“I am not on trial,” he said. “I am not called upon to prove or disprove anything. I promised to perform a feat and I have done so. It was not nominated in the bond that I should defend my honor by asseverations.”
“Begging the question,” laughed Hendricks, but Mr. Mortimer said: “Not at all. Hanlon is right. If he has any secret means of guidance, it is up to us to discover it. But I hold that he cannot have, or it would have been discovered by some of the eager observers. We had thousands looking on to-day. There must have been some one clever enough to suspect the deceit, if deceit there were.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mortimer,” Hanlon spoke quietly. “I made no mystery of my performance; I had no confederate, no paraphernalia. All there was to see could be seen by all. You willed me; I followed your will. That is all.”
The simple manner and pleasant demeanor of the young man greatly attracted Eunice, who smiled at him kindly.
“I came here very sceptical,” she admitted; “and even now I can’t feel entirely convinced—”
“Well, I can!” declared Aunt Abby. “I am willing to own it, too. These people who really believe in your sincerity, Mr. Hanlon, and refuse to confess it, make me mad! I wish you’d give an exhibition in New York.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, madam, but this is my last performance.”
“Good gracious why?” Aunt Abby looked curiously at him.
“I have good reasons,” Hanlon smiled. “You may learn them later, if you care to.”
“I do. How can I learn them?”
“Read theNewark Free Pressnext Monday.”
“Oh!” and Eunice had an inspiration—a premonition of the truth. “May I speak to you alone a minute, Mr. Hanlon?”
She got out of the car and walked a few steps with the young man, who politely accompanied her.
They paused a short distance away, and held a brief but animated conversation. Eunice laughed gleefully, and it was plain to be seen her charming smiles played havoc with Hanlon’s reserved demeanor. Soon he was willingly agreeing to something she was proposing and finally they shook hands on it.
They returned to the car; he assisted Eunice in, and then he told Mr. Mortimer they had stayed as long as was permissible and were being eagerly called back to the committee in charge of the day’s programme.
“That’s so,” said Mortimer. “I begged off for a few minutes. Good-by, all.” He raised his hat and hurried away after Hanlon.
“Well,” said Hendricks as they started homeward, “what did you persuade him to do, Eunice? Give a parlor exhibition for you?”
“The boy guessed nearly right the very first time!” cried Eunice, gleefully; “it was all a fake, and he’s coming to our house Sunday afternoon to tell how he did it. It’s all coming out in the paper on Monday.”
“My good land!” and Aunt Abby sank back in her seat, utterly disgusted.
“And that’s my last word on the subject.”
Embury lighted one cigarette from the stub of another, and deposited the stub in the ash-tray at his elbow. It was Sunday afternoon, and the peculiar relaxedness of that day of rest and gladness had somewhat worn on the nerves of both Sanford and Eunice.
Aunt Abby was napping, and it was too early yet to look for their expected visitor, Hanlon.
Eunice had been once again endeavoring to persuade her husband to give her an allowance—a stated sum, however small, that she might depend upon regularly. The Emburys fulfilled every requirement of the condition known as “happily married” save for this one item. They were congenial, affectionate, good-natured, and quite ready to make allowances for each other’s idiosyncrasies or whims.
With this one exception. Eunice found it intolerable to be cramped and pinched for small amounts of ready cash, when her husband was a rich man. Nor was Embury mean, or even economical of nature. He was more than willing that his wife should have all the extravagant luxuries she desired. He was entirely ready to pay any and all bills that she might contract. Never had he chided her for buying expensive or unnecessary finery—even more, he had always admired her taste and shown pleasure at her purchases. He was proud of her beauty and willing it should be adorned. He was proud of her grace and charm and willing that the household appointments should provide an appropriate setting for her hospitality. They were both fond of entertaining and never was there a word of protest from him as to the amounts charged by florists and caterers.
And yet, by reason of some crank, crotchet or perverse notion, Embury was unwilling to give his wife what is known as “pin money.”
“Buy your pins at the best jewelers’,” he would laugh, “and send the bills to me; buy your hats and gowns from the Frenchiest shops—you can get credit anywhere on my name—Good Lord! Tiger, what more can a woman want?”
Nor would he agree to her oft-repeated explanations that there were a thousand and one occasions when some money was an absolute necessity. Or, if persuaded, he gave her a small amount and expected it to last indefinitely.
It is difficult to know just what was the reason for this attitude. Sanford Embury was not a miser. He was not penurious or stingy. He subscribed liberally to charities, many of them unknown to the public, or even to his wife, but some trick of nature, some twist in his brain, made this peculiarity of his persistent and ineradicable.
Now, Eunice Embury was possessed of a quick, sometimes ungovernable temper. It was because of this that her husband called her Tiger. And also, as he declared, because her beautiful, lithe grace was suggestive of “the fearful symmetry” of the forest tribe.
She had tried honestly to control her quick anger, but it would now and then assert itself in spite of her, and Embury delighted to liken her to Katherine, and declared that he must tame her as Petruchio tamed his shrew.
This annoyed Eunice far more than she let him know, for she was well aware that if he thought it teased her, he would more frequently try Petruchio’s methods.
So, when she flew into a rage, and he countered with a fiercer anger, she knew he was assuming it purposely, and she usually quieted down, as the better part of valor.
On this particular occasion Eunice had taken advantage of a quiet, pleasanttête-a-têteto bring up the subject.
Embury had heard her pleading, not unkindly, but with a bored air, and had finally remarked, as she paused in her arguments, “I refuse, Eunice, to give you a stated allowance. If you haven’t sufficient confidence in your husband’s generosity to trust him to give you all you want or need, and even more than that, then you are ungrateful for what I have given you. And that’s my last word on the subject.”
The rank injustice of this was like iron entering her soul. She knew his speech was illogical, unfair and even absurd, but she knew no words of hers could make him see it so.
And in utter exasperation at her own impotence, she flung her self-control to the winds, and let go of her temper.
“Well, it isn’tmylast word on the subject!” she cried. “I have something further to say!”
“That is your woman’s privilege,” and Embury smiled irritatingly at her.
“Not only my privilege, but my duty! I owe it to my self-respect, to my social position, to my standing as your wife—the wife of a prominent man of affairs—to have at my command a sum of ready money when I need it. You know perfectly well, I do not want it for anything wrong—or for anything that I want to keep secret from you. You know I have never had a secret from you nor do I wish to have! I simply want to do as other women do—even the poorest, the meanest man, will give his wife an allowance, a little something that is absolutely her own. Why, most of the women of my set have a checking account at the bank—they all have a personal allowance!”
“So?” Embury took up another cigarette. “You may remember, Eunice, I have spoken my last word on the subject.”
“And you may remember that I have not! But I will—and right now. And it is simply that since you refuse me the pleasure and convenience of some money for everyday use, I shall get some from another source.”
