For a while after Porshinger and the constable had departed, Lorraine sat thinking. Those last words of Porshinger's, which he had seemed to laugh to scorn, none the less bred suspicion.
"You might ask what she and Pendleton were doing on the Criss-Cross piazza, one night about five weeks ago."
What did it mean? There must be some basis for the insinuation—some fact that was suspicious on its face. He did not want to mistrust Pendleton; he wouldnotmistrust him; he would frankly tell him what Porshinger had said and accept his explanation or denial. Pendleton was fond of Stephanie—had been fond of her before the marriage—had stood by her nobly since her return. It was not credible. It was a scheme of that miserable brute to embroil him with Stephanie's best friend.—Yet he would like to have Pendleton's denial. He would feel better—yes, decidedly better. There would be a satisfaction in having the denial—in hearing it.
He got up and crossed over to where Pendleton and Emerson were sitting. The latter remained a few moments, then excused himself, on the plea of having to dress for golf, and went off to the locker-rooms.
Both Lorraine and Pendleton were silent—the former staring at the floor, the latter gazing through hiscigarette smoke out on the links, which were beginning to fill with players.
"Well—it's done!" said Lorraine presently.
"Not exactly," Pendleton replied. "I should say it's only begun."
"The beginning is done, at any rate," Lorraine returned.
"It's easy to start something, but it's quite another thing to finish it."
"No doubt about that—the difficulty with me hitherto has been that I never started. Now——"
"Now it is a question whether it wouldn't be better if youhadn'tstarted."
"Do you think so?" demanded Lorraine.
"Candidly, I don't know what to think," said Pendleton. "It's such a miserable mess all through. We want to do the best for Stephanie, but I admitI'mnot competent to judge what the best is under the circumstances. However, the attack has been made—it only remains now to fight it out on your plan. Have you any plan, Lorraine?"
"Plan!" answered Lorraine vaguely. "No—I've no plan—other than to punish Porshinger for his dirty conduct toward Stephanie, and to meet Dolittle's nasty tale with the truth."
"Very good!" nodded Pendleton, "but that is the conclusion, not the plan. What if Porshinger fights—and is supported by Dolittle? What if he says that Stephanie was willing and that he did not use force?"
"I'll take Stephanie's word in preference to athousand Porshingers and Dolittles!" Lorraine declared.
"And so will I—but will a jury? You have not consulted counsel, I suppose?"
"No—I've not consulted anyone. I acted solely on my own responsibility because I was satisfied it was right."
"And what is more important to Stephanie—will the public accept her word and believe it?" Pendleton reflected.
"Certainly it will. I haven't a bit of doubt of it."
Pendleton shrugged his shoulders.
"I wish I had your assurance," he replied. "There is only one thing about it that isn't doubtful, to my mind."
"What is that?" Lorraine demanded impatiently.
"That Stephanie will be damned utterly unless her story is accepted."
"She is damned if Dolittle's story is accepted. This is the only means she has of clearing herself—to fight openly. Unless"—he paused and looked hard at Pendleton—"unless she will consent to a reconciliation and resume her place as my wife."
"I wish someone could persuade her of that," Pendleton answered instantly. "It is her best and wisest course. It would relieve the entire situation."
"You will tell her so?" Lorraine demanded eagerly.
"Ihavetold her so—many times within the last few weeks. I told her so to-day."
"And she——?"
Pendleton shook his head.
"It doesn't seem to appeal to her, Lorraine."
"I will do the next best thing—I'll stand by her," he exclaimed. "If she won't have me for husband, she can't object to the moral and active support of the man who has the first right to render it. Indeed, if I am with her, if I instituted the fight, what has Society to say?"
"That is the proper attitude, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "It will go far to sustain Stephanie's story."
"I'll do everything in my power to make amends for the past," Lorraine went on. "Maybe it will soften her a little toward me."
Pendleton said nothing.
"There is one thing I wanted to ask you, Pendleton," he went on, after a moment's pause. "I trust that you won't misunderstand—that you'll take it in the right way."
"Certainly, I'll take it in the right way," Pendleton answered heartily.
He knew what was coming and was ready to meet it. Porshinger had not raised his voice in vain; though what he had intended for a threat was a warning also.
