery. She now lived with an explosive mine under her feet. At any instant Aunt Caroline, for all her innocence and abiding faith, might inadvertently make the contact. Then—catastrophe! Even that queer valet might make a discovery; she was by no means certain that he was without suspicion. Bill Marshall himself might blunder into a revelation; but Mary feared him least of all. She did not regard him as too dull to make a discovery, but she had a feeling that if he made it he would in some manner safely remove her from the arena of disturbance before the explosion occurred.
All the way back to the Marshall house she was seized with fits of trembling. The trembling angered her, but she was unable to control it. Suppose Aunt Caroline had taken it into her head to seek a personaltalk with Mrs. Rokeby-Jones! Or, even if matters had not gone that far, what would she say when Aunt Caroline asked for the result of Mary's interview?
"The city of New York is not large enough for Mrs. Rokeby-Jones and me," declared Mary. "I feel it in my bones. One of us must go. Which?"
She had reached a decision when the butler opened the front door and informed her that Mr. William would like to see her. He was the very person that Mary wanted to see. She found him in the office.
"Say, what's this I hear about a dinner?" demanded Bill.
"Has your aunt been speaking to you?"
"Uh, huh! I don't want any dinner. Good Lord, they'll ask me to make a speech!"
Mary smiled for the first time in hours.
"Of course," said Bill, uncomfortably, "I promised to do better and all that sort of thing, and I don't want to break my word. But a dinner—oh, gee!"
"I don't favor the dinner idea myself," said Mary.
"But it looks like Aunt Caroline was all set for it. What's the answer?"
Mary laid her gloves on the desk and removed her hat.
"It seems to me," she said, "that the thing to do is to go out of town for a while."
Bill looked at her with a hopeful expression.
"You see, Mr. Marshall, the town season is really over. Most of the worth-while people have left the city. It's summer. There will be nothing of importance in society before the fall; nothing that would interest you, at any rate. So I would advise doing exactly what the other people are doing."
Bill rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
"Trouble is, we haven't got a country house," hesaid. "We don't own a villa, or a camp or any of that fashionable stuff."
"I understand," said Mary. "But how about a yacht?"
"Don't even own a skiff."
"But we could hire one, couldn't we?"
Mary had unconsciously adopted the "we."
Bill regarded her with sudden interest. He stopped rubbing his nose, which was always one of his signs of indecision.
"Say, where did you get that idea?" he demanded.
"Why, it's a perfectly obvious one to arrive at, considering the season of the year."
"Have you spoken to my aunt about it?"
"Not yet. I wanted to consult you first, of course."
Bill liked that. It was another way of saying that she was stillhissecretary.
"You've got a whole beanful of ideas, haven't you?" he exclaimed, in admiration. "Well, I'm for this one, strong!"
Mary breathed a little more deeply. It seemed as if she had already removed herself a step further from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones and other perils of the city.
"I'm glad you like it," she said.
"Like it! Why, man alive—I mean little girl—well, anyhow, it's just the stunt we're going to pull off."
"It's not really a stunt," Mary reminded him. "It's not original at all. We do it simply because it is the right thing to do. Everybody of any account has a yacht, and now is the time for yachting."
"Now, don't you go crabbing your own stuff," said Bill. "This thing is a great invention, Secretary Norcross, and you get all the credit. I wouldn't have thought of it in a billion years. Now, what's youridea about this yacht? Do we want a little one or a whale? Where do we go? When? And who's going along?"
"Well, I don't know much about yachts," confessed Mary. "But it seems to me that a medium-sized one would do. We're not going across the ocean, you know."
"We might," declared Bill, hopefully—"we might start that trip around the world. I'm supposed to be on my way to Australia, you know, studying crustaceans."
Mary laughed.
"Do we cart a gang along?"
Mary had a vision of a tin ear. She shook her head.
"I see no occasion for a large party, Mr. Marshall. We might ask one or two besides the family; the bishop, for instance."
"Now you're joshing me. Into what part of the world do we sail this yacht, if you don't happen to be under sealed orders."
He was traveling somewhat rapidly, Mary thought; and she was right. Bill was already cleaving the high seas, perched on his own quarter-deck and inhaling stupendous quantities of salty air.
"I think we'd better obtain your aunt's approval before we plot out a cruise," she advised. "Also, there's the problem of getting a yacht."
"We'll get one if we steal it," Bill assured her. "I'll talk to Pete about it. He's amphibious. He's a sort of nautical valet. He knows all about yachts."
"I dare say. He seems to have a wide range of information. Suppose you consult him, while I speak to your aunt."
A frown clouded Bill's face.
"Do you suppose Aunt Caroline will want to go?" he asked.
"Want to? Why, she must."
"I don't see why. I don't believe she'd enjoy it a bit. We can have a barrel of fun if Aunt Caroline doesn't go. Let's leave her home."
Mary shook her head decisively.
"That's out of the question. Of course she'll go.
"But, listen; I don't need any chaperon."
"Well, perhaps I do," said Mary.
"Oh!" Bill was still scowling. "Why couldn't we let Pete be the chaperon?"
Mary squashed that suggestion with a glance.
