I arose betimes in the morning, despite the fact that I had been up most of the night, for I was determined to gain entrance to the Kingdon cottage and force an interview with Marcia Lawrence before I went to my appointment with her mother. Day had taken from my dream nothing of its vividness, but my nerves were normal again, and I could approach the task with a coolness which had not been possible the night before. That Marcia Lawrence had taken refuge with the Kingdons, I did not for an instant doubt; it was my business to prove it—to gain entrance to her presence and persuade her to grant Burr Curtiss a final interview.
There was another mystery about the cottage which piqued and puzzled me. What was the meaning of that light in the cellar? What work had been going forward there, hour after hour? Whose was that shrill and violent voice which had threatened me through the door? And how had it been possible for the other inmates of the house to sleep on undisturbed through all that commotion? If Miss Lawrence were really there, would she not have heard me?
I descended to the dining-room, revolving this problem in my mind, so intent upon it that I brushed into a man at the door. I turned to apologise and saw his face light up at sight of me.
"Why, hello, Lester," he cried, holding out his hand. "This is luck!"
"Hello, Godfrey," I answered, returning his clasp with interest. "Glad to see you."
"Not half so glad as I am to see you. Come over here to this side-table where we can talk in peace. Quite like the Studio, isn't it?"
I laughed responsively at the memory of that night when Jim Godfrey, of theRecord, for purposes of his own, had kidnapped me and entertained me with a superb dinner at the famous Sixth Avenue resort. I had met him occasionally since, and had found him always the same genial, generous, astute fellow he had proved himself then. Trained on the detective force, he had been for some years theRecord'sstar reporter, and was employed only on what the newspapers love to callcauses célèbres. Of course, I knew instantly what "cause" it was had brought him to Elizabeth.
"Here on business?" he asked, as we sat down.
"Yes. And you?"
"Oh, I came down last night to write up this Lawrence-Curtiss affair. You've heard about it?"
He was looking at me keenly.
"Yes," I answered steadily, determined to keep him from guessing my connection with it; "I read about it in the papers last night. Queer affair, wasn't it?"
"Mighty queer. You haven't happened to form a theory about it, have you?"
I laughed outright. He had come to me for a theory once before, and here he was at his old trick.
"I haven't enough data to form a theory," I said.
"Well, maybe I can furnish you with more. I did some pretty lively work last night, and covered all the details I could think of."
"I haven't seen this morning'sRecord," I said. "Of course it's all there."
"Not quite all. I don't want to give the other fellows too much rope. They're all tied up in a knot, now, and I want them to stay that way."
"The 'other fellows,' I suppose, are your esteemed contemporaries?"
"In plain English, my hated rivals. But I don't mind telling you. You treated me square in the Holladay case. The boys told me afterwards how you refused to give me away."
"All right; fire ahead," I said, and cut my steak.
"Well," he began, "I saw at once, after I'd looked over the field and found out that it was impossible to see either Curtiss or Mrs. Lawrence, that the persons who could probably tell me most about the inside workings of this affair were the servants in the Lawrence house. Evidently there must have been trouble of some sort there; and it probably would not escape the servants' notice. So I went after them."
I nodded, but kept my eyes on my plate. Here was luck, indeed!
"There are five of them," he went on; "an outside man, who takes care of the grounds and horses; a cook, two house-girls, and a maid. The outside man is the husband of the cook; they and the house-girls stay at the place, and the maid lives with her sister in a cottage just off the grounds."
"And could they tell you anything?" I asked.
"Neither the man, the cook, nor the house-girls could tell me a thing. They'd all been busy preparing for the wedding, and didn't know anything was wrong until the maid, whose name is Lucy Kingdon, told them Miss Lawrence had disappeared. The house-girls had been passing back and forth all the time, and had caught a glimpse of Miss Lawrence now and then, but had noticed absolutely nothing unusual, had seen no stranger about the place, nor heard any outcry. One of them passed Miss Lawrence in the hall as she was talking with the decorator, and says that she was radiant with happiness.
"But the maid?" I asked, anxious to hear what he had got from her.
"Ah, she was different. She's been with the family a long time. She seems to be a kind of privileged character—a trusted confidante; though why any one should wish to trust her is beyond me—she's not an attractive woman, rather the reverse."
"And what did she tell you?"
"She didn't tell me anything," answered Godfrey, with some heat. "She beat about the bush and finally got angry. But I'm sure of one thing, and that is that she knows where Miss Lawrence is. Indeed," he added, "I'm pretty certain that Miss Lawrence passed the night in the Kingdon cottage."
"Why?" I asked, with lively interest at this confirmation of my own belief.
"I don't know—just a sort of intuition. And then—they wouldn't let me in to see."
"Oh—you tried to get in, did you?"
"I certainly did—tried my level best, but couldn't make it. Those Kingdon sisters are a pair of Tartars. Both of them were there. The elder one was a beauty when she was young, I fancy, but she's seen some trying times since, to judge from her face. She's got mighty handsome eyes, even yet—and my! how they can flash. Well, they sent me to the right-about as soon as they learned my errand. I tried all my wiles," he added, with a little rueful smile, "and in vain."
"But intuition's hardly enough to go on," I suggested.
"Of course there's more than that. It's the only house she could have reached without being seen. There's a path leads to it through a grove which screens it from the street. If she'd gone in any other direction, she'd have had to venture out into the open, where somebody would have been sure to see her. Remember, she was in her wedding-dress, and there were probably a good many people standing around watching the house, as they always do at these fashionable weddings."
Perhaps something in my face betrayed me; at any rate, he looked at me with a sudden intent interest.
"See here, Lester," he said, "I believe you're in on this thing yourself."
"Not for publication."
"Agreed. Now let's have it."
"Well," I explained, "I'm working for Curtiss. I'm trying to find Miss Lawrence. He thinks he's entitled to an explanation."
Godfrey nodded quickly.
"Any man would think so," he said. "How are you going about it?"
"I'm going to take advantage of the hint you just gave me."
"And go to the Kingdon house?"
"Yes. I believe Miss Lawrence is there, myself. I thought so last night when I came to it after following that path through the grove."
