At the end of an hour Covington turned back, wheeling like a soldier on parade. There had never seemed to him any reason why, when a man was entirely comfortable, as he was, he should take the risk of a change. He had told Chic as much when sometimes the latter, over a pipe, had introduced the subject. The last time, Chic had gone a little farther than usual.
"But, man alive!" Chic had exclaimed. "A day will come when you'll be sorry."
"I don't believe it," Monte answered.
Yet it was only yesterday that he had wandered over half Paris in search of something to bring his schedule back to normal. And he had found it—in front of the Opera House at eleven o'clock at night.
Monte strode into his hotel with a snap that made the little clerk glance up in surprise.
"Any mail for me?" he inquired.
"A telephone message, monsieur."
He handed Monte an envelope. It was not often that he received telephone messages. It read as follows:—
Can't you come over? Teddy was very angry about the taxi, and I think I shall leave Paris tonight. The flowers were beautiful.
Monte felt his breath coming fast.
"How long has this been waiting for me?" he demanded.
"A half-hour, monsieur."
He hurried out the door and into a taxi.
"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain—and hurry."
Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That was the beauty of Edhart—that he remained stationary, so that he could always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go and leave him here alone. He could not allow that. It was too early to quit Paris, anyway. It was only the first day of spring!
She came down into the gloomypensionreception-room looking as if she had already begun to assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had become loosened, and escaped in several places in black curls that gave her a distinctly girlish appearance. There was more color, too, in her cheeks; but it was the flush of excitement rather than the honest red that colored his own cheeks. She looked tired and discouraged. She sank into a chair.
"It was good of you to come, Monte," she said. "But I don't know why I should bother you with my affairs. Only—he was so disagreeable. He frightened me, for a moment."
"What did he do?" demanded Monte.
"He came here early, and when Marie told him I was out he said he would wait until I came back. So he sat down—right here. Then, every five minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her up with a note. I was afraid of a scene, because madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes."
"Why didn't you let her?"
"That would have made still more of a scene."
She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, like one who is very tired.
"So I came down and saw him," she said. "He was very melodramatic."
It seemed difficult for her to go on.
"Absinthe?" he questioned.
"I don't know. He wanted me to marry him at once. He drew a revolver and threatened to shoot himself—threatened to shoot me."
Monte clenched his fists.
"Good Lord!" he said softly. "That is going a bit far."
"Is it so men act—when they are in love?" she asked.
Monte started.
"I don't know. If it is, then they ought to be put in jail."
"If it is, it is most unpleasant," she said; "and I can't stand it, Monte. There is no reason why I should, is there?"
"No: if you can avoid it."
"That's the trouble," she frowned. "I've been quite frank with him. I told him that I did not want to marry him. I've told him that I could not conceive of any possible circumstances under which I would marry him. I've told him that in French and I 've told him that in English, and he won't believe me."
"The cad!" exclaimed Monte.
"It does n't seem fair," she mused. "The only thing I ask for is to be allowed to lead my life undisturbed, and he won't let me. There are others, too. I had five letters this morning. So all I can do is to run away again."
"To where?" asked Monte.
"You spoke of the little villages along the Riviera."
"Yes," he nodded. "There is the village of Étois—back in the mountains."
"Then I might go there.C'est tout égal."
She shrugged her shoulders. (She had beautiful shoulders.)
"But look here. Supposing the—this Hamilton should follow you there?"
"Then I must move again."
Monte paced the room. Obviously this was not right. There was no reason why she should be continually hounded. Yet there seemed to be no way to prevent it.
He stopped in front of her. She glanced up—her eyes, even now, calm and deep as trout pools.
"I'll get hold of the beggar to-day," he said grimly.
She shook her head.
"Please not."
"But he's the one who must go away. If I could have a few minutes with him alone, I think perhaps I could make him see that."
"Please not," she repeated.
"What's the harm?"
"I don't think it would be safe—for either of you."
She raised her eyes as she said that, and for a moment Monte was held by them. Then she rose.
"After all, it's too bad for me to inflict my troubles on you," she said.
"I don't mind," he answered quickly. "Only—hang it all, there does n't seem to be anything I can do!"
"I guess there is n't anything any one can do," she replied helplessly.
"So you're going away?"
"To-night," she nodded.
"To Étois?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps to India. Perhaps to Japan."