Embury’s eyes narrowed, and he surveyed his wife with a calm scrutiny. Then he smiled.
“Stenography and typewriting?” he said; “or shall you take in plain sewing? Cut out the threats, Eunice; they won’t get you anywhere!”
“They’ll get me where I want to arrive! Don’t say I didn’t warn you—I repeat, I shall get money for my personal use, and you will have no right to criticize my methods, since you refuse me a paltry sum by way of allowance.”
Eunice was standing, her two hands tightly grasping a chair-back as she looked angrily at Embury, who still seated lazily, blew smoke rings toward her. She was magnificent in her anger, her cheeks burned crimson, her dark eyes had an ominous gleam in them and her curved lips straightened into a determined line of scarlet. Her muscles were strained and tense, her breath came quickly, yet she had full control of herself and her pose was that of a crouching, waiting tiger rather than a furious ode.
Embury was full of admiration at the beautiful picture she made, but pursuant of his inexorable plan, he rose to “tame” her.
“‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright,’“ he quoted, “you must take back that speech—it is neither pretty nor tactful—”
“I have no wish to be tactful! Why should I? I am not trying to coax or cajole you! You refuse my request—you have repeatedly refused me—now, I am at the end of my patience, and I shall take matters into my own hands!”
“Lovely hands!” he murmured, taking them in his own. “You have unusually pretty hands, Eunice; it would be a pity to use them to earn money.”
“Yet that is my intention. I shall get money by the work of these hands. It will be in a way that you will not approve, but you have forfeited your right to approve or disapprove.”
“That I have not! I am your husband—you have promised to obey me—”
“A mere form of words—it meant nothing!”
“Our marriage ceremony meant nothing?”
“If it did, remember that you endowed me with all your worldly goods—”
“And I give them to you, too! Do you know that nine-tenths of my yearly expenditures are foryourpleasure and benefit!Ienjoy our home, too, but it would not be the elaborate, luxurious establishment that it is, but that it suits your taste to have it so! And then, you whine and fret for what you yourself call a paltry matter! Ingrate!”
“Don’t you dare call me ingrate! I owe you no gratitude! Do you give me this home as a charity? As a gift, even! It is my right! And it is also my right to have a bank account of my own! It is my right to uphold my head among other women who laugh at me, who ridicule me, because, with all your wealth, I have no purse of my own! I will not stand it! I rebel! And you may rest assured things are going to be different hereafter. I will get money—”
“You shall not!” Embury grasped the wrists of the hands he still held, and his face was fiercely frowning. “You are my wife, and whatever you may or may not owe to me, you owe it to our position, to our standing in the community to do nothing beneath your dignity or mine!”
“You care nothing formydignity, for my appearance before other women, so why should I consider your dignity? You force me to it, and it is therefore your fault if I—”
“What is it you propose to do? How are you going to get this absurd paltry sum you are making such a fuss about?”
“That I decline to tell you—”
“Don’t you dare to do needlework or anything that would make me look foolish. I forbid it!”
“And I scorn your forbidding! Makeyoulook foolish, indeed! When you make me look foolish every day of my life, because I can’t do as other women do—can’t have what other wives have—”
“Now, now, Tiger, don’t make such a row over nothing—let’s talk it over seriously—”
“There’s nothing to talk over. I’ve asked you time and again for an allowance of money—real money, not charge accounts—and you always refuse—”
“And always shall, if you are so ugly about it! Why must you fly into a rage over it? Your temper is—”
“My temper is roused by your cruelty—”
“Cruelty!”
“Yes; it’s as much cruelty as if you struck me! You deny me my heart’s dearest wish for no reason whatever—”
“It’s enough that I don’t approve of an allowance—”
“It ought to be enough that I do!”
“No, no, my lady! I love you, I adore you, but I am not the sort of man to lie down and let you walk over me! I give you everything you want and if I reserve the privilege of paying for it myself, it does not seem to me a crime!”
“Oh, do hush up, Sanford! You drive me frantic! You prate the same foolishness, over and over! I don’t want to hear any more about it. You said you had spoken the last word on the subject, now stop it! I, too, have said my final say. I shall do as I please, and I shall not consider myself accountable to you for my actions.”
“Confound it! Do what you please, then! I wash my hands of your nonsense! But be careful how you carry the name I have given you!”
“If you keep on, I may decide not to carry it at all—”
Eunice was interrupted by the entrance of Ferdinand, announcing the arrival of Mason Elliott.
Trained in the school of convention, both the Emburys became at once the courteous, cordial host and hostess.
“Hello, Elliott,” sang out Sanford, “glad to see your bright and happy face. Come right along and chum in.”
Eunice offered her hand with a welcoming smile.
“Just the boy I was looking for,” she said, “we’ve the jolliest game on for the afternoon. Haven’t we, San?”
“Fool trick, if you ask me! Howsumever, everything goes. Interested in thought-transference bunk, Elliott?”
“I know what you’re getting at.” Mason Elliott nodded his head understandingly. “Hendricks put me wise. So, I says to myself, s’posin’ I hop along and listen in. Yes, I am interested, sufficiently so not to mind your jeers about bunk and that.”
“Oh, do you believe in it, Mason?” said Eunice, animatedly; “for this is a faked affair—or, rather, the explanation of one. It’s the Hanlon boy, you know—”
“Yes; I know. But what’s the racket with you two turtle-doves? I come in, and find Eunice wearing the pet expression of a tragedy queen and Sanford, here, doing the irate husband. Going into the movies?”
“Yes, that’s it,” and Eunice smiled bravely, although her lips still quivered from her recent turbulent quarrel, and a light, jaunty air was forced to conceal her lingering nervousness.
“Irate husband is good!” laughed Embury, “considering we are yet honeymooners.”
“Good dissemblers, both of you,” and Elliott settled himself in an easy chair, “but you don’t fool your old friend. Talk about thought-transference—it doesn’t take much of that commodity to read that you two were interrupted by my entrance in the middle of a real, honest-to-goodness, cats’-and-dogs’ quarrel.”
“All right, have it your own way,” and Embury laughed shortly; “but it wasn’t the middle of it, it was about over.”
“All but the making up! Shall I fade away for fifteen minutes?”
“No,” protested Eunice. “It was only one of the little tiffs that happen in the best families! Now, listen, Mason—”
“My dear lady, I live but on the chance of being permitted to listen to you—only in the hope that I may listen early and often—”
“Oh, hush! What a silly you are!”
“Silly, is it? Remember I was your childhood playmate. Would you have kept me on your string all these years if I were silly? And here’s another of my childhood friends! How doyoudo, most gracious lady?”
With courtly deference Elliott rose to greet Aunt Abby, who came into the living-room from Eunice’s bedroom.