"Then don't blame me if she turns out to be a bum sailor," he warned.
"I think I'll speak to her now," said Mary.
Aunt Caroline was frankly surprised. It had never occurred to her that there were times when society went to sea. Yet, to Mary's great relief, she did not prove to be an antagonist. She merely wanted to be shown that this cruise would actually be in furtherance of Bill's career.
"Of course it will," urged Mary. "It's the very thing. We'll take the regular summer society cruise."
"And what is that, my dear?"
Mary bit her lip. She did not have the least idea.
"Oh, I suppose we'll stop at Newport, Narragansett, Bar Harbor, and such places," she said, dismissing the details with a wave of her hand. "We'll make all the regular society ports—that is, of course, if you approve the idea, Miss Marshall."
Aunt Caroline smiled.
"Certainly I approve it, my dear. Although I admitit perplexes me. What sort of yachting flannels does an old lady wear?"
"Oh, they dress exactly like the young ones," said Mary, hastily.
"Which reminds me that we'll both need gowns. So, please order whatever you want."
"You're awfully generous with me," and Mary laid an impulsive hand on Aunt Caroline's. She felt very small and mean and unworthy.
"I want you to be a credit to the family, my dear. So far, you're doing beautifully! Have you spoken to William about buying the yacht?"
"Oh, we don't have to buy one! We just hire one—charter it, I think they say."
"It sounds like hiring clothes," said Aunt Caroline. "Still, I leave it all to you and William. But if it's necessary, buy one. And please get it as large as possible. We wouldn't want to be seasick, you know."
"We'll only sail where it's nice and calm," Mary assured her.
"And where there are the proper sort of people. Very well, my dear. And, oh, I've just remembered: have you done anything yet about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?"
That lady had passed completely out of Mary's head.
"Why—er—you see, this other matter came up, Miss Marshall, so I haven't done anything about her as yet."
"Never mind the dinner, then," said Aunt Caroline.
"I'm afraid we wouldn't have time for it," agreed Mary.
"Probably not, my dear. We'll do better. We'll invite her to sail with us on our yacht."
Mary groped her way out of the room.
The business of fleeing the city went surprisingly well, notwithstanding Aunt Caroline's obsession on thesubject of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. Bill consulted Pete Stearns, who numbered among his friends a marine architect. The marine architect believed that he knew the very boat they needed. She was not a steam-yacht; most of the steam-yachts, he pointed out, were too large for a small party and a lot of them were obsolete. What they wanted was a big cruiser with Diesel engines, that ran smoothly, noiselessly and never smokily.
So through the offices of the marine architect, who made a nice commission, of which he said nothing at all, Bill Marshall became charterer of the yachtSunshine, an able yet luxurious craft, measuring some one hundred and twenty feet on the water-line, capable of all the speed that was required in the seven seas of society and sufficiently commodious in saloon and stateroom accommodations.
Mary Wayne was delighted. Any craft that would sail her away from New York City would have been a marine palace, in her eyes. She would have embarked on a railroad car-float, if necessary. There was a vast amount of shopping to be done, which also pleased Mary. Aunt Caroline insisted upon being absurdly liberal; she was in constant apprehension that the ladies of the party would not be properly arrayed for a nautical campaign. So Mary presently found herself the possessor of more summer gowns than she had ever dreamed of.
Even when it came to the business of seeing that Bill Marshall was adequately tailored for the sea Aunt Caroline proved prolific in ideas. Somehow, she acquired the notion that Bill would need a uniform; she pictured him standing on the bridge, with a spy-glass under his arm, or perhaps half-way up the shrouds,gazing out upon the far horizon; although there were no shrouds on theSunshine, inasmuch as there were no masts. But Aunt Caroline did not know that. To her, Bill would not merely be the proprietor and chief passenger of this argosy, but the captain, as well.
Mary saved Bill from the uniform. She did it tactfully but firmly, after explaining to Aunt Caroline that only the hired persons on board would wear uniforms. Nevertheless, Aunt Caroline insisted on such a plethoric wardrobe for her nephew that for a time she even considered the advisability of an assistant valet. Pete fell in with that idea instantly, but again there was a veto from Mary. One valet was trouble enough, as she well knew.
When it came to the matter of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones, however, Mary was hard put for a suitable defense. Aunt Caroline mentioned the lady several times; she hoped that the negotiations were progressing favorably; in fact, she at last reached the point where she decided upon two additional evening gowns for herself, because she was certain that Mrs. Rokeby-Jones would come arrayed like the Queen of Sheba. Poor Aunt Caroline did not know that the Queen of Sheba, in these times, would look like a shoddy piker beside even the humblest manicure in New York.
Mary had consulted Bill about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. She could not explain as fully as she would have liked just why it was impossible for her to transmit Aunt Caroline's invitation; but she did not need to. Bill was flatly against his aunt's scheme. He declared that he would back Mary to the uttermost limit of opposition.
"But opposition is exactly what we must avoid," said Mary. "We mustn't antagonize—and yet wemust stop it. Oh, dear! It seems a shame for me to be plotting this way against your aunt; she's been so wonderful to me. But there's no way to make her see that a perfect stranger is hardly likely to accept an invitation to a yachting party. Of course, your aunt is relying on the Marshall name." Bill nodded.