"So you'd discovered it, too! Well, I wish you luck. Of course, we may be all wrong. I don't believe there are any other pointers I can give you," he added, "or I'd be glad to. I suppose you saw Mrs. Lawrence?"
"Oh yes."
"How was she affected?"
"Not so deeply as you'd expect," I said.
He gazed at me with narrowed eyes.
"Has it occurred to you, Lester," he said, at last, "that Miss Lawrence may not have gone away of her own accord at all; that there may be a plot against her; that she was forced to go, or perhaps even shut up in some room in the Lawrence house?"
"Yes; I'd thought of it. I even put it to Mrs. Lawrence."
"And what did she say?"
"She laughed at me. She said her daughter was a strong girl, who wouldn't let herself be abducted without a struggle, and that a single scream would have alarmed the house."
"But suppose she'd been drugged," suggested Godfrey. "Then she would have neither screamed nor struggled."
"Last night," I said, "I was half-inclined to believe that something of the sort had happened. I'd forgotten one fact which absolutely disproves it. She left a note behind her—or, at least, wrote it and sent it back after she ran away."
"Ah—she did?"
"Yes—a note saying the marriage was impossible, though her love was unaltered, and that Curtiss wasn't to attempt to find her."
Godfrey sat suddenly upright with grim countenance.
"Then there's only one explanation of it," he said. "There's only one thing could make a girl drop everything and run away like that—only one thing in the world. She's already married, and her first husband's turned up."
"I'd thought of that, too; but her mother swears her daughter never had a love affair previous to this one."
"Of course she'd say so. Has any other possible explanation occurred to you?"
"No," I answered frankly. "And I've tried mighty hard to find another."
"Let's go back a bit. The discovery—whatever it was—was made at the last moment."
"Yes—at the moment she left the decorator and started upstairs to get her veil."
"Was it made accidentally?"
"I don't know."
"But I do. It wasnotaccidentally—it was by design. Things don't happen accidentally, just in the nick of time."
"No," I agreed, "they don't."
"It was his revenge," continued Godfrey, with growing excitement. "He wanted to get even, and he waited till the last moment. It was certainly artistic."
"If he really wanted to crush her," I suggested, my lips trembling with the horror of the thought, "he'd have waited a little longer."
Godfrey stared at me with glittering eyes.
"You're right," he agreed, after a moment. "He didn't want to get even, then; he wanted her back. So he sent a letter——"
"It wasn't a letter. Perhaps it was a telegram."
"No, it wasn't a telegram—I looked that up. Are you sure it wasn't a letter?"
"Yes. The morning mail was delivered shortly after nine. She was happy as usual until the moment of her disappearance, two hours later. If it wasn't a letter or a telegram, he must have come in person."
Godfrey sat for a moment with intent face.
"I hardly think so," he said, at last. "Some one would have noticed a stranger, and I made special inquiries on that point, though it was a lover I was looking for, not a husband. I rather imagined that there was another man in the case, and that, at the last moment, she decided to marry him and ran away to do it."
"No," I said decidedly, "she was in love with Curtiss—passionately in love with him."
"Well, lover or husband, I don't believe he came in person. I think it much more probable that the warning came from inside the house."
"From the maid," I suggested.
"Precisely," he nodded. "From the maid."
Then, suddenly, I recalled the sweet face, the clear gaze——
"It's a pretty theory, Godfrey," I said; "but I don't believe it. Have you ever seen Miss Lawrence?"
"No—not even her photograph. I tried to get one and failed," he added, with rueful countenance.
"She's a beautiful woman—she's more than that—she's a good woman. There's something Madonna-like about her."
"Most of the famous Madonnas," he said, smiling, "however virginal in appearance, were anything but Madonna-like in behaviour—Andrea del Sarto's, for instance."
With a little shiver, I remembered Mr. Royce's phrase—it was to the del Sarto Madonna he had compared her! Could I be wrong in my estimate of her, after all?
"There's no other theory will explain her flight," he repeated. "Presuming, of course, that she was sane."
"She was very sane," I said, in a low voice. "She was a self-controlled, well-balanced woman."
"And that she still loves Curtiss."
"I'm sure she does."
"Then you'll find I'm right. But come," he added, rising, "I've got some work to do. I'll try to meet you as you come away from the Kingdon cottage. I'm curious to know what luck you'll have."
He left me at the hotel door and hurried away toward the business part of the town, while I turned in the opposite direction. Godfrey's confidence in his theory weighed upon me heavily. He was right in saying that it seemed the only tenable one, and yet, with the memory of Miss Lawrence's pure face before me, I could not believe it. I could not believe that those clear eyes sheltered such a secret. I could not believe that anything shameful had ever touched her. She had kept herself unspotted from the world. And I would prove it!
As I reached the Kingdon house and turned in at the gate, I remembered with a smile the resolution I had made the night before to buy a revolver. It seemed absurd enough in the light of the clear day—that I should arm myself against two women!
There was a flower-bed on either side the walk, well-kept and in a riot of bloom, and along the hedges and about the house were others. Evidently the women who lived here not only loved flowers, but had ample time to tend them. As I approached the house, I saw that the blinds were drawn, and there seemed no sign of life about the place, but the door was opened almost instantly in answer to my knock.
The woman who opened it, I knew at once for the elder Miss Kingdon, and my eyes were caught and my attention held by the bold, virile beauty of her face—a beauty which had, in a way, burnt itself out by its very fierceness. She resembled her sister, and yet there was something higher and finer about her. She gave me the impression of one who had passed through a fiery furnace—and not unscathed! I wondered, as Godfrey had, at the dark splendour of her eyes; I could fancy how they would burn and sparkle once she was roused to anger.
"This is Miss Kingdon?" I asked.
She bowed.
"I'm going to ask a favour, Miss Kingdon," I said, "the favour of a few moments' conversation."
"Are you a reporter?" she demanded, without seeking to soften the harshness of the question, and in an instant I knew that it was she who had threatened me through the door the night before, for the voice was the same and yet not the same. Then it had been edged and broken by a kind of frenzy; now it was almost domineering in its cool insolence. What was it had so shaken her? Fear at my knock at that hour of the night? Yet she seemed anything but a woman easily alarmed.
