CHAPTER TWO
ALSTON CARUTH lived in the Chimneystack Building. When he returned to his apartments at midnight on the day of Gorloff’s visit to Professor Shishkin, he found Marie Fitzhugh, agent of the Brotherhood, awaiting him. She had risen at the sound of his key in the lock, and stood facing him, externally cool and self-possessed, but with apprehension shining in her soft dark eyes. Her fingers trembled as they rested on the edge of the table, and her color came and went. A close observer would have said that she was frightened half to death.
Caruth, however, was not a close observer; at least, not at that moment. Amazement showed in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and whipped the cigarette from his parting lips. His fresh young face, flushed from the gaiety of the evening, looked almost boyish in its confusion.
His obvious embarrassment seemed to restore the girl’s balance. “Mr. Caruth?” she inquired, with a slight movement of her head.
Caruth nodded. For the moment he was beyond words. Her soft, musical voice and air of refinement impressed him, despite the unconventionalityof her presence in his rooms at that time of the night, and his attitude became even more respectful. “Yes,” he stammered; “I am Mr. Caruth. What can I do for you?”
“I am Miss Fitzhugh. I have come four thousand miles to talk with you, Mr. Caruth. Your valet was kind enough to let me wait, though he was clearly horrified by my desiring to do so. Will you not sit down?”
Caruth hesitated. Of medium build, clean-shaven, correctly dressed, he might have stepped out of a Gibson drawing. Every detail was present, even to the strong chin and the firm mouth.
“It is late,” he suggested, glancing at the clock, the hands of which stood straight upward. “I am at your service, of course, but perhaps to-morrow——”
The girl smiled, a trifle wearily. “One does not come four thousand miles for a trifle,” she answered. “The convenances must yield to necessity. I must talk with you to-night.”
Caruth bowed and seated himself across the centre table from her. Though his surprise had not abated, he was rapidly regaining his self-possession, and as the girl resumed her own chair, he leaned forward a little, studying her thoughtfully, noting the anxious lines about her youthful eyes and mouth.
Although her English had been excellent, she did not impress him as being of American nor yet of English birth. An alien air clung intangibly about her and about her costume, which, even to hismasculine intelligence, bespoke the work of a dress-maker of more than ordinary skill.
She was plainly a lady. Had it not been too amazing, he would have guessed that she must be a person of distinction in her own land—wherever that might be. That she was beautiful seemed somehow not surprising; that she was very young did. What could such a woman be doing alone in his bachelor rooms at that hour of the night.
Disguising his wonder, he sought to carry off the situation. “You are tired?” he questioned gently. “I’m afraid I kept you waiting a long time. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Can’t I offer you something to eat or drink, Miss Fitzhugh?”
Slowly the girl nodded. “I’m glad,” she breathed, half to herself. “They told me American men were like this, but I could scarcely believe it. In Europe it would have been very different. I am proud of my half-cousins.” She paused; then answered his question. “Thank you,” she said. “I will take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
Caruth touched the bell. “Sherry and crackers, Wilkins,” he ordered briefly.
Not until the tray had been set before them, and the valet had gone, did either of them speak again. Caruth was slowly awakening to the fact that the beauty of the woman before him was not ordinary. It was not alone the perfection of her features that appealed to him. Every detail about her was artistically perfect. Her coloring, the poise of her head,the slim roundness of her taper fingers, the iridescent gleam of her brown hair beneath her wide hat—all satisfied his somewhat critical taste.
Suddenly he realized that he was staring, and, dropping his eyes, he forced himself to speak casually. “Your half-cousins?” he queried, answering her lead. “You are, then——”
“American? Yes! On my mother’s side, but my father is Russian, and I have never been in America until to-night. I like it, Mr. Caruth,” she ended—“what I have seen of it. It rests with you to confirm my opinion.”
Caruth questioned her with his eyes. “Yes?” he answered politely. “I hope I shall be able to do so.”
For a moment the girl did not speak. Her bosom rose and fell a trifle faster. She crumbled her cracker nervously, and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass. Caruth, silent, attentive, awaited her pleasure.
“Ten days ago,” she said, at last, “a letter was mailed to you at Stockholm in Sweden. It was not intended for you. It was sent to you by mistake—a mistake realized within a few hours after it had been posted. An effort was made to recover it, but it had already started on its way. Its progress has been traced carefully. It left Brest on the steamshipLatourette, which reached quarantine here at eight o’clock to-night. It may be delivered to you at any moment.”