Her black silk rustled and her old point lace fell yellowly round her slender old hands, for on Sunday afternoon Miss Ames dressed the part.
“How are you, Mason,” she said, but with a preoccupied air. “What time is Mr. Hanlon coming, Eunice?”
“Soon now, I think,” and Eunice spoke with entire composure, her angry excitement all subdued. It was characteristic of her that after a fit of temper, she was more than usually soft and gentle. More considerate of others and even, more roguishly merry.
“You know, Mason, that what we are to be told to-day is a most inviolable secret—that is, it is a secret until tomorrow.”
“Never put off till to-morrow what you can tell to-night,” returned Elliott, but he listened attentively while Eunice and Aunt Abby described the performance of the young man Hanlon.
“Of course,” Elliott observed, a little disappointedly, “if he says he hoaxed the crowd, of course he did; but in that case I’ve no interest in the thing. I’d like it better if he were honest.”
“Oh, he’s honest enough,” corrected Embury; “he owns right up that it was a trick. Why, good heavens, man! if it hadn’t been, he couldn’t have done it at all. I’m rather keen to know just how he managed, though, for the yarn of Eunice and Aunt Abby is a bit mystifying.”
“Don’t depend too much on the tale of interested spectators. They’re the worst possible witnesses! They see only what they wish to see.”
“Only what Hanlon wished us to see,” corrected Eunice, gaily. And then Hanlon, himself, and Alvord Hendricks arrived together.
“Met on the doorstep,” said Hendricks as he came in. “Mr. Hanlon is a little stage-struck, so it’s lucky I happened along.”
Willy Hanlon, as he was called in the papers, came shyly forward and Eunice, with her ready tact, proceeded to put him at once at his ease.
“You came just at the right minute to help me out,” she said, smiling at him. “They are saying women are no good at describing a scene! They say that we can’t be relied on for accuracy. So, now you’re here and you can tell what really happened.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and Hanlon swallowed, a little embarrassedly; “that’s what I came for, ma’am. But first, are you all straight goods? Will you all promise not to tell what I tell you before tomorrow morning?”
They all promised on their honor, and, satisfied, Hanlon began his tale.
“You see, it’s a game that can’t be played too often or too close together,” he said; “I mean, if I put it over around here, I can’t risk it again nearer than some several states away. And even then it’s likely to get caught on to.”
“Have you put it over often?” asked Hendricks, interestedly.
“Yes, sir—well, say, about a dozen times altogether. Now I’m going to chuck it, for it’s too risky. And so, I’ve sold the story of how I do it to the newspaper syndicate for more than I’d make out of it in a dozen performances. You can read it all in to-morrow’s papers, but Mrs. Embury, she asked me to tell it here and I said yes—’cause—’cause—well, ’cause I wanted to!”
The boyish outburst was so unmistakably one of admiration, of immediate capitulation to Eunice’s charm, that she blushed adorably, and the others laughed outright.
“One more scalp, Euny,” said Elliott; “oh, you can’t help it, I know.”
“Go on, Mr. Hanlon,” said Eunice, and he went on.
“You see, to make you understand it rightly, I must go back a ways. I’ve done all sorts of magic stunts and I’m kinda fond of athletics. I’ve given exhibitions along both those lines in athletic clubs and in ladies’ parlors, too. Well, I had a natural talent for making my ears move—lots of fellows do that, I know; but I got pretty spry at it.”
“What for?” asked Embury.
“Nothing particular, sir, only one thing led to another. One day I read in an English magazine about somebody pulling off this trick—this blindfold chase, and I said to myself I b’lieved I could do it first rate and maybe make easy money. I don’t deny I’m out after the coin. I’ve got to get my living, and if I’d rather do it by gulling the public, why, it’s no more than many a better man does.”
“Right you are,” said Elliott.
“So, ‘s I say, I read this piece that told just how to do it, and I set to work. You may think it’s funny, but the first step was working my forehead muscles.”
“Whatever for?” cried Aunt Abby, who was listening, perhaps most intently of all.
“I’ll tell you, in a jiffy, ma’am,” and Hanlon smiled respectfully at the eager old face.
“You see, if you’ll take notice, the muscles of your forehead, just above your eyebrows, work whenever you shut or open your eyes. Yes, try it, ma’am,” as Aunt Abby wrinkled her forehead spasmodically. “Shut your eyes, ma’am. Now, cover them closely with the palm of your left hand. Press it close—so. Now, with your hand there, open your eyes slowly, and feel your forehead muscles go up. They have to, you can’t help it. Now, that’s the keynote of the whole thing.”
“Clear as Erebus!” remarked Hendricks. “I don’t get you, Steve.”
“Nor I,” and Eunice sat with her hand against her eyes, drawing her lovely brows into contortions.
“Well, never mind trying; I’ll just tell you about it.” Hanlon laughed good-naturedly at the frantic attempts of all of them to open their eyes in accordance with his directions.
“Anyhow, you gentleman know, for I know you all belong to a big athletic club, that if you exercise any set of muscles regularly and for a long time, they will develop and expand and become greatly increased in size and strength.”
“Sure,” said Hendricks. “I once developed my biceps—”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, sir, I worked at my forehead muscles some hours a day for months and I kept at it until I had those muscles not only developed and in fine working condition but absolutely under my control. Look!”
They gazed, fascinated, while the strange visitor moved the skin of his forehead up and down and sideways, and in strange circular movements. He seemed distinctly proud of his accomplishment and paused for approbation.
“Marvelous, Holmes, marvelous!” exclaimed Hendricks, who had discovered that Hanlon did not resent jocularity, “but—what for?”
“Can’t you guess?” and the young man smiled mysteriously. “Try.”
“Give it up,” and Hendricks shook his head. “I think it’s more wonderful to get thought-transference by wiggling your forehead than any other way I ever heard of, but I can’t guess how it helps.”
“Can’t any of you?” and Hanlon looked around the circle.
“Wait a minute,” said Aunt Abby, who was thinking hard. “Let me try. Is it because when the thought waves jump from the ‘guide’ to you they strike your forehead first—”
“And it acts as a wireless receiving station? No, ma’am, that isn’t it. And, too, ma’am, I owned up, you know, that the whole thing was a fake, a trick. You see, there was no ‘thought-transference,’—not any—none at all.”
“Then what do you accomplish with your forehead muscles?” asked Eunice, unable to restrain her impatience.
“Just this, Mrs. Embury, the impossibility of my being blindfolded. As a matter of fact, it is practically impossible to blindfold anybody, anyway.”
“Why, what do you mean?” interrupted Hendricks. “Why is it?”
“Because the natural formation of most people’s noses allows them to see straight down beneath an ordinary bandage. I doubt if one child out of a hundred who plays ‘Blind Man’s Buff’ is really unable to see at all.”
“That’s so,” said Embury, “when I played it, as a kid, I could always see straight down—though not, of course, laterally.”