"No, I'm not a reporter," I answered, smiling as well as I could to hide the tumult of my thoughts. "My name is Lester, and I'm acting for Mr. Curtiss. I hope you'll grant my request."
She looked at me more closely, and her lips curved derisively.
"I've heard of you," she said.
"From your sister, no doubt. I had the pleasure of meeting her yesterday afternoon."
I could not wholly keep the irony out of my tone.
"I guess you didn't find out much from her," she retorted.
"Not half as much as she knew. I hope you'll be more frank with me."
She hesitated a moment longer, then stood aside.
"Very well; come in," she said, and as I entered, she pointed the way into a room at the right.
It was a large, pleasant room, well furnished and in excellent taste. On my first glance around, my eyes were caught and held by a portrait which occupied the place of honour on the wall opposite the front windows. It was a woman's head, life-size, evidently done from life, crude enough in execution, but of a woman so brilliantly beautiful that her face seemed to glow through the canvas, to rise superior to the lack of skill with which the artist had depicted her. There was something familiar about it, too—at least, I fancied so—and then I shook the thought away impatiently.
"Well?" asked a voice, and I turned to see that Miss Kingdon was waiting for me to speak. "Sit down," she added abruptly, and herself sat down opposite me, and gazed at me with fierce eyes that never wavered.
"Mr. Curtiss is naturally anxious," I began, "to find Miss Lawrence and to hear from her own lips the reason for her flight. He even thinks he has a certain right to know that reason. I'm trying to find where Miss Lawrence is."
"And why do you come here?" she asked with compressed lips.
"Because," I answered boldly, "I believe that Miss Lawrence came here when she left her home. She went first into the library, where she sat for a while until she decided what to do; then she opened the library window, descended from the balcony, and ran here along the path which leads through the trees to that gate out yonder. You received her and refused to allow any one to see her."
"I refused to allow the reporters to see her!" she cried. "Surely, you would have done as much!"
"Yes," I said, repressing as well as I could the sudden burst of triumph which glowed within me. "Yes—perhaps I should. But you'll not refuse me?"
She smiled grimly.
"That was cleverly done, Mr. Lester," she said. "Fortunately it's no longer a question of my consent or refusal."
"Miss Lawrence isn't here?"
"No; Miss Lawrence left here late last night."
"And went——"
"Ah, that I shall not tell."
I looked at her again and saw that by arguing I should be simply wasting my time. I saw something else, too—this woman also knew the reason for Marcia Lawrence's flight.
But she was looking at me with a sudden white intensity.
"It was you," she said hoarsely, "who knocked at the door in the middle of the night."
"Yes," I admitted, fascinated by her burning gaze, "it was I."
"Why did you do that?"
"I don't exactly know," I answered lamely, not daring to tell the truth. "I was passing the house and saw a light——"
"Where?" she demanded, her face contracting in a quick spasm.
"In the window yonder," and I heard her deep breath of relief. "I thought perhaps it was Miss Lawrence."
"It was I," she said, and I saw she was visibly forcing herself to go on. "I had been putting away some fruit in the cellar. Your knock at that hour startled me."
"Quite naturally," I assented. "I wonder at myself now for knocking."
"How did you happen to be passing the house at that time?" she asked suddenly.
"I'd been awakened by a bad dream and found I couldn't go to sleep again, so decided to walk a little. I walked in this direction, I suppose, because I was thinking about Miss Lawrence."
She was looking at me keenly, but saw that I spoke the truth and again gave a quick sigh of relief.
"Miss Lawrence was not here then?" I questioned, deciding to become the inquisitor in my turn.
"Oh, no; she had left several hours earlier. I was alone in the house—which rendered your knock all the more disquieting. My sister remained with Mrs. Lawrence last night," and she rose to indicate that my audience was at an end.
I rose somewhat reluctantly. I felt that she could tell me so much more, if she would. It was provoking to be so near success, and yet not to succeed.
"I'm sorry," I said, "that you refuse to tell me where Miss Lawrence has gone. I don't believe you're acting wisely—nor is she in running away. She should be brave enough to stay and face Mr. Curtiss. He has a right——"
"There are others who have rights," she cried, her self-control suddenly deserting her. "There are others who have waived their rights, and torn their hearts, and withered in silence——"
She stopped abruptly, and I saw the tremor which swept through her as she controlled herself.
"That is all," she said more calmly, but with working face. "Your parrot-like talk of Mr. Curtiss's rights provoked me," and she moved toward the door.
I paused for a last glance at the portrait, and again I was struck by its likeness to some one I knew.
"That is a most remarkable picture," I said. "The person who painted it seems to have been clumsy enough, and yet there is something vital and bewitching about it."
There was a signature scrawled in one corner, and I bent closer to decipher it.
"It was painted by a cousin of mine," said Miss Kingdon indifferently.
And suddenly the scrawl became intelligible.
"'Ruth Endicott,'" I read, with a quick glow of interest.
"What do you know of her?" she demanded, looking at me sharply.
"Nothing," I answered, as indifferently as I could. "Only, I should be interested to know how she developed. She seems to have had great talent."
"That was the last picture she ever painted," said Miss Kingdon shortly; then her eyes flamed suddenly and her face darkened, as she stepped close to the portrait and stared at it. "She was beautiful—beautiful!" she murmured hoarsely, and I knew that Ruth Endicott's last painting had been a portrait of herself.
And yet it was scarcely a portrait, either, for the features were barely indicated. But, gazing at it, one saw a woman there—a woman real and vital—and knew instinctively that she was beautiful. It was what I suppose would be called an impressionistic picture, but it differed from most impressionistic pictures in showing imagination in the artist instead of demanding it from the observer.
But why should that pictured face seem so familiar? Not in lineament, but in poise and expression it recalled some one vividly. There was no doubting the resemblance, but grope in my memory as I might, I could not place it.
"When you are quite ready," said Miss Kingdon, in a voice quivering with impatience, "I shall be glad to show you out."
I turned to find her glaring at me almost like a beast at bay. With an imperious gesture, which checked on my lips any questions I would have asked, she led the way out into the hall.