It was the indefiniteness that Monte did not relish. Even as she spoke, it was as if she began to disappear; and for a second he felt again the full weight of his thirty-two years. He was perfectly certain that the moment she went he was going to feel alone—more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
It was in the nature of a hunch. Within twenty-four hours he would be wandering over Paris as he had wandered yesterday. That would not do at all. Of course, he could pack up and go on to England, but at the moment he felt that it would be even worse there, where all the world spoke English.
"Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave Paris?" he asked.
"But what right have you to order him to leave Paris?"
"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for it," he declared.
For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red flushed her cheeks.
"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed.
Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers.
"You mean he'll ask—what business you are of mine?"
"Yes."
And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had, of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was, for instance, no business of his whether she went to Étois or Japan or India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his business—though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business.
There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall.
The girl clutched his arm.
"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped.
Monte threw back his shoulders.
"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better."
"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!"
"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You go upstairs, and I'll see him."
But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the stairs. The bell rang again—impatiently.
"Come," she insisted.
He tried to calm her.
"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene."
"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear? I won't have it."
To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:—
"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the gendarmes."
"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing might be settled quietly right now," pleaded Monte.
He turned eagerly toward the door.
"If you don't come away, Monte," she said quietly, "I won't ever send for you again."
Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the bell jangled harshly, wildly.
Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk in the midst of a scene of fluffy chaos. Marie had swooped in from the next room, seized one armful, and returned in consternation as her mistress stood poised at the threshold. Then, with her face white, Marjory closed the door and locked it.
"He's down there," she informed Monte.
Monte glanced at his watch.
"It's quarter of twelve," he announced. "I'll give him until twelve to leave."
Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street. It was very beautiful out there—very warm and gentle and peaceful. And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that sprang to her lips was just this:—
"It is n't fair—it is n't fair!"
For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty—surrendered utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little—for neither luxuries nor vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a space her own life, undisturbed by any responsibility.
Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She had answered that question when Peter Noyes—Monte reminded her in many ways of Peter—had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday. She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently beckoned—the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon her at eighteen—she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she could have loved Peter. Then—she drew back at so surrendering herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard.
Monte glanced at his watch again.
"Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?"
"No, Monte," she answered.
He folded his arms resignedly.
"You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?"
"If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly.
"But don't you see—don't you understand that you will only make a scandal of it?" she said.
"What do you mean?"
"If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then—oh, well, they will ask by what right—"
"I'd answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy man."
"They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in Paris they won't believe that a woman who is n't married—"
She stopped abruptly.
Monte's brows came together.
Here was the same situation that had confronted him a few minutes before. Not only had he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy himself would be the first to misinterpret it. It would be impossible for a man of his sort to think in any other direction. And then—well, such stories were easier to start than to stop.
Monte's lips came together. As far as he himself was concerned, he was willing to take the risk; but the risk was not his to take. As long as he found himself unable to devise any scheme by which he could, even technically, make himself over into her father, her brother, or even a first cousin, there appeared no possible way in which he could assume the right that would not make it a risk.
Except one way.
Here Monte caught his breath.
There was just one relationship open to him that would bestow upon him automatically the undeniable right to say to Teddy Hamilton anything that might occur to him—that would grant him fuller privileges, now and for as long as the relationship was maintained, than even that of blood.
To be sure, the idea was rather staggering. It was distinctly novel, for one thing, and not at all in his line, for another. This, however, was a crisis calling for staggering novelties if it could not be handled in the ordinary way. Ten minutes had already passed.
Monte walked slowly to Marjory's side. She turned and met his eyes. On the whole, he would have felt more comfortable had she continued looking out the window.
"Marjory," he said—"Marjory, will you marry me?"
She shrank away.
"Monte!"
"I mean it," he said. "Will you marry me?"
After the first shock she seemed more hurt than anything.
"You are n't going to be like the others?" she pleaded.
"No," he assured her. "That's why—well, that's why I thought we might arrange it."
"But I don't love you, Monte!" she exclaimed.
"Of course not."
"And you—you don't love me."
"That's it," he nodded eagerly.
"Yet you are asking me to marry you?"
"Just because of that," he said. "Don't you understand?"
She was trying hard to understand, because she had a great deal of faith in Monte and because at this moment she needed him.
"I don't see why being engaged to a man you don't care about need bother you at all," he ran on. "It's the caring that seems to make the trouble—whether you 're engaged or not. I suppose that's what ails Teddy."