"I want you to explain," said Lorraine, "what Porshinger meant when he said, just before he went off with the constable: 'I'm not in Amherst's class, but your dear friend Pendleton is—if you doubt it, you might ask him what your wife and he were doing on the Criss-Cross piazza, one night about five weeksago.'—Don't imagine that I believe the scoundrel's insinuation for an instant—that you and Stephanie were guilty of even the most trifling indiscretion. I trust you, Pendleton—you're not one to be swept away by passion or sentiment—and I think that Stephanie has had enough to steady her permanently. Yet what did he mean? Was it just thrown out for viciousness, or was there something happened at Criss-Cross which his vile brain distorted into vileness? Can you guess—can you imagine what basis in fact he could have?"
"My dear Lorraine, no basis in fact I can assure you," Pendleton answered very quietly. "I've been at Criss-Cross several times within the last five weeks when Stephanie was there. I was alone with her on the piazza repeatedly, by day and in the evening, but there wasn't a time when Gladys or any of the guests could not have overheard our conversation or seen our acts."
"God save me for a quibbler!" he thought. "A lie by inference and intended to deceive—though true enough in word—is none the less a lie. Yet for Stephanie's sake, I am remitted to it. The little woman was right—and I was a fool!"
Lorraine put out his hand; and Pendleton took it, feeling like a dog but smiling ingenuously.
"Woodside's place adjoins Criss-Cross and Porshinger visits him, you know; he was invited to the Chamberlains, one Sunday when we were there," Pendleton observed. "He might have seen me with Stephanie at that time; he might even have used a field-glass from Woodside's or say he did; and he mighthave seen us sitting together and concocted a story to fit his purposes."
"More than likely concocted it while he was saying it!" Lorraine exclaimed. "He wanted to embroil me with you—split the opposition into fighting among themselves, when they should stand together. Well—it hasn't succeeded. Nevertheless I thought it best that we should have it out at once, so as to have no misunderstanding hereafter."
"It was much the best way!" Pendleton agreed—"Much the best way. I thank you for giving me a chance to deny—and for accepting my denial."
"My dear Pendleton," Lorraine exclaimed, "you don't think I would have made that request of you at the Hospital—to watch over Stephanie—to protect her from herself—if I had doubted you or ever should doubt you?"
"I shouldn't suppose so!" Pendleton answered.
Then he switched the conversation—it was too acutely personal—he was writhing under it. He would much have preferred to tell Lorraine the truth—and stand shamed. But he might not on Stephanie's account.
"I think I'll go in and telephone Cameron about the case, and ask him to look after it," said Lorraine. "It needs a lawyer. It would have been wiser, I admit, if I had had a lawyer from the start."
"Beforeit started," amended Pendleton.
"Will you be here this evening?"
Pendleton nodded.
"Then I'll ask him to talk it over with you also.I'm very tired. I think I'll go home presently, if you don't mind."
Pendleton wanted to take him by the shoulders and fling him into his car—anything to be rid of him.
"Not in the least," he replied—"I'll talk it over with Cameron."
Presently Lorraine returned.
"I've told Cameron everything," he said. "He will be here about six o'clock. I asked him to see you. I'll call you up to-morrow. Good by!"
After a moment, Pendleton arose and went into the house. Choosing a magazine at random from the table, he crossed to a retired corner of the big living-room and buried himself behind it—not to read, but to think.
It was a peculiarly difficult situation; arising from causes simple enough in themselves when taken separately, but extraordinarily complicated when considered together. Stephanie, Gladys, Lorraine, Amherst, Porshinger, Dolittle and himself—everyone a party acting independently, so to speak, yet in effect acting together to attain the present embarrassing condition. Naturally a woman was at the bottom of it—she always is in such matters—and she would be the one to suffer for all their foolishnesses and mistakes. Stephanie would be pilloried because Porshinger and Dolittle and he himself had acted the cad—one by nature, one because he was a malicious gossip, and one because he was a natural born damn fool. The last was quite the most to blame because he should and ought to have known better.