"You are at liberty to search the house," she said coldly, intercepting the glance I shot about me, "if you doubt my statement that Miss Lawrence is no longer here."
The thought flashed through my mind that I would welcome a chance to take a look into the cellar, and inspect the fruit which it had taken hours to arrange, but I did not dare suggest it.
"No," I protested; "I believe you," and in another moment I was in the street.
Godfrey was awaiting me.
"Well?" he asked.
"Not there," I said.
"But she was there?"
"Yes; it was there she took refuge—you were right about that; but she left late last night. I don't know how or where. Miss Kingdon refused to tell me."
He pondered this an instant with half-closed eyes.
"I don't think she can slip through our fingers," he said, at last. "Every one about here knows her."
"If she took the train," I suggested, "the agent may remember."
"Yes," he agreed. "And by the way," he added suddenly, "itwasa letter which caused all this trouble."
"A letter?"
"Yes; a special-delivery letter. It was delivered at 11.15 o'clock yesterday morning. The boy mounted the steps and was going to ring the bell, when Miss Lawrence herself, who was just starting up the stairs, saw him and came to the door, which was open, and took the letter. It was addressed to her and she signed for it."
"Where was it from?" I asked.
"It was from New York, and across the front, in a bold hand, was written, 'Important—read at once.'"
I glanced at my watch; it wanted still half an hour of eleven o'clock.
"Let's walk on together," I said; "this needs talking over. A special-delivery letter from New York, then, causes Marcia Lawrence, a well-poised, self-possessed, happy woman, to flee from the man she loves, to wreck her life, throw away her future——" I stopped in despair. Really, I felt for the moment like tearing my hair.
"It seems incredible, doesn't it?" asked Godfrey, smiling at my bewildered countenance.
"Incredible? Why, it's more than that—it's—it's—I don't know any word strong enough to describe it. Godfrey, what is this secret?"
"I know what it isn't."
"Well, what isn't it, then?"
"It isn't about Curtiss. We've looked into his life—I just got a report from Delaney—and he's as straight as a string."
"And the women?"
"With the women it isn't so easy. You see, they were in Europe for six or seven years, and it's hard to follow them. However, we're on their track, and I have hopes."
"Hopes?"
"Of proving my theory the right one. Depend upon it, Lester, there's either a lover or a husband in the background somewhere."
But again I remembered the photograph.
"A lover, perhaps," I admitted, "but not a husband, Godfrey. There's no stain like that on her—there's no stain at all. She's spotless—I'll stake my soul upon it!"
He was gazing at me curiously.
"You seem mighty certain about it," he commented.
For an instant, I had an impulse to show him the photograph. But I stifled it.
"Iamcertain," I answered lamely. "Certain your theory's all wrong."
"Well, I'm going to stick to it till I find a better one."
"Are you going to make it public?"
"No, not till we've something more to back it. We've wired our European correspondents to look up the record of the women while they were abroad. We'll wait till we get reports from them, which will be to-morrow or the day after. Let's see if we can find out which way Miss Lawrence went last night."
We had reached the hotel, and, as he spoke, Godfrey turned into it.
"The ticket agent boards here," he said, "and I took care to make friends with him. I thought perhaps he might be able to help me. Ah, there he is now. Wait a moment."
He hurried forward and intercepted a well-dressed man who was just leaving the office. I saw them stop for a moment's low-toned conversation; then Godfrey turned back towards me.
"No," he said, "no luck. Miss Lawrence bought no ticket at the station here last night, nor did either of the Kingdons. The agent was on duty from six o'clock till midnight. But he suggests a very simple way in which she could have escaped notice, had she wished. She had merely to enter the train without buying a ticket, and pay her fare direct to the conductor. I'm inclined to think that's what she did—providing, of course, that she left town at all."
"I think she's left," I said; "and that's no doubt the way she did it."
"Now, I'll have to say good-bye," he added. "I don't think I shall stay here much longer—the case isn't worth it. When do you go back?"
"I don't know, yet," I answered. "I've got to have something to take to Curtiss. I can't go back empty-handed."
"I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said. "Our correspondent here will be on the lookout for developments. My sympathies are all with Curtiss. I want to help you."
"Thank you," I said. "Good-bye."
I watched him for a moment, as he hurried down the street; then I turned back towards the Lawrence house. Yes, Godfrey evidently wished to help me; and yet, while he had given me a lot of what he called "interesting information," and had treated me to a no-less-interesting theory, he had only made the mystery more impenetrable than ever.
"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice, and somebody ran into me.
I glanced up to see that it was a pert-looking boy, wearing a cap with "W. U." on the front. We were just at the Lawrence gate.
"All right," I said. "No harm done," and entered.
Not till I was half-way up the walk, did it occur to me that the boy had probably come out of the gate—that he had brought a message—from whom? for whom?
I rang the bell, and a girl admitted me; but it was not Lucy Kingdon, whom I had hoped to see. She showed me into the library, and took my card. She must have met her mistress in the hall, for it was only a moment before the rustle of approaching skirts announced her. As she entered, I noticed with a quick leap of the heart that she held crushed in her hand a sheet of yellow paper.
"Good-morning, Mr. Lester," she said, quite composedly, and it was evident that she had entirely conquered the agitation which had racked her the evening before. "Sit down, please," and she herself sank into a chair. "I've been thinking over what you said to me yesterday afternoon," she continued, "and I believe that you were right. Mr. Curtiss unquestionably has the right to know what it is that takes his promised wife away from him, and to decide if he shall permit it to take her away forever."
"Then it's notimpossiblethat she should be his wife?" I questioned quickly. "Your daughter was mistaken?"
"She perhaps thought it impossible at first; but I don't see it so. She has been moved, I should say, by a sense of faithfulness to the dead. I don't think—I can't think—that he will take it so seriously as she does. He will look at it from a man's point of view; he won't shrink from it as she did; besides, he'll see that it is no fault in her, that she's just as she always was, sweet, pure, and lovable. She herself will take it less seriously when she has time to think it over."
"Yes," I agreed, striving to conceal from her the fact that I did not in the least understand. "No doubt of that. The first shock when she read the letter——"
"The letter?" she broke in. "Which letter?"