“And noses are different,” went on Hanlon. “Some prominent beaks could never be blindfolded, but some small, flat noses might be. However, this refers to ordinary blindfolding with an ordinary handkerchief. When it comes to putting fat cotton pads in one’s eye sockets, before the thick bandage is added, it necessitates previous preparation. So, my powers of contracting and expanding my forehead muscles allow me to push the pads out of the way, and enable me to see straight down the sides of my nose from under the bandage. Of course, I can see only the ground, and that but in a circumscribed area around my feet, but it’s enough.”
“How?” asked Eunice, her piquant face eagerly turned to the speaker. “How did you know which way to turn?”
“I don’t like it,” declared Aunt Abby. “I hate it—I’m absolutely disgusted with the whole performance! I detest practical jokes!”
“Oh, come now, Miss Ames,” and Hendricks chuckled; “this isn’t exactly a joke—it’s a hoax, and a new one, but it’s a legitimate game. From the Davenport Brothers and Herrmann, on down through the line of lesser lights in the conjuring business—even our own Houdini—we know there is a trick somewhere; the fun is in finding it. Hanlon’s is a new one and a gem—I don’t even begin to see through it yet.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Mason Eliott. “I think to do what he did by a trick is really more of a feat than to be led by real thought-transference.”
“Except that the real thing isn’t available—and trick-work is.” Hanlon smiled genially as he said this, and Embury, a little impatiently, urged him to go on, and begged the others to cease their interruptions.
“Well,” Hanlon resumed, “understand, then, that Icannotbe really blindfolded. No committee of citizens, however determined, can bandage my eyes in such a manner that I can’t wiggle my forehead about sufficiently to get the pads up or down or one side or the other until I can see—all I want to.” Hanlon knotted up his frontal muscles to prove that a bandage tied tightly would become loose when he relaxed the strain. “Understand that I can see the ground only for a few inches directly at the front of me or very close to my sides. That is all.”
“O.K.,” said Hendricks. “Now, with your sight assured for that very limited space, what is next?”
“That, sir, is enough to explain the little game I put over in the newspaper office, before trying the out-of-door test. You remember, ladies, Mr. Mortimer told you how I followed a chalk line, drawn on the floor, and which led me up and down stairs, over chairs, under desks, and all that. Well, it was dead easy, because I could see the line on the floor all the time. Their confidence in their ‘secure’ blindfolding made them entirely unsuspicious of my ability to see. So, that was easy.”
“Clever, though,” and Embury looked at young Hanlon with admiration. “Simple, but most perfectly convincing.”
“Yes, sir, it was the very simplicity of it that gulled ‘em. And, of course, I’m some actor. I groped around, and felt my way by chairs and railings and door-frames, though I needn’t have touched one of ‘em. My way was plainly marked, and I could see the chalk line and all I had to do was to follow it. But it was that preliminary test that fixed it in their minds about the ‘willing’ business. I kept asking the ‘guide’ to keep his mind firmly on his efforts to ‘will’ me. I begged him to use all his mental powers to keep me in the right direction—oh, I have that poppycock all down fine—just as the mediums at theséanceshave.”
Aunt Abby sniffed disdainfully, and Embury chuckled at her expression. Though not a ‘spiritualist,’ Miss Ames was greatly interested in telepathy and kindred subjects and like all the apostles of such cults she disliked to hear of frauds committed in their names.
“Go on,” said Eunice, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “I love a hoax of this sort, but I can’t imagine yet how you did it! I understand about the blindfolding, though, and of course that was half the battle.”
“It was, ma’am, and the other half was—boots!”
“Boots!”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know that you seldom see two pairs of boots or shoes alike on men?”
“I thought they were all alike,” exclaimed Eunice. “I mean all street shoes alike, and all pumps alike, and so forth.”
“No, not that,” and Embury laughed; “but, I say, Hanlon, there are thousands of duplicates!”
“Not so you’d notice it! But let me explain. First, however, here are four men present. Let’s compare our shoes.”
Eight feet were extended, and it was surprising to note the difference in the footgear. Naturally, Hanlon’s were of a cheaper grade than the others, but whereas it might have been expected that the three society men would wear almost identical boots, they were decidedly varied. Each pair was correct in style, and the work of the best bootmakers, but the difference in the design of tip, side cut, sole and fastening was quite sufficient to prevent mistaking one for another.
“You see,” said Hanlon. “Well, take a whole lot of your men friends, even if they all go to the same bootmaker, and you’ll find as much difference. I don’t mean that there are not thousands of shoes turned out in the same factory, as alike as peas, but there is small chance of striking two pairs alike in any group of men. Then, too, there is the wear to be counted on. Suppose two of you men had bought shoes exactly alike, you wear them differently; one may run over his heel slightly, another may stub out the toe. But, these things are observable only to a trained eye. So—I trained my eye. I made a study of it, and now, if I see a shoe once, I never forget it, and never connect it with the wrong man. On the street, in the cars, everywhere I go, I look at shoes—or, rather, I did when I was training for this stunt. It was fascinating, really. Why, sometimes the only identifying mark would be the places worn or rubbed by the bones of the man’s foot—but it was there, allee samee! I nailed ‘m, every one! Oh, I didn’t remember them all—that was only practice. But here’s the application; when I started on that trip in Newark, I was introduced to Mr. Mortimer. Mind you, it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on the man. Well, unnoticed by anybody, of course, I caught onto his shoes. They were, probably, to other people, merely ordinary shoes, but to me they were as a flaming beacon light! I stamped them on my memory, every detail of them. They were not brand new, for, of course, anybody would choose an easy old pair for that walk. So there were scratches, bumps, and worn, rubbed places, that, with their general make-up, rendered them unmistakable to yours truly! Then I was ready. The earnest but easily-gulled committee carefully adjusted their useless pads of cotton and their thick bandage over my eyes, and I was led forth to the fray.
“Remember, I asked Mr. Mortimer not only to think of the hidden penknife, and will me toward it, but also to look toward it himself. Now, to look toward any object, a man usually turns his whole body in that direction. So, groping about, clumsily, I managed to get sight of the toes of those well-remembered boots. Seeing which way they were pointed was all the information I needed just then. So, with all sorts of hesitating movements and false starts, I finally trotted off in the direction he had faced. The rest is easy. Of course, coming to a corner, I was absolutely in the dark as to whether I was to turn or to keep straight ahead. This necessitated my turning back to Mr. Mortimer to catch a glimpse of which way his feet were pointing. I covered this by speaking to him, begging him to will me aright—to will me more earnestly—or some such bunk. I could invent many reasons for turning round; pretend I had lost my feeling of ‘guidance,’ or pretend I heard a sudden noise, as of danger, or even pretend I felt I was going wrong. Well, I got a peek at those feet as often as was necessary, and the rest was just play-acting to mislead the people’s minds. Of course, when I stumbled over a stone or nearly fell into a coal hole or grating, it was all pretense. I saw the pavements as well as anybody, and my effort was to seem unaware of what was coming. Had I carefully avoided obstacles, they would know I could see.”