"And names don't get you anywhere; except, perhaps, in society. I knew a youngster who called himself Young John L. He kept at it for quite a while, but the only thing he was ever any good at was lying on his back in the middle of the ring and listening to a man count ten. That's all his name ever got him."
"But to get back to Mrs. Rokeby-Jones," said Mary, with a slight frown. "We've got to appear to want her, but we mustn't have her."
"We won't; don't you worry. We'll count her out or claim a foul. We'll leave her on the string-piece, if it comes to the worst."
"It isn't quite so simple as that, Mr. Marshall. Do you know what your aunt did to-day? She wrote her a note—personally."
"I know it," said Bill.
"She told you?"
"No; but here's the note."
He delved into a pocket and produced an envelope. Mary's eyes became round.
"Why, how in the world——"
"You see, the letters were given to Pete, to put stamps on and mail. And—well, he thought I might be interested in this one."
"But—that's a crime, isn't it?"
"Why do you have such unpleasant thoughts, Secretary Norcross? Pete says it's no crime at all; notunless it's been dropped in a letter-box. But if you feel finicky about it, why here's the letter. Mail it."
Mary shook her head.
"I'd be afraid to touch it."
"Thought so," said Bill, as he returned the letter to his pocket. "I'll hold it for a while."
"If the boat was only sailing now!" exclaimed Mary.
"That's a good suggestion. I'll hold it till we sail."
"Why, I never suggested anything of the kind, Mr. Marshall."
She made a very fair show of indignation, but Bill simply winked at her. Mary turned away for fear of betraying herself. Nevertheless, she knew that it was all very discreditable and she was not in the least proud of herself. It was a comfort, though, to have somebody else sharing the guilt.
The day came for the sailing of Aunt Caroline's armada. TheSunshinelay at anchor in the Hudson. From early morning a launch had been making steady trips from wharf to yacht, carrying trunks, boxes, grips, hampers, and packages. A superficial observer would have been justified in assuming that theSunshinewas documented for the Philippines, or some equally distant haven. All of Aunt Caroline's new gowns, all of Mary's, all of Bill's wardrobe, all of Pete's, and many other things that might prove of service in an emergency went aboard theSunshine.
At the last moment there was great difficulty in persuading Aunt Caroline to leave the house. There had been no word from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones, and the good lady who was determined to be her hostess insisted that she would not depart without her. Bill fumed; Mary twisted her handkerchief. Aunt Caroline was displaying stubborn symptoms.
"Madam, I telephoned myself, only half an hour ago," said Pete. "She was not at home."
"She's probably on her way to the yacht," said Bill, with a glance at Mary.
"We'll wait a while and telephone again," announced Aunt Caroline.
"But if she's on her way," said Mary, "wouldn't it be better for you to be there to receive her?"
Aunt Caroline hesitated. It was Pete who saved the day.
"If I may make bold to suggest, Miss Marshall, you could go to the yacht at once. If Mrs. Rokeby-Jones has not arrived you could then telephone from the boat."
Mary turned away and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth. Bill went out into the hall to see if the taxis had arrived.
"Peter," said Aunt Caroline, "that's a most sensible suggestion. I never thought of the telephone on board."
If Aunt Caroline had been bred to the sea, and familiar with its customs that have practically crystallized into an unwritten law, she would have written in her log:
Aboard the yachtSunshine—Latitude, 40° 43' North; Longitude, 74° 0' West. Weather, clear; wind, SSW., moderate; sea, smooth. Barometer, 29.6.
Aboard the yachtSunshine—Latitude, 40° 43' North; Longitude, 74° 0' West. Weather, clear; wind, SSW., moderate; sea, smooth. Barometer, 29.6.
But not being a seafaring lady, she phrased it in this way in the course of a remark to her nephew:
"William, isn't it lovely to be sitting here aboard our own yacht in the Hudson, and isn't the weather superb?"
TheSunshinestill lay at her anchorage, with every prospect auspicious, except for the fact that nothing had been heard from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. The sun had set somewhere in New Jersey and the lights of New York were shining in its stead. There was a soft coolness in the air, so that Aunt Caroline found comfort in a light wrap.
Bill had decided that they would not sail until later in the evening. This was not because of Aunt Caroline's anxiety concerning the missing guest, but for the reason that he had an errand ashore which he had been unable to discharge during the busy hours of the day. It was an errand he could trust to nobody, not even to Pete Stearns. In fact, he did not consider it wisdom to take Pete into his confidence.
Aunt Caroline had, indeed, discovered a telephone aboard theSunshine. It was in the owner's stateroom, which had been set apart for her because it was the most commodious of all the sleeping apartments. Three times she had talked into this telephone, on each occasion giving the correct number of the Rokeby-Jones house, of which she had made a memorandum before leaving shore. But each time she was answered by the voice of a man, always the same voice. The second time he laughed and the third time he hung up with a bang! So Aunt Caroline, after vainly trying to lodge a complaint with "Information," made a personal investigation and discovered that the other end of the telephone system was in the cabin of the sailing-master.