"But I thought you knew!"
"I knew nothing of any letter," she said, her face suddenly white.
"Yesterday morning," I said, "just as Miss Lawrence was going upstairs after looking at the decorations, a boy came to the door with a special-delivery letter from New York. It was addressed to her—marked 'Important, read at once.' She took it and came into this room, and it was here she learned this secret——"
But Mrs. Lawrence was no longer listening. She was sitting there, staring straight before her, her face livid.
"A letter!" she repeated hoarsely. "A letter! I don't understand. I thought she had been told—I thought that woman had told her—I was sure of it. Yes—that must have been it—I cannot be mistaken—the letter had nothing to do with it. It was that woman. She had waited all these years, and then——"
There was a step at the door, and Lucy Kingdon's dark face appeared. She was going past, but at the sight of us, she hesitated, and then stopped on the threshold.
"Did you call, ma'am?" she asked, shooting me at the same time a glance so venomous that I recoiled a little.
"No!" said Mrs. Lawrence, and it seemed to me that there was abhorrence in the look she turned upon the other woman. "Yet stay," she added quickly. "Go to your sister. Tell her I wish to see her—here—at once."
I saw the girl's start of surprise; she half-opened her lips to speak, then glanced at me again and closed them.
"Very well, ma'am," she said, and left the room.
Mrs. Lawrence turned to me, still breathing quickly under the stress of the emotion which shook her.
"You must leave me to solve this mystery, Mr. Lester," she said rapidly, "by myself and in my own way. I must find who it is that has dared to meddle in my family affairs. I was prepared to forgive—but there are some things which can never be forgiven—however deeply one may pity——"
She checked herself; perhaps she saw the intentness of my interest.
"But that is no concern of yours," she went on more calmly, and I could not but admit the justice of the rebuke. "You're seeking Marcia. In that I would help you, if I could, but I don't know where she is. As soon as I do know, I will summon Mr. Curtiss; I promise you that. Perhaps you will find her without my help. If you do, tell Mr. Curtiss to go to her and demand an explanation; it is due him, and she has my full permission to tell him everything. Then let him decide whether she shall be his wife. We will both bow to his decision."
"But you've heard from her?" I persisted.
"Only this," she answered, and thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, then turned and left the room.
I smoothed it out and read the message at a glance, noting that it was dated from New York:—
"I am safe. Do not worry. Will write."Marcia."
"I am safe. Do not worry. Will write.
"Marcia."
My work at Elizabeth was done. Whatever mystery this house contained, whatever the secrets of the Kingdons and the Lawrences, my business was not with them. I had only to return to New York and place this message in Burr Curtiss's hands. I would counsel him to wait until Marcia Lawrence chose to reveal herself—I was sure it would not be long. A few days' respite would be wise for both of them; they would be calmer, more self-controlled, better able to meet bravely and sensibly what must be the one crisis of their lives. But a great load was lifted from me. Mrs. Lawrence had assured me that the marriage was not impossible; loving each other as they did, I knew that nothing short of the impossible could stand between them. So they would win through, at last.
Cheered by this thought, I left the house and made my way to the hotel.
"When's the next train to New York?" I asked.
"There's one on the Pennsylvania, sir, in ten minutes," said the clerk. "'Bus just leaving."
I ran out and got aboard, and a moment later we were bumping over the uneven pavement. I took a final look up the shady street; it was the last time I should see it. What was going on, I wondered, in that big house among the trees? Had Miss Kingdon answered the imperative summons sent her? Had there already been an explanation, a revelation of the mystery? Had she confessed that it was indeed she who revealed the secret? Was Mrs. Lawrence right in thinking the letter from New York had no connection with it?
The 'bus stopped abruptly, and I clambered down to the platform and got my ticket. It was still some minutes till train time, and while I waited, a train on the Jersey Central tracks stood puffing a moment, and then started on for Philadelphia. The little station was built in the triangle where the two lines crossed; trains were passing almost every minute, and I reflected how easy it would be for a person not familiar with the place to get confused and to take the wrong train.
There came a growing rumble, a shrieking of brakes. A moment more and we were off.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly twelve o'clock. I should be at the office in, say, forty-five minutes. I would wire Curtiss at once, and the rest would be in his hands. My connection with the case would end. And yet, it was not without a certain regret that I would relinquish it—for I had not solved the mystery; that was, if anything, more impenetrable than when I had first approached it. Godfrey's specious theory—which I had myself at first believed—I put aside, for, even from the broken sentences which had fallen from Mrs. Lawrence's lips, I could see that it was not the right one. If Marcia Lawrence had fled in order to protect the memory of the dead, there could be no question of a living husband. But though I rejected that explanation, it was evident that, with the data at hand, I could form no adequate one to replace it.
I went over in my mind every phase of the affair from first to last; I endeavoured to sift out the significant incidents, and to reject the immaterial; I tried to weld them into a compact mass, but they would not be welded. There was nothing to connect them, no common thread upon which they could be strung; all that I had in my possession was a bundle of facts which seemed to be flatly self-contradictory.
I remembered Mrs. Lawrence's astonishment when I had mentioned the existence of the letter. What had she said? "I thought it was that woman!" Which woman? Evidently the elder Kingdon, since she had at once sent for her. That had been my suspicion—that it was she or her sister who had betrayed the secret. Yet the letter would seem to prove that it was some one else. And it struck me as significant that at no time had Mrs. Lawrence appeared to suspect the maid.
Was there really any connection, I wondered, between that old tragedy in Mrs. Lawrence's life and this in the life of her daughter? I reviewed again the story Dr. Schuyler had told me. How the lives of the Endicotts and the Kingdons and the Lawrences had intertwined! I got out my notebook and sketched a rough table showing their relationship, which looked somewhat as here shown.
As I gazed down at this, two names seemed to stand out more vividly than all the rest. I closed my eyes and called before me the faces of two beautiful women. I had never seen either of them in the life—of one, I had only a photograph; of the other I had seen only a crude portrait in the parlour of the Kingdon cottage—but they had somehow assumed for me personalities distinct and vivid. Marcia Lawrence and Ruth Endicott—the tragedy of fate linked them together. Beautiful, young, accomplished, reared amid gentle surroundings, both had tasted the bitterness of life. From the very house whence Marcia Lawrence fled, Ruth Endicott had started on her hopeless search for health.