“And when you reached that vacant lot?” prompted Eunice.
“I saw friend Mortimer’s feet were pointing toward the center of the lot, and not in the direction of either street. So I turned in, and when I got where I could see the burned-down house, I guessed that was the hiding-place. So I circled around it, urging my ‘guide’ to look toward the place, and then noting his feet. I had to do a bit of scratching about; but remember, I could see perfectly, and I felt sure the knife was in the charred and blackened rubbish, so I just hunted till I found it. That’s all.”
“Well, it does sound simple and easy as you tell it, but, believe me, Hanlon, I appreciate the cleverness of the thing and the real work you went through in preparation for it all,” Hendricks said, heartily, and the other men added words of admiration and approval.
But Miss Ames was distinctly displeased.
“I wouldn’t mind, if you’d advertised it as a trick,” she said, in an injured tone, “as, say, the conjurors do such tricks, but everybody knows they’re fooling their audience. It is expected.”
“Yes, lady,” Hanlon smiled, “but the fake mediums and spirit-raisers, they don’t say they’re frauds—but they are.”
“Sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Just because there are some tricksters in that, as in all professions, you must not denounce them all.”
“They’re all fakes, lady,” and Hanlon’s air of sincerity carried conviction to all but Aunt Abby.
“How do you know?” she demanded angrily.
“I’ve looked into it—I’ve looked into all sorts of stunts like these. It’s in my nature, I guess. And all professional mediums are frauds. You bank on that, ma’am! If you want to tip tables or run a Ouija Board with some honest friends of yours, go ahead; but any man or woman who takes your money for showing you spiritual revelations of any sort, is a fraud and a charlatan.”
“There’s no exception?” asked Embury, quite surprised.
“Not among the professionals. They wouldn’t keep on in their profession if they didn’t put up the goods. And to do that, they’ve got to use the means.”
“Why—why, young man—” cried Aunt Abby, explosively, “you just read ‘The Voice of Isis’! You read—”
“That’s all right, they are plenty of fake books, more, prob’ly, than fake mediums, but you read some books that I’ll recommend. You read ‘Behind the Scenes With the Mediums,’ or ‘The Spirit World Unveiled,’ and see where you’re at then! No, ma’am, the only good spook is a dead spook, andtheydon’t come joy-riding back to earth.”
“But,” and Eunice gazed earnestly at her guest, “is there nothing—nothing at all in telepathy?”
“Now you’ve asked a question, ma’am. I don’t say there isn’t, but I do say there isn’t two per cent of what the fakers claim there is. I’ll grant just about two per cent of real stuff in this talk of telepathy and thought-transference, and even that is mostly getting a letter the very day you were thinking about the writer!”
Embury laughed. “That’s as close as I’ve ever come to it,” he said.
“Yep, that’s the commonest stunt. That and the ghostly good-by appearance of a friend that’s dyin’ at the time in a distant land.”
“Aren’t those cases ever true?” Eunice asked.
“‘Bout two per cent of ‘em. Most of those that have been traced down to actual evidence have fizzled out. Well, I must be going. You see, now, I’ve sold this whole spiel that I’ve just given you folks to a big newspaper syndicate, and I got well paid. That puts me on Easy Street, for the time bein’, and I’m going to practice up for a new stunt. When you hear again of Willy Hanlon, it’ll be in a very different line of goods!”
“What?” asked Eunice, interestedly.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. I’d tell you, if I’d tell anybody. But, you see, it ain’t good business. I just thought up a new line of work and I’m going to take time to perfect myself in it, and then spring it on a long-sufferin’ public.”
“No, I won’t ask you to tell, of course,” Eunice agreed, “but when you give an exhibition, if it’s near New York, let me know, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will. And now I’ll move on.”
“Oh, no, you must wait for a cup of tea; we’ll have it brought at once.”
Eunice left the room for a moment. Aunt Abby in dudgeon, refused to talk to the disappointing visitor. But the three men quickly engaged him in conversation and Hanlon told some anecdotes of his past experiences that kept them interested.
Ferdinand brought in the tea things, and Eunice, with her graceful hospitality, saw to it that her guest was in no way embarrassed or bothered by unaccustomed service.
“I’ve had a right good time,” he said in his boyish way, as he rose to go. “Thank you, ma’am, for the tea and things. I liked it all.”
His comprehensive glance that swept the room and its occupants was a sincere compliment and after he had gone there was only kindly comment on his personality.
Except from Aunt Abby.
“He’s an ignorant boor,” she announced.
“Now, now,” objected Eunice, “you only say that because he upset your favorite delusions. He punctured your bubbles and pulled down your air-castles. Give it up, Aunt Abby, there’s nothing in your ‘Voice of Isis’ racket!”
“Permit me to be the judge of my own five senses, Eunice, if you please.”
“That’s just it, Miss Ames,” spoke up Hendricks. “Isyour psychic information, or whatever it is, discernible to your five senses, or any of them?”
“Of course, or how could I realize the presence of the psychic forces?”
“I don’t know just what those things are, but I supposed they were available only to a sort of sixth sense—or seventh! Why, I have five senses, but I don’t lay claim to any more than that.”
“You’re a trifler, and I decline to discuss the subject seriously with you. You’ve always been a trifler, Alvord—remember, I’ve known you from boyhood, and though you’ve a brilliant brain, you have not utilized it to the best advantage.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” and the handsome face put on a mock penitence, “but I’m too far advanced in years to pull up now.”
“Nonsense! you’re barely thirty! That’s a young man.”
“Not nowadays. They say, after thirty, a man begins to fall to pieces, mentally.”
“Oh, Al, what nonsense!” cried Eunice. “Why, thirty isn’t even far enough along to be called the prime of life!”
“Oh, yes, it is, Eunice, in this day and generation. Nobody thinks a man can do any great creative work after thirty. Inventing, you know, or art or literature—honestly, that’s the attitude now. Isn’t it, Mason?”
Elliott looked serious. “It is an opinion recently expressed by some big man,” he admitted. “But I don’t subscribe to it. Why, I’d be sorry to think I’m a down-and-outer! And I’m in the class with you and Embury.”
“You’re none of you in the sere and yellow,” declared Eunice, laughing at the idea. “Why, even Aunt Abby, in spite of the family record, is about as young as any of us.”
“I know I am,” said the old lady, serenely. “And I know more about my hobby of psychic lore in a minute than you young things ever heard of in all your life! So, don’t attempt to tell me what’s what!”