She had been watching Monte's eyes; but she turned away for a second.
"Of course," he continued, "you can care—without caring too much. Can't people care in just a friendly sort of way?"
"I should think so, Monte," she answered.
"Then why can't people become engaged—in just a friendly sort of way?"
"It would n't mean very much, would it?"
"Just enough," he said.
He held out his hand.
"Is it a bargain?"
She searched his eyes. They were clean and blue.
"It's so absurd, Monte!" she gasped.
"You can call me, to yourself, your secretary," he suggested.
"No—not that."
"Then," he said, "call me just acamarade de voyage."
Her eyes warmed a trifle.
"I'll keep on calling you just Monte," she whispered.
And she gave him her hand.
Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte come down the stairs, for he was sitting in a chair near the window, with his head in his hands, and did not move even when Monte entered the room.
"Hello, Hamilton," said Covington.
Hamilton sprang to his feet—a shaking, ghastly remnant of a man. He had grown thinner and paler than when Covington last saw him. But his eyes—they held Covington for a moment. They burned in their hollow sockets like two candles in a dark room.
"Covington!" gasped the man.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"What the devil you doing here?" he demanded.
"Sit down," suggested Monte. "I want to have a little talk with you."
It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton to obey.
Monte drew up a chair opposite him.
"Now," he said quietly, "tell me just what it is you want of Miss Stockton."
"What business is that of yours?" demanded Hamilton nervously.
Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start was the question Marjory had anticipated—the question that might have caused him some embarrassment had it not been so adequately provided for in the last few moments. As it was, he became conscious of a little glow of satisfaction which moderated his feelings toward young Hamilton considerably. He actually felt a certain amount of sympathy for him. After all, the little beggar was in bad shape.
But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, why he should make him his confidant. Secure in his position, he felt it was none of Hamilton's business.
"Miss Stockton and I are old friends," he answered.
"Then—she has told you?"
"She gave me to believe you made a good deal of an ass of yourself this morning," nodded Monte.
Hamilton sank back limply in his chair.
"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my God, I did!"
"All that business of waving a pistol—I did n't think you were that much of a cub, Hamilton."
"She drove me mad. I did n't know what I was doing."
"In just what way do you blame her?" inquired Monte.
"She would n't believe me," exclaimed Hamilton. "I saw it in her eyes. I could n't make her believe me."
"Believe what?"
Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the wall. He was breathing rapidly, like a man in a fever.
Monte studied him with a curious interest.
"That I love her," gasped Hamilton. "She thought I was lying. I could n't make her believe it, I tell you! She just sat there and smiled—not believing."
"Good Lord!" said Monte. "You don't mean that you really do love her?"
Hamilton sprang with what little strength there was in him.
"Damn you, Covington—what do you think?" he choked.
Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair.
"Steady," he warned.
Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his eyes burning into Covington's.
"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with—with an honest-to-God love?"
When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red light in his eyes had turned to white.
"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said.
The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him—that so much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The wonder was that so much was left.
As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster. He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with a weird fascination.
"Tell me about it," said Covington.
Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his soul.
"Do you believe me?" he demanded.
"Yes," answered Monte; "I think I do."
"Because—did you see a play in New York called 'Peter Grimm'?"
"I remember it," nodded Monte.
"It's been like that—like dying and coming back and trying to make people hear, and not being able to. I made an ass of myself until I met her. I know that. I'm not fit to be in the same room with her. I know that you can say nothing too bad about me—up to the day I met her. I would n't care what people said up to that day—if they'd only believe the rest; if she'd only believe the rest. I think I could stand it even if I knew she—she did not care for me—if only I could make her understand how much she means to me."
Monte looked puzzled.
"Just what does she mean to you?" he asked.
"All that's left in life," answered Hamilton. "All that's left to work for, to live for, to hope for. It's been like that ever since I saw her on the boat. I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and then—everything was changed. There was no place to go, after that, except where she went. I counted the hours at night to the time when the sun came up and I could see her again. I did n't begin to live until then; the rest of the time I was only waiting to live. Every time she came in sight it—it was as if I were resurrected, Covington; as if in the mean while I'd been dead. I thought at first I had a chance, and I planned to come back home with her to do things. I wanted to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance all the while, until she came here—until this morning. Then, when she only smiled—well, I lost my head."
"What was the idea back of the gun?" asked Monte.
Hamilton answered without bravado.
"I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my nerve."