The train slowed up for Jersey City, and in a moment was rolling under the great shed. Twenty minutes later, I opened our office door. Mr. Royce had gone out for lunch—which reminded me that I had missed mine again—but he came in almost immediately.
"Well?" he cried, as he crossed the threshold, and came forward with expectant face.
"You'd better wire Curtiss to come back," I said.
"You've news for him?"
I nodded.
"I knew you'd have!" he said exultantly, and drew a pad of telegraph forms toward him and wrote a rapid message. "Curtiss is staying at a little place on Jamaica Bay. He was afraid to go any farther away, I suppose. He ought to be here in an hour," he added, and called a boy and gave him the message.
Then he swung around to me again.
"Now let's have the story," he prompted. "I know there's a story."
"Yes," I said; "there's a story. I was just——"
The door burst open with a crash, and in came Burr Curtiss himself.
"I couldn't stay away any longer!" he cried. "I was eating my heart out. Have you any news?"
"Sit down, Curtiss, and pull yourself together," interposed our junior, catching him by the arm. "This won't do. I just wired you to come on. You must have met the boy."
"I believe I did knock over a youngster just outside the door."
"Well, there's no damage done, I guess. Since you're here, Lester can go right ahead with the story."
"But one thing first," interrupted our client. "Did you find out where she went, Mr. Lester?"
"No," I answered. "But I have a message from her."
"Thank God!" he murmured, and sank back in his chair. I guessed what his fear had been—that Marcia Lawrence was no longer among the living.
Looking at him closely, I was shocked at the change a single day had wrought in him. His eyes were bloodshot from want of sleep, his face pale and drawn, his hair and beard unkempt. In a word, he had ceased to be the handsome, well-groomed man the world knew as Burr Curtiss.
I related my doings briefly, including only the essential points. Then I placed the message in his hands. He read it, his face quivering.
"But this tells us nothing," he said hoarsely, looking up at me with piteous eyes.
"Except that she was in New York this morning—and wants to fight her battle out by herself."
Curtiss was on his feet, his face livid.
"But she sha'n't fight it out by herself!" he cried. "Do you think I'm such a coward as that—to stand back, not offering to help?"
"Perhaps you can't help," I interposed.
"Don't talk nonsense!" he retorted. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lester, but I'm overwrought—I can't choose my words. But itisnonsense. I love her—of course I can help. Don't you see, it's not herself she's thinking of—she's trying to spareme."
I nodded. Perhaps it was for his sake that Marcia Lawrence had taken that wild step. That would be like a woman.
"You may be right," I said. "I'd never thought of that solution, but Mrs. Lawrence's last words to me would seem to point that way. She said that the matter would rest in your hands—that it would be for you to choose, after you'd heard the story."
"I don't want to hear the story!" Curtiss cried. "Good God! What do I care for the story! I've made my choice, once and forever! I want her! Of course it was to spare me she ran away! She'd never think of herself!"
I might have retorted that it had been a rather questionable form of mercy; that she could scarcely have inflicted on him any suffering more acute than that which he had undergone. But I forbore; instead, I took the telegram again and studied it.
"If you really wish to find her," I said, "perhaps this will give us a clue."
"I do wish to find her."
"This form will tell us which station this message was sent from, I think. Wait here a minute," and I crossed the hall to the brokerage offices of Sims & Wesson. "May I speak to your operator?" I asked of the junior partner.
"Certainly," he said, and waved me to the little room where the instruments were clicking merrily away.
"Can you tell me what these characters mean?" I asked, placing the message before the operator and pointing to the row of figures and letters at the top of it—"61CWDDSA8PD."
"The sixty-one," he said, "means that this was the sixty-first message received at Elizabeth this morning; 'CW' means that the message was filed at the Christopher Street office—corner Christopher and West; 'DD' and 'SA' are the initials of the operators who sent and received the message; '8PD' means that there are eight words in the message and that it was prepaid. It's the regular form used on all Western Union messages."
"Thank you," I said, and hurried back across the hall elated, for I had learned more than I had dared to hope.
"Well?" asked Curtiss, looking up with anxious face.
"The message was filed at the Christopher Street office," I said, "Christopher and West streets——"
"West Street?" echoed Mr. Royce. "What on earth was she doing there?"
"She could have been doing only one thing," I pointed out exultantly. "When a woman goes down to the docks, it must be——"
"To take a boat!"
"Just so! And when she goes to that particular portion of the docks, it must be to take a trans-Atlantic liner."
Curtiss stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; then he rose heavily to his feet.
"Well, I can follow her even there," he said, and started for the door.
But Mr. Royce had him by the arm.
"My dear Curtiss!" he protested. "Think what a wild-goose chase you're starting on!"
"Better than sitting idle here," retorted Curtiss doggedly; and I could not but agree with him.
"Perhaps we can narrow the search down a little," I said. "Suppose we drive around to the West Street office."
"Just what I was about to do," said Curtiss, and led the way to the elevator.
During that drive across town, we found little to say. Curtiss was deep in his own thoughts, and I saw from the way Mr. Royce looked at him, how anxious he was concerning him. But at last we reached our destination.
"Can you give me any description of the person who sent this message?" I asked, and spread out the telegram before the man at the desk. "Perhaps you'll let us see the original."
He glanced at the message and then at us.
"No question of a mistake, I hope?" he said. "The message reads straight enough."
"No," I answered; "rather a question of preventing a mistake. I hope you won't refuse us."
He glanced us over again and seemed to understand.
"It's a little irregular," he said; "but I guess I can do it."
He opened a drawer, and ran through a sheaf of papers.
"Here it is," he said, and laid a sheet before us. "You see the message was correctly sent."
"Yes," I agreed; but it was not at the message I was looking; it was at the sheet upon which it was written—a sheet which had embossed at the top the words "S. S.Umbria."
"Who sent the message?" I asked.
"It was brought in by a messenger from the Cunard line pier."
"What time did theUmbriasail?"