“That’s right, Miss Ames, you do!” and Mason Elliott looked earnestly at her. “I’m half inclined to go over to your side myself. Will you take me some time to one of yourséances—but wait, I only want to go to one where, as you said, the psychic manifestations are perceptible to one or more of the five well-known senses. I don’t want any of this talk of a mysterious sixth sense.”
“Oh, Mason, I wish youwouldgo with me! Madame Medora gives wonderful readings!”
“Mason! I’m ashamed of you!” cried Eunice, laughing. “Don’t let him tease you, Aunt Abby; he doesn’t mean a word he says!”
“Oh, but I do! I want to learn to read other people’s thoughts—not like our friend Hanlon, but really, by means of my senses and brain.”
“You prove you haven’t any brain, when you talk like that!” put in Hendricks, contemptuously.
“And you prove you haven’t any sense,” retorted Elliott “I say, who’s for a walk? I’ve got to sweep the cobwebs out of the place where my brain ought to be—even if it is empty, as my learned colleague avers.”
“I’ll go,” and Eunice jumped up. “I want a breath of fresh air. Come along, San?”
“Nixy I’ve got to look over some papers in connection with my coming election as president of a big club.”
“Your coming election may come when you’re really in the prime of life,” Hendricks laughed, “or, perhaps, not till you strike the sere and yellow, but if you refer to this year’s campaign of the Athletic Club, please speak ofmycoming election.”
“Oh, you two deadly rivals!” exclaimed Eunice. “I’m glad to be out of it, if you’re going to talk about those eternal prize-fights and club theatres! Come on, Mason, let’s go for a brisk walk in the park.”
Eunice went to her room, and came back, looking unusually beautiful in a new spring habit. The soft fawn color suited her dark type and a sable scarf round her throat left exposed an adorable triangle of creamy white flesh.
“Get through with your squabbling, little boys,” she said, gaily, with a saucy smile at Hendricks and a swift, perfunctory kiss on Embury’s cheek, and then she went away with Mason Elliott.
They walked a few blocks in silence, and then Elliott said, abruptly: “What were you and Sanford quarreling about?”
“Aren’t you a little intrusive?” but a smile accompanied the words.
“No, Eunice; it isn’t intrusion. I have the right of an old friend—more than a friend, from my point of view—and I ask only from the best and kindest motives.”
“Could you explain some those motives?” She tried to make her voice cold and distant, but only succeeded in making it pathetic.
“I could—but I think it better, wiser and more honorable not to. You know, dear, why I want to know. Because I want you to be the happiest woman in the whole world—and if Sanford Embury can’t make you so—”
“Nobody can!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Don’t, Mason,” she turned a pleading look toward him; “don’tsay anything we may both regret. You know how good Sanford is to me; you know how happy we are together.”
“Were,” he corrected, very gravely.
“Were—and are,” she insisted. “And you know, too—no one better—what a fiendish temper I have! Though I try my best to control it, it breaks out now and then, and I am helpless. Sanford thinks he can tame it by giving me as good as I send—by playing, as he calls it, Petruchio to my Katherine—but, somehow, I don’t believe that’s the treatment I need.”
Her dark eyes were wistful, but she did not look at him.
“Of course it isn’t!” Elliott returned, in a low voice. “I know your nature, Eunice; I’ve known it all our lives. You need kindness when you are in a tantrum. The outbursts of temper you cannot help—that I know positively—they’re an integral part of your nature. But they’re soon over—often the fiercer they are, the quicker they pass,—and if you were gently managed, not brutally, at the time they occur, it would go far to help you to overcome them entirely. But—and I ask you again—what were you discussing to-day when I came?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I think I do know—and forgive me, if I offend you—I think I can help you.”
“What do you mean?” Eunice looked up with a frightened stare.
“Don’t look like that—oh, Eunice,don’t!I only meant—I know you want money—ready money—let me give it to you—or lend it to you—do, Eunice—darling!”
“Thank you, Mason,” Eunice forced herself to say, “but I must refuse your offer. I think—I think we—we’ll go home now.”
“Don’t you call her ‘that Desternay woman’!”
“I’ll call her what I please! And without asking your permission, either. And I won’t have my wife playing bridge at what is practically a gambling house!”
“Nothing of the sort! A party of invited guests, in a private house is a social affair, and you shall not call it ridiculous names! You play for far higher stakes at your club than we ever do at Fifi Desternay’s.”
“That name is enough! Fancy your associating with a woman who calls herself Fifi!”
“She can’t help her name! It was probably wished on her by her parents in baptism—”
“It probably was not! She was probably christened Mary Jane!”
“You seem to know a lot about her.”
“I know all I want to; and you have reached the end of your acquaintance with her and her set. You are not to go there, Eunice, and that’s all there is about it.”
The Emburys were in Eunice’s bedroom. Sanford was in evening dress and was about to leave for his club. Eunice, who had dined in anegligée, was donning an elaborate evening costume. She had dismissed her maid when Embury came into the room, and was herself adjusting the finishing touches. Her gown of henna-colored chiffon, with touches of gold embroidery, was most becoming to her dark beauty, and some fine ornaments of ancient carved gold gave an Oriental touch to her appearance. She stood before a long mirror, noting the details of her gown, and showed an irritating lack of attention to Embury’s last dictum.
“You heard me, Eunice?” he said, caustically, his hand on the doorknob.
“Not being deaf, I did,” she returned, without looking toward him.
“And you will obey me?” He turned back, and reaching her side, he grasped her arm with no uncertain touch. “I demand your obedience!”
“Demands are not always granted!”
She gave him a dazzling smile, but it was defiant rather than friendly.
“I make it a request, then. Will you grant me that?”
“Why should I grant your requests, when you won’t grant mine?”
“Good Lord, Eunice, are you going to harp on that allowance string again?”
“I am. Why shouldn’t I, when it warps my whole life—”
“Oh, come, cut out the hifalutin’ talk!”
“Well, then, to come down to plain facts, there isn’t a day that I’m not humiliated and embarrassed by the lack of a little cash.”
“Bad as that?”
“Yes, quite as bad as that! Why, the day we went out to Newark I didn’t have five cents to buy Aunt Abby a newspaper, and she had to get along without one!”
“She seemed to live through it.”
“Sanford, you’re unbearable! And to-day, at Mrs. Garland’s, a woman talked, and then they took up a collection for the ‘Belgian Home Fires,’ and I didn’t have a cent to contribute.”
“Who is she? I’ll send a check.”
“A check! You answer everything by a check! Can’t you understand? Oh, there’s no use explaining; you’re determined you won’t understand! So, let us drop the subject. Is to-night the club election?”
“No, to-morrow night. But to-night will probably decide it in my mind. It practically hinges on the Meredith set—if they can be talked over—”
“Oh, Sanford, I do hope they can!” Eunice’s eyes sparkled and she smiled as she put her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “And, listen, dear, if they are—if you do win the election, won’t you—oh, San, won’t you give me an allowance?”