"Good Lord! You would have gone as far as that?"
"Yes," answered Hamilton wearily. "But I'm glad I fell down."
Monte passed his hand over his forehead. He could not fully grasp the meaning of a passion that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the man had proposed murder—murder and suicide; and all because of this strange love of a woman. He had been driven stark raving mad because of it. He sat there now before him, an odd combination of craven weakness and giant strength because of it. In the face of such a revelation, Covington felt petty; he felt negative.
Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked into the same eyes that had so stirred this man. He had seen nothing there particularly to disturb any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the woman back of them was very beautiful. He had a feeling that, day in and day out for a great many years, they would remain beautiful. They had helped him last night to make the city his own; they had helped him this morning to recover his balance; they helped him now to see straight again.
But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamilton to act like this. Admitting the man believed in himself,—and Covington believed that much,—he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact remained, even as he himself admitted, that he was not fit to be in the same room with her. It was not possible for a man in a month to cleanse himself of the accumulated mire of ten years.
Furthermore, that too was beside the point. The girl cared nothing about him. She particularly desired not to care about him or any one else. It was not consistent with her scheme of life. She had told him as much. It was this that had made his own engagement to her possible.
Monte rose from his chair and paced the room a moment. If possible, he wished to settle this matter once for all. On the whole, it was more difficult than he had anticipated. When he came down he had intended to dispose of it in five minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced Hamilton.
"It seems to me," he said, "that if a man loved a woman,—really loved her,—then one of the things he would be most anxious about would be to make her happy. Are you with me on that?"
Hamilton raised his head.
"Yes," he answered.
"Then," continued Monte, "it does n't seem to me that you are going about it in just the right way. Waving pistols and throwing fits—"
"I was mad, I tell you," Hamilton broke in.
"Admitting that," resumed Monte, "I should think the best thing you could do would be to go away and sober up."
"Go away?"
"I would. I'd go a long way—to Japan or India."
The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes.
"Did she ask you to tell me that?"
"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you don't go she'll have to."
"What do you mean?"
"Steady, now," warned Monte. "I mean just what I say. She can't stay here and let you camp in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won't stand for that. So—why don't you get out, quietly and without any confusion?"
"That's your own suggestion?" said Hamilton, tottering to his feet.
"Exactly."
"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in hell first. It's no business of yours, I say."
"But it is," said Monte.
"Tell me how it is," growled Hamilton.
"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged."
"You lie!" choked Hamilton. "You—"
Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting pain in his shoulder. As he staggered back he saw a pistol smoking in Hamilton's hand. Recovering, he threw himself forward on the man and bore him to the floor.
It was no very difficult matter for Monte to wrest the revolver from Hamilton's weak fingers, even with one arm hanging limp; but it was quite a different proposition to quiet Madame Courcy and Marie, who were screaming hysterically in the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was splendid; but even she could do little with madame, who insisted that some one had been murdered, even when it was quite obvious, with both men alive, that this was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had called up the police on the telephone, and at least a dozen gendarmes were now on their way.
The pain in Monte's arm was acute, and it hung from his shoulder as limply as an empty sleeve; but, fortunately, it was not bleeding a great deal,—or at least it was not messing things up,—and he was able, therefore, by always keeping his good arm toward the ladies, to conceal from them this disagreeable consequence of Hamilton's rashness.
Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, leaning against the wall, was staring blankly at the confusion about him.
Monte turned to Marjory.
"Hurry out and get a taxi," he said. "We can't allow the man to be arrested."
"He tried to shoot—himself?" she asked.
"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please."
As she went out, he turned to Marie.
"Help madame into her room," he ordered.
Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and Marie the other, so madame went.
Then he came back to Hamilton.
"Madame has sent for the police. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Hamilton answered dully.
"And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on which gets here first whether you go to jail or not," said Monte.
Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees were beginning to feel weak.
Marjory was back in a minute, and when she came in Monte was on his feet again.
"It's at the door," she said.
At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to revive; but Monte had him instantly by the arm.
"Come on," he ordered.
He shoved the boy ahead a little as he passed Marjory, and turning, drew the revolver from his pocket. He did not dare take it with him, because he knew that in five minutes he would be unable to use it. Hamilton, on the other hand, might not be. He shoved it into her hand.
"Take it upstairs and hide it," he said. "Be careful with it."
"You're coming back here?" she asked quickly.
She thought his cheeks were very white.