She made an instant complaint to Bill, and Bill referred her to Pete. The latter explained it very easily.
"You see, madam, through a mistake the telephone company was notified that we were sailing several hours ago, so they sent a man out in a boat to disconnect the shore wire. I'm very sorry, madam."
Aunt Caroline accepted the explanation, as she had come to accept anything from Pete Stearns, although it did nothing to allay her anxiety as to Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
Dinner had been over for more than an hour and darkness had settled upon the river when Bill Marshall announced that he was going ashore. He said that it was expressly for the purpose of pursuing Aunt Caroline's thwarted telephone inquiry and that he would not come back until he had definite news. His aunt thanked him for his thoughtfulness, settled herself for a nap in a deck-chair and Bill ordered the launch.
He was about to embark upon his errand when it occurred to him that perhaps his secretary would also like to go ashore. Bill had it in the back of his head that there might be time to pay a short visit to a roof-garden or seek some sequestered place for a chat. He had been trying for some time to have a confidential chat with Mary Wayne, but she had an annoying way of discovering other and prior engagements.
"You mean the young lady, sir?" said the second officer. "She went ashore an hour ago, sir. I sent her across in the launch."
Bill became thoughtful. Why hadn't she mentioned the matter to him? And who was the boss of this yacht, anyhow? Could people order up the launch just as if they owned it?
He made a search for Pete Stearns and could not find him. Again he spoke to the second officer.
"Oh, the young man, sir? Why, he went ashore at the same time. I believe I heard him say that he had a few purchases to make."
Bill gritted his teeth. Here was a piece of presumption that no owner could tolerate. They had gone away together, of course; they had been very careful not to say a word to him. What for? What sort of an affair was in progress between his valet and his secretary? The more he thought about it the higher rose his temper.
"I'm going ashore myself," he said shortly. "Please hurry the launch."
Ten minutes later he was hunting for a taxi along the Manhattan waterfront, deeply disturbed in mind and with a fixed resolution to demand explanations.
But the suspicions of Bill Marshall did injustice at least to one of the missing persons. Mary Waynehad gone ashore on a purely private mission, and she was not only surprised, but annoyed when her employer's valet also stepped into the launch.
"If you don't mind, miss," said Pete, apologetically, as the launch was headed for the wharf, "I have some purchases to make for Mr. William."
Mary answered, of course, that she did not mind, and after that she kept her thoughts to herself. Where the wharf entrance opened on Twelfth Avenue, Pete lifted his hat respectfully, bid her good evening, and went off in an opposite direction.
But he did not go far; merely far enough to conceal himself in a shadow from which he could watch without fear of discovery. Mary was without suspicion; she walked briskly eastward, glad to be so easily rid of her fellow passenger. When he had permitted her to assume a safe lead, Pete stepped out of his shadow and followed.
It was fortunate that there were two taxis at the stand which Mary discovered after a journey of several blocks through lonely streets; that is, Pete considered it was fortunate. He took the second one, giving the driver the order and promise of reward that are usual in such affairs. This nocturnal excursion on the part of Mary Wayne had piqued his curiosity. He knew that she had not spoken to Bill Marshall about it; he doubted if she had said anything to Aunt Caroline. The clandestine character of Mary's shore visit impressed him as warranting complete investigation.
The two taxis had not been in motion for many minutes when Pete became convinced that he could name Mary's destination almost beyond a question. They were headed down-town, with occasional jogstoward the East Side. So certain was Pete of his conclusion and so anxious was he, purely for reasons of self-gratification, to prove the accuracy of his powers of deduction, that he halted his taxi, paid off the driver and set off at a leisurely walk, quite content in mind as he watched the vehicle that contained Mary Wayne disappear from view.
Twenty minutes later Pete found himself vindicated. In front of the boarding-house where Nell Norcross roomed stood a taxi. Sitting on the top step of the porch were two figures. As he strolled slowly by on the opposite side of the street he had no difficulty in recognizing Mary Wayne's smart little yachting suit of white linen. Of course, there was no doubt as to the identity of the second person, even though the street lights were dim and there was no lamp-post within a hundred feet of the boarding-house. Pete walked as far as the corner and posted himself.
The conversation between Mary and Nell proceeded in low tones.
"We shall be in Larchmont to-morrow," Mary was saying. "I'll try to send you a note from there. After that I'll keep you informed as well as I can concerning the rest of the trip, so you can reach me, if it's necessary. We are not traveling on any fixed time-table."
"I'll feel dreadfully lonely, Mary."
"I'd have brought you if I could, Nell; but there wasn't any legitimate excuse. And besides, I don't think you're strong enough to attempt it."
"If there was only somebody staying behind that I knew," Nell sighed. "I'll be so helpless."
"Nonsense. Besides, who would stay behind?"
Nell did not answer, but if Pete Stearns could have read a fleeting thought from his point of observationon the street corner his waistcoat buttons would doubtless have gone flying. Mary Wayne, however, read the thought.
"You don't mean that valet who brought you home from the party?" she demanded suddenly.
"Oh, I didn't mean anybody particularly," answered Nell, guiltily. "But of course even he would be better than nobody."