“Eunice, you’re enough to drive a man crazy!Willyou let up on that everlasting whine? No, I won’t! Is that plain?”
“Then I shall go and get it for myself!”
“Go to the devil for all I care!”
Sanford flung out of the room, banging the door behind him. Eunice heard him speaking to Ferdinand, rather shortly, and as he left the apartment, she knew that he had gone to the club in their motor car, and if she went out, she would have to call a cab.
She began to take off her gown, half deciding to stay at home. She had never run counter to Embury’s expressed orders and she hesitated to do so now.
And yet—the question of money, so summarily dismissed by her husband, was a very real trouble to her. In her social position, she actually needed ready cash frequently, and she had determined to get it. Her last hope of Sanford failed her, when he refused to grant her wish as a sort of celebration of his election, and she persuaded herself that it was her right to get some money somehow.
Her proposed method was by no means a certain one, for it was the hazardous plan of winning at bridge.
Although a first-rate player, Eunice often had streaks of bad luck, and, too, inexpert partners were a dangerous factor. But, though she sometimes said that winnings and losings came out about even in the long run, she had found by keeping careful account, her skill made it probable for her to win more than she lost, and this reasoning prompted her to risk high stakes in hope of winning something worth-while.
Fifi Desternay was a recent acquaintance of hers, and not a member of the set Eunice looked upon as her own. But the gatherings at the Desternay house were gay and pleasant, a bit Bohemian, yet exclusive too, and Eunice had already spent several enjoyable afternoons there.
She had never been in the evening, for Embury wouldn’t go, and had refused to let her go without him. Nor did she want to, for it was not Eunice’s way to go out alone at night.
But she was desperate and, moreover, she was exceedingly angry. Sanford was unjust and unkind. Also, he had been cross and ugly, and had left her in anger, a thing that had never happened before.
And she wanted some money at once. A sale of laces was to be held next day at a friend’s home, and she wanted to go there, properly prepared to purchase some bits if she chose to.
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered Mason Elliott’s offer to give or lend her money, but she smiled gently, as she remembered the true friendliness of the man, and his high-mindedness, which took all sting from his offer.
As she brooded, her anger became more fierce, and finally, with a toss of her head, she rose from the chair, rang for the maid, and proceeded to finish her toilette.
“Lend me some money, will you, Aunt Abby?” she asked, as, all ready to go, she stepped into the livingroom.
She had no hesitancy in making this appeal. If she won, she would repay on her return. If she lost, Aunt Abby was a good-natured waiter, and she knew Eunice would pay later.
“Bridge?” said the old lady, smiling at the lovely picture Eunice made, in her low gown and her billowy satin wrap. “I thought Sanford took the car.”
“He did. I’m going in a taxi. What a duck you are to let me have this,” as she spoke she stuffed the bills in her soft gold mesh-bag. “Don’t sit up, dear, I’ll be out till all hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the end of the rainbow—where there’s a pot of gold! You read your spook books, and then go to bed and dream of ghosts and specters!”
Eunice kissed her lightly, and gathering up her floating draperies, went out of the room with the faithful and efficient Ferdinand.
On his way to the club, Embury pursued that pleasing occupation known as nursing his wrath. He was sorry he had left Eunice in anger—he realized it was the first time that had ever happened—and he was tempted to go back, or, at least to telephone back, that he was sorry. But that would do little good, he knew, unless he also said he was willing to accede to her request for an allowance, and that he was as sternly set against as ever.
He couldn’t quite have told himself why he was so positive in this matter, but it was largely owing to an instinctive sense of the fitness of having a wife dependent on her husband for all things. Moreover, it seemed to him that unlimited charge accounts betokened a greater generosity than an allowance, and he felt an aggrieved irritation at Eunice’s seeming ingratitude.
The matter of her wanting “chicken-feed” now and then seemed to him too petty to be worthy of serious consideration. He really believed that he gave her money whenever she asked for it, and was all unaware how hard he made it for her to ask.
The more he thought about it, the more he saw Eunice in the wrong, and himself an injured, unappreciated benefactor.
He adored his wife, but this peculiarity of hers must be put an end to somehow. Her temper, too, was becoming worse instead of better; her outbreaks were more frequent, more furious, and he had less power to quell them than formerly.
Clearly, he concluded, Eunice must be taught a lesson, and this occasion must be made a test case. He had left her angrily, and it might turn out that it was the best thing he could have done. Poor girl, she doubtless was sorry enough by now; crying, probably. His heart softened as he conjured up the picture of his wife alone, and in tears, but he reasoned that it would do her good, and he would give her a new jewel to make up for it, after the trouble was all over.
So he went on to the club, and dove into the great business of the last possible chance of electioneering.
Though friendly through all this campaign, the strain was beginning to tell on the two candidates, and both Embury and Hendricks found it a little difficult to keep up their good feeling.
“But,” they both reasoned, “as soon as the election is over, we’ll be all right again. We’re both too good sports to hold rancor, or to feel any jealousy.”
And this was true. Men of the world, men of well-balanced minds, clever, logical and just, they were fighting hard, each for his own side, but once the matter was decided, they would be again the same old friends.
However, Embury was just as well pleased to learn that Hendricks was out of town. He had gone to Boston on an important business matter, and though it was not so stated, Embury was pretty sure that the important business was closely connected with the coming election.
In his own endeavor to secure votes, Embury was not above playing the, to him, unusual game of being all things to all men.
And this brought him into cordial conversation with one of the younger club members, who was of the type he generally went out of his way to avoid.
“Try to put yourself in our place, Mr. Embury,” the cub was saying. “We want this club to be up-to-date and beyond. Conservatism is all very well, and we all practiced it ‘for the duration,’ but now the war’s over, let’s have some fun, say we!”
“I know, Billy, but there is a certain standard to be maintained—”
“We, the people of the United States—and tiddle tya—tya—tya! Why, everybody’s doing it! The women—bless ‘em!—too. I just left your wife at a table with my wife, and the pile of chips between ‘em would make some men’s card-rooms hide their diminished walls!”
“That so? You saw my wife this evening? Where?”
“As if you didn’t know! But, good heavens! perhaps you didn’t! Have I been indiscreet?”
“Not at all. At Mrs. Desternay’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but you gave me a jolt. I was afraid I’d peached.”
“Not at all. They’re friends.”
“Well, between you and me, they oughtn’t to be. I let Gladys go, under protest—I left her there myself—but it’s never again for her! I shall tell her so to-night.”
Embury changed the subject and by using all his self-control gave no hint of his wrath. So Eunice had gone after all! After his expressly forbidding it! It was almost unbelievable!
And within an hour of his receiving information, Sanford Embury, in his own car, stopped at the Desternay house.