"I can't tell," he answered. "But—don't worry."
He hurried Hamilton down the steps and pushed him into the car.
"To the Hôtel Normandie," he ordered the driver, as he stumbled in himself.
The bumping of the car hurt Monte's arm a good deal. In fact, with every bump he felt as if Hamilton were prodding his shoulder with a stiletto. Besides being unpleasant, this told rapidly on his strength, and that was dangerous. Above all things, he must remain conscious. Hamilton was quiet because he thought Monte still had the gun and was still able to use it; but let him sway, and matters would be reversed. So Monte gripped his jaws and bent his full energy to keeping control of himself until they crossed the Seine. It seemed like a full day's journey before he saw that the muddy waters were behind them. Then he ordered the driver to stop.
Hamilton's shifty eyes looked up.
"Hamilton," said Monte, "have you got it clear yet that—that Miss Stockton and I are engaged?"
Hamilton did not answer. His fingers were working nervously.
Monte, summoning all his strength, shook the fellow.
"Do you hear?" he called.
"Yes," muttered Hamilton.
"Then," said Monte, "I want you to get hold of the next point: that from now on you're to let her alone. Get that?"
Hamilton's lips began to twitch.
"Because if you come around bothering her any more," explained Monte, "I'll be there myself; and, believe me, you'll go out the door. And if you try any more gun-play—the little fellows will nail you next time. Sure as preaching, they'll nail you. That would be too bad for every one—for you and for her."
"How for her?" demanded Hamilton hoarsely.
"The papers," answered Monte. "And for you because—"
"I don't care what they do to me," growled Hamilton.
"I believe that," nodded Monte. "Do you know that I 'm the one person on earth who is inclined to believe what you say?"
He saw Hamilton crouch as if to spring. Monte placed his left hand in his empty pocket.
"Steady," he warned. "There are still four shots left in that gun."
Hamilton relaxed.
"You don't care what the little fellows do to you," said Monte. "But you don't want to queer yourself any further with her, do you? Now, listen. She thinks you tried to shoot yourself. By that much I have a hunch she thinks the better of you."
Hamilton groaned,
"And because I believe what you told me about her," he ran on, fighting for breath—"just because—because I believe the shooting fits into that, I 'm glad to—to have her think that little the better of you, Hamilton."
The interior of the cab was beginning to move slowly around in a circle. He leaned back his head a second to steady himself—his white lips pressed together.
"So—so—clear out," he whispered.
"You—you won't tell her?"
"No. But—clear out, quick."
Hamilton opened the cab door.
"Got any money?" inquired Monte.
"No."
Monte drew out his bill-book and handed it to Hamilton.
"Take what there is," he ordered.
Hamilton obeyed, and returned the empty purse.
"Remember," faltered Monte, his voice trailing off into an inaudible murmur, "we're engaged—Marjory and I—"
But Hamilton had disappeared. It was the driver who was peering in the door.
"Where next, monsieur?" he was saying.
"Normandie," muttered Monte.
The windows began to revolve in a circle before his eyes—faster and faster, until suddenly he no longer was conscious of the pain in his shoulder.
When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, Marjory was the only one in the house cool enough to meet them at the door. She quieted them with a smile.
"It is too bad, messieurs," she apologized, because it did seem too bad to put them to so much trouble for nothing. "It was only a disagreeable incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame Courcy lost her head."
"But we were told it was an assassination," the lieutenant informed her. He was a very smart-looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes at once.
"To have an assassination it is necessary to have some one assassinated, is it not?" inquired Marjory.
"But yes, certainly."
"Then truly it is a mistake, because the two gentlemen went off together in a cab."
The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book.
"Is that necessary?" asked Marjory anxiously.
"A report must be made."
"It was nothing, I assure you," she insisted. "It was what in America is called a false alarm."
"You are American?" inquired the lieutenant, twisting his mustache.
"It is a compliment to my French that you did not know," smiled Marjory.
It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that she smiled. At least, it was so that he interpreted it.
"The report is only a matter of routine," he informed her. "If mademoiselle will kindly give me her name."
"But the newspapers!" she exclaimed. "They make so much of so little."
"It will be a pleasure to see that the report is treated as confidential," said the lieutenant, with a bow.
So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory interview with madame and Marie, who had so far recovered themselves as to be easily handled by Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed themselves out and the incident was closed.
Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, a little breathless with excitement, went into the reception room a moment to collect herself.
The scene was set exactly as it had been when from upstairs she heard that shot—the shot that for a second had checked her breathing as if she herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been in the room, she had seen Monte stretched out on the floor, with Hamilton bending over him. She had not thought of any other possibility. As she sprang down the stairs she had been sure of what she was about to see. But when she entered she had found Monte standing erect—erect and smiling, with his light hair all awry like a schoolboy's.
Then, sinking into the chair near the window,—this very chair beside which she now stood,—he had asked her to go out and attend to madame.
Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been smiling. It was not quite natural for one to smile over as serious a matter as that. After all, even if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had missed its mark, it was not a matter to take lightly.
She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, and her hands dropped wearily to her side. Her fingers touched something sticky—something on the side of the chair next to the wall—something that the gendarmes had not noticed. She did not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. For one second, two seconds, three seconds, she sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved as much as a muscle, that something would spring at her from below—some awful fact.
Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, with her eyes closed. Then, suddenly opening them wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine. She knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like him to do that. Running swiftly to her room, she called Marie as she ran.
"Marie—my hat! Your hat! Hurry!"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Marie. "Has anything happened?"
"I have just learned what has already happened," she answered. "But do not alarm madame."
It was impossible not to alarm madame.
The mere fact that they were going out alarmed madame. Marjory stopped in the hall and quite coolly worked on her gloves.
"We are going for a little walk in the sunshine," she said. "Will you not come with us?"
Decidedly madame would not. She was too weak and faint. She should send for a friend to stay with her while she rested on her bed.
"That is best for you," nodded Marjory. "Au revoir."
With Marie by her side, she took her little walk in the sunshine, without hurrying, as far as around the first corner. Then she signaled for a cab, and showed the driver a louis d'or.
"Hôtel Normandie. This is for you—if you make speed," she said.
It was a wonder the driver was not arrested within a block; but it was nothing less than a miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of life. A louis d'or is a great deal of money, but these Americans are all mad. When Marie followed her mistress from the cab, she made a little prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved her life.
Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur Covington.
Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes before. But he was ill. He had met with an accident. Already a surgeon was with him.
"He—he is not badly injured?" inquired Marjory.
"I do not know," answered the clerk. "He was carried to his room in a faint. He was very white."
"I will wait in the writing-room. When the surgeon comes down I wish to see him. At once—do you understand?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur Covington, too, had presented the driver with a louis d'or, and—miracles do not occur twice in one day.
Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had a full view of the office—of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal—this Teddy Hamilton—she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist. She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here. She was here solely because of Monte.
He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room, smiling—his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he stepped into the cab.
She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong with him—the more so because only a few minutes before that he had stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes clear and bright.
That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand, she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiancé. That gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged beforehand to this very end.
It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good old Monte—honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly without responsibility.
It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was exactly as she would have done in his circumstances. It was exactly as she tried to do when her own circumstances changed so that it had seemed possible. She had failed merely because she was a woman—because men refused to leave her free.
His proposal was merely that she share his freedom. Good old Monte—honest and four-square!
In return, there were little ways in which she might help him, even as he might help her; but they had come faster than either had expected.
Where was the surgeon? She rose and went to the clerk.
"Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?" she asked.
"Very sure," answered the clerk. "He has just sent out for a nurse to remain with monsieur."
"A nurse?" repeated Marjory.
"The doctor says Monsieur Covington must not be left alone."
"It's as bad—as that?" questioned Marjory.
"I do not know."
"I must see the doctor at once," she said. "But, first,—can you give me apartments on the same floor,—for myself and maid? I am his fiancée," she informed him.
"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly.
"Then do so."
She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie.
"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks. Please bring them here."
"Here?" queried Marie.
"Here," answered Marjory.
She turned to the clerk.
"Take me upstairs at once."
There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his hands upon a towel.
"I am Mr. Covington's fiancée—Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You will tell me the truth?"
After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the truth.
"It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said.
"It is not serious?"
"Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him."
"Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse."
"Good," he nodded.
But he added, having had some experience with fiancées as nurses:—
"Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be glad of your assistance. This—er—was an accident?"
She nodded.
"He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself."
"I understand."
"Nothing more need be said about it?"
"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here."
"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next apartment for myself and maid."
"That is very good, but—Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the present. Will you come in?"
She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor of ether hung still heavier.
She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it.
"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!"