"Nell Norcross, don't let that young man get into your head. There's something mysterious about him. He may be only a valet, but I'm not certain. I'm suspicious of him. He has a habit of forgetting himself."
"I know," assented Nell, nodding.
"Oh, you do, do you? I might have guessed it. Take my advice and give him a wide berth."
Nell regarded her friend with a look of speculative anxiety.
"Of course, Mary, I don't want to interfere with you in any way. But——"
"Interfere with me?" exclaimed Mary sharply. "Do you think I am interested in valets?"
"But you thought he might be something else. At least, you hinted it. He's a divinity student, isn't he?"
"Divinity!" Mary summoned all her scorn in that word. "Oh, very likely. But what sort of a divinity is he studying? Perhaps you're a candidate for the place."
"Mary Wayne, you're mean! I think that's a nasty remark."
"Oh, well; I didn't mean it. But you'd better take my advice, just the same. I've seen much more of him than you have."
Nell sighed again.
"Now, my dear, I must be going back. They'll besending out a general alarm for me, I suppose. I didn't ask anybody's permission to come, you see."
"There isn't much doubt Mr. Marshall will be alarmed," remarked Nell, who was not above seeking a legitimate revenge.
"You're in a rather silly mood this evening," said Mary. "Well, good-by. I'll send you some more money as soon as I'm paid again."
Nell looked gratefully at a small roll of bills that lay in her hand.
"You're awfully good to me," she murmured. "Good-by. And if you see——"
But Mary ran down the steps, popped into the taxi and was driven off.
Pete Stearns aroused himself, crossed the street, and walked briskly in the direction of the boarding-house. He arrived in time to intercept Nell, who had risen to go in. She sat down again in sheer surprise, and Pete seated himself without invitation on the step below.
"It's a fine night, isn't it?" he said. "Now what's your real name?"
Nell gasped and could only stare.
"Is it Wayne?" he demanded.
"Of—of course, it is!"
"I just wanted to see if I'd forgotten. Sometimes my memory walks out on me. Amnesia, you know. It's lucky I never suffered from aphasia. A bishop with aphasia wouldn't be able to hold his job. Let's talk about the bishops."
And he did, for ten solid minutes, until Nell began seriously to wonder if he was in his right mind. Suddenly he dropped the subject.
"You said your name was Wayne, didn't you?"
"Why in the world do you keep asking that?" she parried.
"It's the amnesia. Excuse it, please. Now let's talk about ourselves."
Eventually he said good night; he would be delaying the yacht, he explained. But he promised to write, which was something that had not even been hinted at during the conversation. He also shook hands with her, begged her to have faith in him, urged her to believe nothing she might hear, reaffirmed his purpose to become a bishop and perhaps even an archbishop, told her that she inspired him to great things, as witness—a kiss that landed on the end of her nose. Then he ran.
Nell Norcross was still sitting on the top step half an hour later, trying to muster sufficient confidence for the climb up-stairs.
At about the same time Bill Marshall was taking leave of a friend in the back room of a hostelry that had descended to the evil fortunes of selling near-beer.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to be there, Kid," he said, "but go to it and don't worry about any cops butting in to bust up the game."
"I'll run it strictly Q. T., Bill. Doncha worry about nothin'."
"I won't. But I owe you that much for the way they chucked you out of the house the other night."
"'Sall right, 'sall right," said Kid Whaley with a generous wave of his hand. "They didn't hurt me none."
Bill handed him something, and the Kid pocketed it with a wink.
"I'd like to take you with me, Kid; but you understand."
"Aw, sure. Sure—I'm wise. I ain't strong for yachtin', anyhow. That's why I blew me roll in a buzz-wagon. Well, s'long, Bill. This here little scrap's goin' t' be a bird. I'll tell y' all about it."
When Mary Wayne arrived at the wharf there was no sign of the launch. She remembered that she had said nothing about the time of her return. Out in the river she could see the riding lights of theSunshineand the glow from the saloon windows. But she had not the least idea of how to make a signal, nor any notion that they would understand a signal. The wharf was lonely. It seemed to her, as she seated herself on the string-piece, that she was as remote from civilization as though she were sitting at the north pole, although she knew there were seven or eight million people within a radius of a few miles. There was nothing to do but wait, even if it was a creepy place for waiting.
She had been sitting there for what seemed like half the night when a sound of footsteps startled her. Out of the murk a figure was approaching. An instant later, to her relief, she perceived it to be the valet.
He bowed in his mock deferential way and seated himself beside her.
"No launch?" he inquired.
"I forgot to speak to them."
"So did I. Well, the yacht's there, anyhow, miss. They won't leave without us. Is Miss Wayne better?"
Mary experienced a shock. She leaned closer toward him and stared through the gloom.
"You followed me!" she exclaimed.
"I'd hardly say that, miss. You see, I was quite certain where you were going."
She had an impulse to sweep him off into the water.
"I shall speak to Mr. Marshall about this," she saidhotly. "I do not propose to be spied upon by a servant."
Pete made a gesture of deprecation.
"Why be nasty, miss? Let's talk about something pleasanter. You know, if we both started telling all we knew there might be a great deal of embarrassment."