Caruth glanced at the clock and smiled. “I fearyou are mistaken,” he objected. “Even if this letter reached the post-office to-night—which seems to me doubtful—it will not be delivered until to-morrow—unless, of course, it has a quick delivery stamp on it.”
The girl nodded. “It has a quick delivery stamp on it,” she rejoined promptly; “and if I understand your post-office methods, it will be delivered very soon. The mail-bags left the ship when I did.”
“You crossed on the same vessel?”
“Yes. Special arrangements had been made, and I was permitted to come up to the city on the tug that brought the mail. I came straight here and have been waiting ever since. The letter has not arrived yet; therefore it must come soon.”
“And when it does?” Caruth’s wonder was growing. Dimly he suspected whither the conversation was tending, and with growing interest he waited for his guest to come to the point. “When it does?” he questioned again, gently.
The girl’s breath came faster. She evaded a direct answer.
“You see, Mr. Caruth,” she argued, “I do not try to conceal from you the importance of this letter. It is of the very highest value to me and to my friends. To you, it is neither of value nor of importance, and, not being intended for you, it does not belong to you. It was sent to you by mistake. I have come to ask you to give it back to me unopened. Will you do it?”
Caruth drew a long breath. The inborn tendency of all men of his race to do anything that a prettywoman wishes impelled him to promise. Yet the request was certainly amazing.
“You ask a good deal, Miss Fitzhugh,” he temporized. “I know nothing of this letter. I have no correspondents that I know of in Sweden—nor in Europe either, for that matter. You may be right in saying that the letter is not intended for me; yet—well, I think I am entitled to ask a little further explanation. How is it possible for a letter not intended for me to be addressed to me here—for I presume it is so addressed?”
Miss Fitzhugh drew herself up. “Yes, the address is correct,” she answered coldly. “I have told you it was put on by mistake by a friend of mine who sends me to reclaim the letter——”
She broke off suddenly, as with startling abruptness the electric bell at the door of the apartment sounded in their ears. “There! It’s come! Go quick,” she cried.
Mechanically Caruth rose and turned to the door; then hesitated. “Wilkins will bring it,” he explained.
“Wilkins? Your man? No! Go yourself. This matter is too grave to trust to any one. Go quick.”
Under the spell of her command, Caruth stepped hastily to the door of the room and flung it open. At the end of the hall the valet was just signing the book of a letter carrier. As Caruth appeared he looked up. “Quick delivery letter for you, sir,” he said.
Caruth took the letter, nodded, and turned back into the room.
The girl was standing where he had left her. Her lips were parted, and her breath came fast. When she saw the letter her eyes glistened and she stretched out her hand.
But Caruth drew back. “One moment,” he exclaimed.
The girl’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “I have explained my claim to that letter. You have no right to keep it. Give it to me at once.” An imperious stamp of her foot put a period to her words.
A weaker man would have yielded, but Caruth set his jaws. “You have set forth your claim to this letter,” he answered coldly, “after a fashion. But, if you will pardon my saying so, you have by no means proved your right to it. It may very well have been mailed to me by mistake, and you may know it—without being entitled to it.”
Scornfully the woman stared at him. Her head was thrown back, and the breath whistled through her distended nostrils.
“So!” she breathed, at last. “So this is American manhood! For the first time in my life, my word has been questioned to my face.”
Caruth looked, as he felt, acutely uncomfortable. “No, no!” he protested eagerly. “I don’t question your word. I didn’t know that you had given it. Nobody”—a flash of admiration showed in his eyes—“nobody could look at you and doubt you.I don’t doubt that you have told me the exact facts. But I am also very sure that you have not told me all of them. If the letter does not belong to me, I will willingly surrender it to the real owner. But I might do endless harm by surrendering it to the wrong party. I cannot give it up without knowing more.”
Caruth quailed as he spoke. It was terribly hard even to debate anything this woman asked. Scarcely could he force himself to go on. “I must know more,” he pleaded. “Really, I must know more! Don’t you see that I must?”