The more he pondered the situation, the more hopeless it became. Amherst was out of it now except as an original cause. Lorraine was only in it by right, and out of it on every other basis. Dolittle was in it by reason of his disposition to meddle in the affairs of others; but Porshinger and he were in it because they were guilty against Stephanie. Technically Lorraine had a perfect right to prosecute Porshinger—and Porshinger deserved to be prosecuted—but what of himself? Who was the more guilty of the two? He had betrayed an implied trust. It mattered not if Stephanie loved him—it mattered not that she had no reproaches for him; he was guilty none the less, and had only complicated the matter for her, for Porshinger had seen them—or at least he knew. And Stephanie, the innocent cause of it all—of his and Porshinger's audaciousness—was to be the real victim because of Dolittle's babbling tongue and Lorraine's misdirected energy. The whole thing, however, came back to Dolittle, so far as the present complication was concerned. If he had not seen—or had been blind though seeing—it would never have arisen.
However, none of these matters confronted them now. There was small profit in searching for causes, or for whom to blame. Their business was to meet a present condition in the best way possible—and there appeared to be no best. All were equally bad. The more he thought over it, the more hopeless it all was and the more futile every effort to save Stephanie. She was bound to be smirched, take it whatever way one would. If the prosecution was abandoned, thenDolittle's story would be believed no matter how she treated Porshinger in the future. If the prosecution was persisted in, then Porshinger's story of the willing victim had to be met by Stephanie's story of violence—all the nasty details threshed out for an eager populace—with Stephanie the real defendant with all to lose and nothing to gain.—And if Porshinger dragged him into it, by telling what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza, the verdict would scarcely be in doubt and the——
In disgust with himself, he sprang up and crossed the room to a distant window. It was a lovely prospect that lay before him—the fields, the trees, the close-cut fair-green of the course dotted with the players, all under a lazy afternoon sky—but he did not see it. He saw only the miserable situation into which he had put the woman he loved—and who loved him—and whom he was utterly unable to help save in one way: marriage. And she was married to another! whom she would have none of, but who was determined on a reconciliation. Even if he acknowledged the Criss-Cross affair to Lorraine, it would effect nothing for Stephanie's salvation. Lorraine might be moved to divorce her, and that very circumstance would establish Porshinger's defence and prove Dolittle's nasty story. Guilty of the one, she would be deemed guilty of the other. It was a dark prospect for her. Her rehabilitation, which had appeared so sure, had suddenly been wrapped in blackness——
"Is it so very absorbing—I mean the prospect?" said a low voice behind him.
He turned quickly, with something of a start, and met Stephanie's intimate little smile.
"I found it so," he replied, taking her hand.
She laughed softly—the beautifully modulated laugh that Pendleton loved, and that had rung in his ears for many years.
"You were not looking at the prospect, my friend—confess it," she said.
"I was not," he admitted.
"You were thinking of—me; of the trouble I have been—and am—and always shall be. Were you not, Montague?"
"No! I was not. I was trying to think of some way to help you out of your trouble."
"And wishing I had never—come back!"
"You know better than that!" he smiled.
"Because there isn't any way to help me out of the trouble," she went on. "I've got to take my punishment."
"You have already taken your punishment," he answered. "That which is in prospect is not due you."
"I have incurred it none the less," she said. "It is but the result of what has gone before. If I had not meritedthatpunishment, I would not be threatened now. The one wouldn't have happened—and the other wouldn't matter."
"You mean?"
"That Porshinger would never have been in a position to take advantage of me—and thatyou——" she broke off with a fascinating smile.
"May I supply the rest?" he whispered.
"Do you think you can be trusted?" she asked.
"I'm afraid I can't be trusted for anything where you are concerned."
"Not even to defend?" she smiled.—"I'll trust you, Montague—for anything."
"You see how I've betrayed your trust."
"Nonsense! we were equally culpable—equally indiscreet. Now we are to be punished equally. You by your conscience, and I openly. Please think no more about it."
"If only you were free!" he exclaimed.
"Which I'm not—and haven't any prospect of being. Like all vacillating people, Lorraine has suddenly become possessed by a fixed idea, and right or wrong he will cling to it until he dies. Why couldn't it have been to divorce me, instead of to keep me? However, it is profitless to wonder why, when to wonder won't make it any different." She gave a little gesture of despair. "Do you think Lorraine will actually have Porshinger arrested—or is it only an evanescent fancy?"