"Just what do you mean by that?" she demanded.
"I leave it to your imagination," he said cryptically.
"I can tell things myself," she said savagely.
"Exactly, miss. So why shouldn't we be friends? Why can't we establish a real democracy? I won't always be a valet; some day I'll be a bishop."
"I believe you're nothing but a fraud!"
"Well, now," observed Pete in a mild tone, "I might remark, on the other hand—but I think the master is coming."
Mary jumped to her feet with a sense of confusion. There was no doubt that the large figure emerging out of the darkness was that of Bill Marshall. How was she to explain the valet?
"Oh, hello!" said Bill as he identified her. "Waiting here all alone, eh? Well, that's a darn shame. Hasn't the launch—oh!" He discovered the presence of Pete Stearns. "Didn't know you had company," he added, his tone altering. "Beg your pardon."
"I—I haven't," said Mary, defiantly.
"I'll see if there's any sign of the launch." Bill walked to the end of the wharf, where he stood staring at the river, raging with and almost bursting with questions that he scorned to ask.
"Why didn't you explain to him?" snapped Mary, whirling upon Pete.
"I pass the question back to you, miss." And Petelighted a cigarette, the glow of the match illuminating for an instant a pair of eyes that were regarding her with unveiled amusement.
When the launch came, after an uncomfortably long interval, Bill helped her into it, with cold courtesy. The valet scrambled aboard and took himself off to the bow. All the way to theSunshinethe three sat in silence—Bill smoldering with anger and curiosity, Mary humiliated and resentful, Pete content because they were as they were.
The social secretary hastened to her stateroom as soon as she stepped aboard; she did not pause to speak to Aunt Caroline, who was dozing in her chair. Pete disappeared with like alacrity. It remained for Bill to arouse his aunt and suggest that it was time for her to retire.
"But Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" asked Aunt Caroline.
"Had her on the wire; she can't come," said Bill. "Says she wrote a note, but it must have gone astray. Very sorry and all that sort of thing."
Aunt Caroline sighed.
"At any rate, I have done my duty, William. When do we sail?"
"Soon."
Bill went forward to give an order to the sailing-master.
Larchmont Harbor!
It was fair even to the eyes of Bill Marshall, as he stood under the after awning of theSunshine, staring out over the shining water, as yet untouched by so much as a breath of breeze. He was in no pleasant mood this morning, but he could not deny the serene, luxurious charm of the harbor. At another time it might have awakened the spirit of the muse within him; Pete always insisted that far under the surface Bill was a poet. But now its influence was not quite so potent as that; it merely laid a restraining spell upon him, soothing him, mollifying him, yet not lifting him to the heights.
There were many yachts at anchor, with club ensigns and owners' flags drooping limp in the sluggish air. Bill watched them for signs of life, but it was still an early hour for Larchmont. Occasionally he saw a hand scrubbing a deck or polishing a brass, but he discovered no person who resembled an owner or a guest. A warm mist had thinned sufficiently to show the rocky shore, and beyond it, partly sequestered among the trees, the summer homes and cottages of persons who still slept in innocence of the designs of Aunt Caroline. The harbor was not even half awake; it was yet heavy with the unspent drowsiness of a summer night.
Bill was on deck early because he had slept badly.The affair of Mary Wayne and Pete Stearns, as he interpreted it, rankled. The yacht had been clear of Hell Gate before he went to his stateroom, and even then it was a long time before he closed his eyes. The fact that Bill was jealous he did not himself attempt to blink; he admitted it.
"He's not a valet, of course," Bill was muttering, as he continued to watch the harbor. "But she doesn't know that. Why does she have to pick a valet? And if she wanted to go ashore with him, why didn't she say so, instead of sneaking off? I wish I'd stayed home. Damned if I'll go into society, either by way of the steamboat route or any other way."
A steward brought breakfast and served it under the awning. Bill greeted it with his usual sound appetite; nothing ever seriously interfered with his breakfast.
"Good morning!"
He looked up from the omelette at Mary Wayne, who stood there all in white, fresh, clear-eyed, a part of the morning itself.
Bill arose and drew another chair to the table; he could do no less.
"Good morning," he said.
"Doesn't it make you just want to shout?" she exclaimed. "I was watching it from my stateroom window while I dressed. It's Larchmont, isn't it? I love it already."
Bill pushed the coffee pot toward her and rang for the steward.
"Yes; it's Larchmont," he said.
"Aren't you just glad all over that we came?"
"Not particularly."
Mary studied him more carefully.
"Oh," she said.
Bill continued to eat in silence. The steward brought another omelette and she helped herself sparingly.
"How long shall we stay here, do you think?" she ventured.
"What have I got to say about it?"
"I should think you'd have quite a lot to say. I would if I was in command of a yacht."
"Suppose you weren't sure who was in command?"
"I'd make sure," she answered promptly.
Bill glowered sullenly. The spell of the morning was loosening its grip.
"Well, aboard this yacht it appears that everybody does as he pleases," said Bill, helping himself to more coffee and ignoring her proffered assistance.