"She was to have sailed at twelve o'clock, but was delayed by a little accident of some sort. Perhaps she's still at her pier."
I thanked fortune that I had told our cabman to wait; I think Curtiss would have been crazed by any delay. As it was, we rushed from the office and crowded in.
"The Cunard pier!" cried Mr. Royce, "and in a hurry!" and he waved a bill under the cabman's nose.
Not until we were under way did Curtiss speak.
"Did you see?" he asked, in a voice which shook convulsively. "The message was in Marcia's writing."
"Yes," I said. "I recognised it."
"We must catch the boat. Why don't that fellow whip up?"
"He's going as fast as he can," said Mr. Royce. "Sit still, Curtiss," and he threw an arm about him.
What a ride that was over the cobble-stones! Half a dozen times I thought a collision inevitable, but we had fallen into skilful hands, and were safely piloted through openings in the crowd of vehicles where it seemed a hand-barrow could not hope to go.
"Here we are!" cried cabby, and we tumbled out. He had done his best to earn his tip, and got it.
The pier was crowded, but we forced our way along it with scant regard for the feelings of other people. Had the ship sailed—were we in time——
"She's gone," said Mr. Royce, as we gained the front of the crowd. "See there."
There she was, headed squarely down the stream, just gathering speed. There was a flutter of hand-kerchiefs from her deck, we could see the people crowding against the rail in their eagerness to wave a last good-bye——
Curtiss, who had been staring at her stupidly, suddenly flushed and pulled himself erect.
"There she is!" he cried. "See—standing alone by that forward boat."
I stared with all my eyes. There was indeed a figure there—a woman clad in black—but the face was the merest blur.
"You think so?" I asked incredulously.
"I know so!" and he swung sharp round, his face alight with eagerness. "Come—there must be some way to catch her—a tug——"
He accosted the first blue-coated official he could find, but that worthy shook his head. No tug could catch theUmbrianow; besides, there was none at hand to make the trial. By the time one could be secured, the ship would be far down the bay, settling into her speed. What was the trouble—a lady on board?
"Well, the best you can do is to meet her at Liverpool when she lands," he said.
"Meet her?" echoed Curtiss. "But how?"
"Take theOceanic. She'll sail in half an hour from Pier 48, just below here. She'll reach Liverpool ahead of theUmbria—perhaps a day ahead."
I saw Curtiss's lips tighten with sudden resolution.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll do it."
There was nothing to be said. He was past arguing with, even had we felt like arguing—which I, for one, did not.
"I'll cable," he promised, as we stood in the shadow of the big liner, "and let you know if I find her."
"Have you money enough?" asked Mr. Royce. "Don't hesitate to say so, if you haven't."
Curtiss laughed bitterly.
"Oh, I've enough!" he said. "Quite a roll, in fact. I'd expected to spend it on a honeymoon!"
"You'll have the honeymoon yet," said Mr. Royce, with a certainty I thought a little forced. "What will you do for clothes?"
"I can make out some way till I get to the other side—the steward can help me."
Mr. Royce was again looking at him anxiously.
"I don't like it," he said, "your running off this way. You'll kill yourself."
"Oh, I'll be all right," Curtiss assured him. "A sea-voyage is just what would have been prescribed for me," and he attempted a smile.
"But you've got the worst stateroom on board," and indeed theOceanichad been so crowded that he was fortunate to get that.
"No matter," said Curtiss. "I'd have gone if there'd been no place but the steerage."
"There's one thing," I said. "Have you an enemy in New York who might try to do you an injury? That would explain the letter, you know."
Curtiss thought for a moment with knitted brows. Then he shook his head.
"No," he said decidedly, "I have no enemy—certainly none who'd descend to stabbing me in the back. Besides, what could even the most unscrupulous enemy have written? How could he have hurt me? I can't understand it," he added wearily.
"Neither can I," I agreed. "It's beyond reasoning about."
"An enemy might have written a lie," suggested Mr. Royce.
"But Marcia wouldn't have believed it," retorted Curtiss. "I know her—she would have cast it from her. She trusted me. No; whatever the secret, it was one whose truth she could not doubt."
And I agreed with him.
We shook hands with him, at last; and when the great White Star ship swung out into the stream, he waved us a final good-bye from the deck.
"So he's gone," I said, as we rolled back down town again.
"Yes—and the question is whether he was wise to go—whether it can do any good."
"I think he's wise," I said. "It's a real passion—as you yourself pointed out to me."
"A real passion—yes," agreed our junior. "And yet—do you know, Lester, at the bottom of it all, I suspect some hideous, unbelievable thing. It turns me cold sometimes—trying to imagine what the secret is. It's a sort of dim, vague, threatening monster."
"Yes; I've felt that way about it. I can't grasp it, and yet I feel that it's there, just below the surface of things, ready to jump out and rend us. Well, Curtiss will find out."
"I hope so, if only for his sake. He'll go mad if he doesn't—and so will we, if we talk about it any more. I want you to look over those papers in the Consolidated suit. It comes up this afternoon, you know—and, by Jove! we'll have to hurry, or we'll be late for the hearing."
Never were slippers and easy-chair more welcome to me than they were that night. I was thoroughly weary in mind as well as body, and as I dropped into the chair and donned the slippers, I determined to go early to bed, and to forget all about the Lawrence enigma. I was heartily glad that I was rid of it; it had proved so baffling, so discouraging that I rejoiced at the chance which had taken it out of my hands. Burr Curtiss must puzzle it out for himself.
I fancied I could see him, pacing up and down the deck of theOceanic, staring ahead into the starlit night, bracing himself for that meeting which would mean so much to him. I wondered what Marcia Lawrence's thoughts were. Did she regret that she had fled? Did she already see the fatal error of that step? Ah, if her lover were only beside her, there on the deck, as he might have been but for that cruel irony of fate which had swept her from him! She could not know that he was pursuing her—that he would be the first to meet her as she stepped ashore at Liverpool. How would she bear the shock of that meeting?