Smiling and debonair as he entered the drawingroom, he greeted the hostess and asked for his wife.
“Oh, don’t disturb her, dear Mr. Embury,” begged the vivacious Fifi; “she’s out for blood! She’s in the den, with three of our wizards and the sky’s their limit!”
“Tut, tut! What naughtiness!” Embury’s manner was just the right degree of playful reproach, and his fine poise and distinguished air attracted attention from many of the players.
The rooms were filled, without being crowded, and a swift mental stock-taking of the appointments and atmosphere convinced the newcomer that his preconception of the place was about right.
“I must take her away before she cleans out the bunch,” he laughed, and made progress toward the ‘den.’
“Here you are,” he said lightly, as he came upon Eunice, with another woman and two men, all of whom were silently concentrating on what was quite evidently a stiff game.
“Yes, here I am,” she returned; “don’t speak please, until I finish this hand.”
Eunice was playing the hand, and though her face paled, and a spot of bright color appeared on either cheek she did not lose her head, and carried the hand through to a successful conclusion.
“Game and rubber!” she cried, triumphantly, and the vanquished pair nodded regretfully.
“And the last game, please, for my wife,” Embury said, in calm, courteous tones. “You can get a substitute, of course. Come, Eunice!”
There was something icy in his tones that made Eunice shiver, though it was not noticeable to strangers, and she rose, smiling, with a few gay words of apology.
“Perfectly awful of me to leave, when I’m winning,” she said, “but there are times, you know, when one remembers the ‘obey’ plank in the matrimonial platform! Dear Fifi, forgive me—”
She moved about gracefully, saying a word or two of farewell, and then disappeared to get her wrap, with as little disturbance as possible of the other players.
“You naughty man!” and Mrs. Desternay shook her finger at Embury; “if you weren’t so good-looking I should put you in my black books!”
“That would at least keep me in your memory,” he returned, but his smile was now quite evidently a forced one.
And his words of farewell were few, as he led Eunice from the house and down to the car.
He handed her in, and then sat beside her, as the chauffeur turned homeward.
Not a word was spoken by either of them during the whole ride.
Several times Eunice decided to break the silence, but concluded not to. She was both angry and frightened, but the anger predominated.
Embury sat motionless, his face pale and stern, and when they arrived at their own house, he assisted her from the car, quite as usual, dismissed the chauffeur, with a word of orders for the next day, and then the pair went into the house.
Ferdinand met them at their door, and performed his efficient and accustomed services.
And then, after a glance at her husband, Eunice went into her own room and closed the door.
Embury smoked a cigarette or two, and at last went to his room.
Ferdinand attended him, and the concerned expression on the old servant’s face showed, though he tried to repress it, an anxiety as to the very evident trouble that was brewing.
But he made no intrusive remark or implication, though a furtive glance at his master betokened a resentment of his treatment of Eunice, the idol of Ferdinand’s heart.
Dismissed, he left Embury’s room, and closed the door softly behind him.
The door between the rooms of Embury and his wife stood a little ajar, and as his hand fell on it to shut it, he heard a stifled gasp of “Sanford!”
He looked in, and saw Eunice, in a very white heat of rage. In all their married life he had never seen her so terribly angry as she looked then. Speechless from very fury, she stood, with clenched hands, trying to command her voice.
She looked wonderfully beautiful like some statue of an avenging angel—he almost fancied he could see a flaming sword!
As he looked, she took a step toward him, her eyes burning with a glance of hate. Judith might have looked so, or Jael. Not exactly frightened, but alarmed, lest she might fly into a passion of rage that would really injure her, Embury closed the door, practically in her very face. Indeed, practically, he slammed it, with all the audible implication of which a slammed door is capable.
The next morning Ferdinand waited for the usual summons from Embury’s bedroom. The tea tray was ready, the toast crisp and hot, but the summons of the bell was unusually delayed.
When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past the hour Ferdinand tapped on Embury’s door. A few moments later he tapped again, rapping louder.
Several such attempts brought no response, and the valet tried the door. It would not open, so Ferdinand went to Eunice’s door and knocked there.
Jumping from her bed, and throwing a kimono round her, Eunice opened her own door.
Ferdinand started at sight of her white face, but recovered himself, and said, “Mr. Embury, ma’am. He doesn’t answer my knock. Can he be ill?”
“Oh, I guess not,” Eunice tried to speak casually, but miserably failed. “Go through that way.” She pointed to the door between her room and her husband’s.
Ferdinand hesitated. “You open it, Mrs. Embury, please,” he said, and his voice shook.
“Why, Ferdinand, what do you mean? Open that door!”
“Yes, ma’am,” and turning the knob, Ferdinand entered.
“Why, he’s still asleep!” he exclaimed. “Shall I wake him?”
“Yes—that is—yes, of course! Wake him up, Ferdinand.”
The door on the other side of Eunice’s room opened, and Aunt Abby put her head in.
“What’s the matter? What’s Ferdinand doing in your room, Eunice? Are you ill?”
“No, Aunt Abby—” but Eunice got no further. She sank back on her bed, and buried her face in the pillows.
“Get up, Mr. Embury—it’s late,” Ferdinand was saying, and then he lightly touched the arm of his master.
“He—he—oh, Miss Eunice! Oh, my God! Why, ma’am—he—he looks to be dead!”
With a shriek, Eunice raised her head a moment and then flung it down on the pillows again, crying, “I don’t believe it! You don’t know what you’re saying! It can’t be so!”
“Yes, I do, ma’am—he’s—why, he’s cold!”
“Let me come in!” ordered Aunt Abby, as Ferdinand tried to bar her entrance; “let me see, I tell you! Yes, he is dead! Oh, Eunice—now, Ferdinand, don’t lose your head! Go quickly and telephone for Doctor—what’s his name? I mean the one in this building—on the ground floor—Harper—that’s it—Doctor Harper. Go, man, go!”
Ferdinand went, and Aunt Abby leaned over the silent figure.
“What do you suppose ailed him, Eunice? He was perfectly well, when he went to bed, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” came a muffled reply.
“Get up, Eunice; get up, dear. That doctor will be here in a minute. Brush up your hair, and fasten your kimono. You won’t have time to dress. I must put on a cap.”
Aunt Abby flew to her bedroom, and returned quickly, wearing a lace cap Eunice had given her, and talking as she adjusted it.
“It must be a stroke—and yet, people don’t have strokes at his age. It can’t be apoplexy—he isn’t that build—and, too, he’s such an athlete; there’s nothing the matter with him. It can’t be—oh, mercy gracious! it can’t be—Eunice! Sanford wouldn’t kill himself, would he?”
“No! no! of course not!”
“Not just now before the election—no, of course he wouldn’t! But it can’t be—oh, Lord, whatcanit be?”