His mood pleased her. She would not, of course, show him that it did; but her innermost self accepted it as a tribute, no matter how ungraciously the tribute might be disguised.
"That's something new, isn't it?" she inquired. "At sea I always thought the captain was a czar. Have we a soviet, or something like that?"
"I'm not sure we have even that much. More coffee?"
"No, thank you."
He appeared determined to relapse into a silence, but Mary would not have it so. She had not been wholly tranquil when she came on deck; she was somewhat uncertain about the night before. But now everything suited her very well.
"Do you go ashore here?" she asked.
"Don't know."
"Will any of us be permitted to go ashore?"
"Why ask me?"
"Because you don't seem to want us to use the launch."
Bill gave her a measuring glance.
"Did I say so?"
"Not exactly; that is, not in so many words. But last night——"
"We won't talk about last night, if you don't mind."
She was becoming better pleased every minute. When she had retired the night before she made up her mind that it would be necessary to make a clear explanation concerning Peter, the valet. Now she knew that she would never explain.
"Well, if we're not permitted to go ashore here, do you think we can get permission at Newport?" she asked.
"Confound it! I didn't say you couldn't go ashore. You can go ashore any time you want. You can——"
Bill excused himself abruptly and walked forward. Mary beamed at his retreating back and poured another cup of coffee.
"He was going to say I could go to hell," she murmured. "Oh, lovely!"
Aunt Caroline had breakfast served in her stateroom and then sent for Mary. After a satisfactory conference, she dismissed Mary and sent for Bill.
"How soon are you going ashore, William?" she asked.
"I didn't know I was going."
"Why, of course. You have friends here. You can't leave Larchmont without calling. That's what we came for."
"Who are the friends, I'd like to know."
"Well, in the first place, I believe Bishop Wrangell is staying here—with the Williamsons. It will giveyou an opportunity to meet them; they're very desirable. And then the Kingsleys have a cottage here, or did, at any rate. You remember the little Kingsley girl at the party—the one in blue?"
Bill remembered. Only she was not the Kingsley girl; she was Arnold Gibbs's little girl.
"You must look them up, too. They'll probably have some people visiting them, too; the Kingsleys always did entertain, and they have a very good position. And Miss Norcross thinks it just possible that the Humes have opened their house. You've never met Mrs. Hume, but if you just mentioned that you're a Marshall, she'll be delighted to see you. She knew your mother."
Bill groaned.
"Talk to Miss Norcross about it," added Aunt Caroline. "She'll know exactly what you should do."
"Good Lord, Aunt Caroline! Don't you think I know how to behave without getting tips from Miss Norcross? You'll be wanting me to consult Peter next."
"And a very good idea it would be, William. I suggest it. And now see if you can find last night'sEvening Post; I haven't seen it yet. After that I think you'd better start."
Bill walked out like a surly child. He could not find theEvening Post, but he picked up a copy ofDevilish Stories, gave it to a maid and told her Aunt Caroline wanted it. Then he went on deck and ordered the launch.
He had no intention of calling on anybody. He might ring up Kid Whaley on the 'phone and see if everything was all set for that little affair. But what he wanted principally was a change of environment.
Mary saw him sulking at the rail as he waited for the launch to be brought around to the gangway. She smiled, bit her lip and approached.
"You're going ashore?"
"Uhuh."
"You have cards with you, I suppose? Your aunt's also?"
Bill faced her savagely.
"Stacks of cards," he barked. "Mine and my aunt's and my valet's and my secretary's and the steward's and everybody else's. And my shoes are clean and I've washed behind my ears and brushed my hair in the back. Anything else?"
"I don't think of a thing, unless you've forgotten a handkerchief," she said, sweetly.
The launch arrived and Bill boarded it. At the final moment it occurred to him that he had, perhaps, been ungracious.
"Want to come along?" he asked, looking up at the rail where Mary stood. He really hoped she would say yes.
Mary shook her head and smiled like the morning.
"I'm afraid I've too many things to do," she answered. "But thank you, just the same. You won't forget to call on Mrs. Hume, if she's here."
"I won't forget to take you by the neck and pitch you overboard," was what Bill had in his mind, but he did not give utterance to it. He merely scowled and turned his back.
Mary watched the launch as it headed for the yacht club landing and, when it had moved beyond any possibility of hearing, laughed outright.
"The poor man!" she said. "I'd better watch myself. Back in New York I felt as if I were living ina reign of hidden terror. Now the pendulum is at the other extreme and I feel as if I could do anything that pleased me. It's a time for caution, probably. But he is so funny!"
Bill was gone for several hours. He was late for lunch when the launch drew alongside theSunshine; in fact, everybody else had had lunch long ago. His visit ashore had not been satisfactory and was only prolonged because he felt that the shore, however strange and lonesome, was more congenial than the deck of his yacht.
He spied Aunt Caroline in an easy chair.
"Nobody home, Aunt Caroline!" he said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, William. Well, there's no hurry, of course; we can stay over indefinitely. Probably you'd better go back this afternoon."
Bill had no intention of going back. He had not visited a single house; he had done nothing beyond making several futile attempts to get a telephone connection with Kid Whaley.
He glanced about the deck and saw nobody but a couple of hands.