“Very well. You shall.” The woman paused for an instant and then went on: “This letter and another were put into a bottle which was thrown overboard from a sinking ship. It floated about until ten days ago, when it was picked up by a fisherman. One of the letters was for my friends. The address was legible, and it was forwarded to us by mail, reaching us twenty-four hours later. The address on the other had partly faded; the name of the person for whom it was meant had disappeared altogether. But it was addressed in your care, at your address here. The fisherman who found it showed it to a casual American, who advised him to send it on to you, and who provided him with an envelope and postage, including a quick delivery stamp.
“When our letter came, we hurried down to question the fisherman, and from him learned what I have told you. Our letter had once contained all the information we needed, but part of the writing had been washed out by the sea water, and couldnot be read. We hope that the letter sent to you may be in better condition, so I have hurried over here to get it from you.”
Caruth listened amazedly. “But,” he objected, “for whom was the letter really meant?”
“I do not know. Evidently for some one associated with you. Can you not guess?”
Caruth shook his head slowly. “No,” he mused. “No, I cannot guess.” Curiously he studied the envelope he held in his hands.
The woman hesitated; then came to a sudden resolution. “There are two envelopes,” she explained. “One of them was put on by the fisherman. Open that, if you will, but be careful.”
Caruth obeyed and drew out the inclosure. It was a small envelope, dirty and stained and smelling strongly of fish. Indeed, a minute scale clung to one corner until he mechanically brushed it away. On the face, in blurred writing, appeared his own name: “Care Mr. Alston Caruth, Chimneystack Apartment Building, New York, N. Y.” Another name had been written just above, but it was indecipherable.
“The whole address was there when the fisherman opened the bottle,” explained the girl. “Part of it soaked off in his pocket on the way to shore. Can you make it out?”
Caruth studied the superscription, and shook his head. “No,” he declared; “I can make out nothing. But I soon will.” With a quick motion, he ripped open the envelope.
Before he could draw out the contents, the girl caught his hand. “Wait!” she cried. “Wait! Have I not proved my right to that letter?”
Caruth shook his head. “Certainly not,” he decided. “So far as I can see, neither you nor I have any title to it, or any right to read it. Nor do I intend to read it further than to see whether the inside gives any clue to the man for whom it is intended.”
“Wait!” Tensely the girl’s hand fell on his arm. “If nothing else will avail,” she cried, “will not my entreaties do so. I beg you, I implore you, to give me that letter. It is nothing to you; it may easily be life or death to me. You do not know for whom it is meant. You are under no obligations to an unknown writer and an unknown addressee. Do not look into it farther. Give me the letter, I implore you!”
She leaned forward. Her violet eyes gleamed into his; her lips quivered, her form shook with the stress. “Oh!” she pleaded. “Give it to me. You will give it to me?”
A sudden passion flamed in Caruth’s veins—a passion that gripped and shook him. “By God!” he cried hoarsely. “You—you——”
The girl started back and dropped her hand. Then her lips curled. Men were all alike, after all. American men were no better than their European brothers. She had seen so many; so very many. Caruth would yield, and she would despise him for it. Yet she went on. “Give it to me,” she breathed.
“No!” Caruth’s voice rang out. “No! No! Oh, you women! You beautiful women! How easily you beguile men! How dare you do it? How dare you use beauty such as yours for such a purpose? How dare you use such tools to gain your selfish ends?”
“How dare I?” The girl’s form straightened till to Caruth’s gaze she seemed to tower above him. “How dare I?” Her voice was low and thrilling, but it did not quiver. “How dare I? I dare because my country calls me to do it. All that I am and have belongs to it. My future, my liberty, my life, are all at its service. I am entitled to that letter—I swear it. If you ask it, I will tell you everything, and in so doing put my life in your hands. Shall I do it?”
Caruth drew his hand across his eyes. “No!” he said hoarsely. “I believe you. Take the letter.”
Eagerly the woman reached out her hand, but before her fingers could close upon the envelope, the portières that hung between the apartment and an inner room clashed gently on their rings and Caruth’s valet pushed his way through them. “I beg pardon, sir!” he murmured deferentially.
Annoyed, Caruth faced him, the hand holding the letter dropping to his side. “Well, Wilkins?” he questioned coldly.
“I beg pardon, sir,” repeated the man. “But I think that letter belongs to me, sir. Will you kindly look inside and see if it doesn’t begin ‘My dear Jim’ and end ‘Yours, Bill,’ sir? If it does, it is certainly mine, sir. I think it’s from my brother Bill, sir.”