I had bought a copy of the last edition of theRecordas I came up from dinner, and I shook it out and glanced over it. Apparently Godfrey had discovered nothing new in the affair at Elizabeth, for the paper made absolutely no reference to it, so far as I could discover. No doubt he had returned to New York immediately after bidding me good-bye; by this time he was probably deep in the untangling of some other mystery for the benefit of theRecord'sreaders. Sensations of to-day eclipsed those of yesterday, and I realised how quickly Burr Curtiss and his affairs would drop from the public mind.
But as I laid the paper aside, and filled my pipe for a final smoke before turning in, I told myself that I could scarcely hope that they would drop so easily from my mind, however much I might wish it; besides, I had left it unsolved and seemingly unsolvable, and a mystery of that sort is not easily forgotten. It is like an unfinished book, an unsettled case—it lives to oppress the mind and pique the imagination.
I knocked out my pipe impatiently. The place for me was in bed. I was becoming obsessed by this affair. If I did not shake it off, it would end by getting such a grip of me that I could not sleep at all, or I would fall asleep only to be startled awake again as I had been the night before. That was truly a terrifying prospect!
I started for my bedroom, when a tap at my door stopped me. I opened it to find Mrs. Fitch, my landlady, on the threshold.
"A telegram for you, Mr. Lester," she said, and held it out to me. "I told the boy to wait."
"Thank you," I said, and tore open the envelope. "There'll be no answer," I added, a moment later, and shut the door somewhat hastily I fear, but Mrs. Fitch's eyes are sharp ones, and I did not wish her to see my face just then.
I dropped into my chair and read the message again:—
"I advise you to return to Elizabeth at once. New developments in which you will be interested."Godfrey."
"I advise you to return to Elizabeth at once. New developments in which you will be interested.
"Godfrey."
"New developments!" Ah, Godfrey knew me well! For already my fatigue was forgotten in the ardour of the chase, and a moment later I found myself changing from slippers to shoes as fast as my fingers could handle the laces.
Mrs. Fitch met me on the stair.
"Not going out again, Mr. Lester!" she protested. "Why, you'll kill yourself."
"I can't help it, Mrs. Fitch," I said. "I've got to go."
"Not bad news, I hope?"
"No."
"And you'll be back soon?"
"Not to-night, I'm afraid."
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Lester——"
But I left her protesting on the step, and hurried down the street. Mrs. Fitch meant well, but she was sometimes a little in the way.
I took the elevated to Cortlandt Street, and hurried down to the ferry, expecting every instant to hear the gong which announced the departure of the boat. But I found that I had ten minutes to wait before there was a train, and I spent them walking feverishly up and down the narrow waiting-room, where the road's patrons are herded like cattle behind the slatted gates.
At last the gates opened; there was the usual rush to the boat; the slow crossing of the wide river, with the cool salt breeze coming in from the ocean; the stampede to the coaches through the great Jersey City station; and finally I found myself in a seat, with the train rumbling out from under the long shed.
I stared out into the night, wondering what the new developments could be. They must have been unusual and unexpected ones, to stir Godfrey to sending me that telegram! But whatcouldthey be? For the present, the case was closed. Curtiss and Miss Lawrence were both in mid-ocean, and any further developments must await their meeting. Besides, it was only a few hours since I myself had left Elizabeth, and there had seemed no prospect then of anything further happening there. Godfrey had announced his own intention of leaving the place at once—he had said that the case wasn't worth wasting any more time over. What, then, had detained him?
Was it possible, I asked myself, that Marcia Lawrence had not sailed on theUmbria, that the message had been merely a blind, that she had foreseen that we would trace it to the West Street office, that she had written it on a sheet of the steamer's paper for the purpose of deceiving us? Yes, that was clearly possible. She may have returned home, and Godfrey, discovering the return, had summoned me to be present at her unmasking! I had really only half-believed that it was she whom Curtiss had descried upon theUmbria'sforward deck. But if she had, indeed, done all this, she must be far more deeply versed in deception than I had supposed. I should hardly have given her credit for laying a plan so adroit as that; but one can never judge a woman's capabilities.
Suddenly conscious again of my fatigue, I laid my head back against the seat, and dozed away until the sharp call of the brakeman aroused me. Not until I had left the train did I remember that Godfrey had appointed no rendezvous. He might, perhaps, be awaiting me at the hotel, or, at least, he had certainly left a message there for me, and I started up the street.
But an inquiry of the clerk developed the fact that, while Godfrey was still stopping there, he had gone out immediately after dinner, and had left no message of any kind. For a moment I was fairly taken aback, so confident had I been; but perhaps Godfrey had deemed a message superfluous after the hint given in the telegram—I knew how he detested the obvious. He had no doubt thought that hint sufficient—and it was.
Eleven o'clock was striking as I gained the street again, and turned my steps toward the Lawrence place. If there were indeed any new developments, it must be either there or at the cottage that they had come to light. That was self-evident; that could be the only rendezvous; it was there Godfrey was awaiting me. So I walked on rapidly, and in a very few minutes reached my destination.
The house was dark and gloomy, as it had been the night before. I entered the grounds and made a careful circuit of the place, but not a glimmer of light could I detect at any of the windows. There was nothing to indicate that any one was stirring, nor did I come upon any trace of Godfrey, though I half expected to collide with him at any moment. Plainly there was nothing to be discovered here, and at last I turned my steps toward the path which led to the cottage.
Then suddenly I stopped, for it seemed to me that I had caught sight of a dim figure flitting among the trees. I was facing the street, and the glow from the arc lights there made a grey background against which I fancied I saw a shadow moving. I strained my eyes—yes—there it was again, approaching the house along the path.
I am no more superstitious than most men, yet, for an instant, the notion seized me like an electric shock, that this was no earthly visitant. But I shook myself together, and leaned forward watching it from behind a sheltering tree. It went directly to the balcony steps, and mounted them with a swiftness which showed how familiar it was with the place. Had I been right in my conjecture, then? Had Marcia Lawrence really come home again?
The question flashed through my brain like lightning. I had already delayed too much; it was time that I did something!
In an instant I had gained the path and mounted the steps. One of the windows was open. I passed through it into the library.
There was a sharp click and, in the sudden flare of light, I found myself looking down the barrel of a revolver, behind which glared the sinister face of Lucy Kingdon.