"Where's Miss Norcross?" he asked.
"She went swimming," said Aunt Caroline.
"Swimming!"
"Right off the yacht, William. Do you know that she's a very remarkable swimmer. I was completely astonished."
William went to the rail and surveyed the harbor. He saw no sign of a swimmer.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
"Oh, somewhere out there," said Aunt Caroline, with an easy gesture. "She's perfectly safe. Peter is with her."
"What!"
"They went swimming together. I wish you could have seen them, William. They were just like two children. They've been swimming all around among the yachts. Where they are now I haven't the least idea; but they'll be back."
Bill struck the rail savagely and once again glared out at the harbor. So this was the reason his secretary did not want to go ashore; she had an engagement to go swimming with his valet. But if Bill was disturbed, not so Aunt Caroline; she was once more absorbed in her magazine.
The boss of the yachtSunshinewalked forward, where he found the second officer superintending the cleaning of brasswork.
"Where's that swimming party of ours?" asked Bill, carelessly.
"Now, there's a question you might well ask, sir," said the second officer. "Where aren't they? Seems to me they've been all over the harbor, sir, as far as I can make out. Never saw anything like it."
"Is there any boat following them?"
"Boat, sir?" The second officer laughed. "I don't know what they'd be doing with a boat. The last time I saw them they looked as if they were fit to swim to Europe. And the young lady, sir!"
He made what was intended to be an eloquent gesture.
"What about the young lady?"
"A fish, sir; a fish, if ever one lived. First off they did a lot of playing around the yacht, sir. Climbing aboard and diving off again. I give you my word, sir, the whole crew was on deck watching. The young lady—well, she's a little thing, but she's nicely set up,sir. She'd think nothing of making a back dive off the end of the bridge. And the young gentleman was no ways behind her, sir. You'd think there was a couple of porpoises in the harbor."
Bill's soul was growing blacker and blacker.
"I've seen swimmers in my time, but never the beat of that pair, unless it was professionals," added the second officer, in a musing tone.
He glanced out at the water, then gestured quickly.
"Look, now! There they go."
Bill looked. There was a commotion in the water a hundred yards distant. Two heads were moving rapidly in parallel courses; one was conspicuous in a scarlet bathing cap. He could see a flashing of wet arms; the sound of a familiar laugh came to him. A race seemed to be in progress.
He ran up on the bridge for a better view and evidently the red cap sighted him, for there was an instant of slackened pace and the joyous wave of a white arm. And then she was again leaving a wake behind her as she sped in pursuit of the second swimmer. Bill gritted his teeth and watched. They were not returning to the yacht; rather, they were increasing their distance from it with every stroke. He stared until they passed from sight behind a big sloop that lay at anchor, and then the harbor seemed to swallow them. Evidently they were again exploring the yacht anchorage, which was crowded with craft.
Bill slowly returned to the deck.
"They've been at it over an hour," volunteered the second officer. "Get the lady to dive for you when they come back, sir. She'll surprise you, if I don't mistake."
Bill made no answer, but walked aft, where heplunged himself heavily into a wicker chair. Aunt Caroline had retired to her stateroom for a nap and he had the deck to himself.
"I'll not stand for it!" he muttered fiercely. "Last night they were sneaking off to town together and now they're making a holy show of themselves here. What does she think she can put over on me, anyhow? As for Pete Stearns, I'll drown him."
In fact, Bill for a time had been minded to get into his own bathing suit and pursue them, but his dignity intervened. No; if his secretary chose to run away with his valet, let her do so. What made it worse, she knew he was aboard; she had seen him; she had waved her arm at him. And then, deliberately, she had turned her back upon him.
After half an hour of glooming he went to the rail again and once more searched the harbor with his glance. He saw no flashing arms; no red cap.
"I won't stand much more of this," he said, grimly. "I'll show them where they get off."
He went to his stateroom and mixed a drink, and after that he mixed another. Presently he returned to the deck, this time with a pair of binoculars. The glasses showed him no more than he had been able to see without them. He fell to pacing, his hands clasped behind him, his glance directed at the canvas-covered deck beneath his feet. Napoleon could have done it no better; Lord Nelson would have been hard put to outdo him.
The afternoon was as fair as the morning, but Bill took no account of its glory. He was wholly absorbed in plumbing the gloomy depths of his mind.
"They think they're putting it over on me," he sneered. "All right. Let 'em see what happens."
Once again he swept the glasses in a circle of the harbor. No scarlet cap. He glanced at his watch.
"Well, I'm through. Time's up."
Slipping the glasses into their case, he strode forward and banged on the door of the sailing master's cabin. A sleepy-eyed officer answered the summons.
"We're going to pull out of here at once," said Bill.
"Everybody aboard, sir?"
"Everybody that's going."
"Very good, sir. Which way are we heading?"
"I'll tell you when we get outside the harbor. I'm in a hurry."
The sailing master ducked back into his cabin, shouted an order through a speaking tube that communicated with the engine-room and then ran forward along the deck. A minute later the winch was wheezing and the yachtSunshinewas bringing her mud-hook aboard.
Bill retired to his stateroom and poured another drink.