"Hehas hadhim arrested—here. Within half an hour of his departure, he was back with an officer and a warrant—and the officer has taken Porshinger to the magistrate's."
"It's just as well, I suppose," she reflected. "We can have everything out in court at once, and not have it in detachments forever. The more I think of it, the better I like Lorraine's course—if I must fight; and, as you have said, we can't avoid a fight if I am tohave a shred of reputation left. The Amherst affair well nigh damned me—only you and Gladys and a few others, and my mother's position, enabled me to regain a little of what I had lost—caused Society to suspend its final judgment on me. Now if I'm guilty of this Porshinger matter, it will be taken to show such a natural aptitude to go wrong—such a disposition for the unmentionable that there is only one course open to me: to go away and never return. So far as the town is concerned, I might just as well be dead—better, indeed."
He nodded gravely. He, too, knew that it was as she had said. Even Lorraine's attitude in the matter would have no effect. Society would have none of her—she would have condemned herself.
"You are not going to lose," he encouraged. "It is not a pleasant alternative to be sure, but it is the only one possible under the circumstances, and we're going to carry it through. It may be a bit unpleasant while it lasts, but it will soon be over—and all the sympathy will be withyou. Porshinger is such a contemptible cad that no one of right mind will doubt you for a moment."
"No one of right mindshoulddoubt," she admitted—"but only the future will reveal whether my past hasn't overcome their right minds."
"Why don't you forget your past—it's past!" he exclaimed.
"As I think you have said to me many times, Montague!" she smiled, "and as you know is impossible."
"It is not just to yourself to remember what your friends have forgot."
"What my friends haveoverlooked, you mean—they can never forget."
"Thenyouoverlook it," he said.
"I wish I could," she replied.
"You can. It's simply a rule of action."
"Don't you think I try to act the part?" she said sadly. "It's try, try, try all the time. I'm about worn out with trying."
"It succeeds, dear," he encouraged. "No one would ever know that you are not as calm and unconcerned as you appear to be. Even I would be deceived, if you yourself had not told me otherwise."
"I'm glad I've acted the part so well," she smiled. "I only hope I can keep it up to the end—if there is ever to be an end."
"It can always have a certain end, Stephanie," he whispered.
"Thank you, Montague; I'll not pretend that I don't understand—nor that I——" she broke off, and looked by him and out to the distant horizon. "It is no use for us to discuss the impossible," she said softly.
"It is going to be the probable," he declared.
"Then wait until itisthe probable."
"And then it is going to be thefact."
She shook her head—but an adorable smile came into her soft blue eyes.
"You seem very sure, my friend," she whispered.
"I am very sure, dear," he replied. "Very sure, indeed."
"You must not call me dear," she reminded him.
"Dearest, then," he amended.
"Nor dearest, either."
"Darling!"
"Worse still."
"Sweetheart!"
"Not even sweetheart."
He sighed.—"You're very hard to please!"
"Do you think so?" she asked naïvely.
"In the matter of names, I mean."
"Appellations of friendship were better."
"But it isn't friendship!" he laughed.
"Not friendship?"
"Well, call it friendship, ifyouplease. I'll call it something else."
"A riddle!" she exclaimed.
"To which the answer is found on the next page—shall we turn it?"
"Do you think it wise?" she asked—"wise to turn the new page before we have finished the old?"
"No, it isnotwise," he answered slowly. "You are right,Stephanie. You see I call you simply Stephanie, but it is hard to have to read what doesn't interest me."
"If it is hard to have toread, what do you think it is to have to live it?" she asked.
"It must be hell!" he replied.
"Itishell," she admitted—"hell of my own making—that is what hurts."
"Don't let it hurt, Stephanie," he pleaded, taking her hand. "It will all come right very soon—very soon, I'm persuaded."
"By what?"
"By the natural turn of events—they can't go against you much longer."
"The only turn that would help me would be for Porshinger to die suddenly—and Lorraine to become reasonable and give me my freedom."
"If Porshinger were to die suddenly," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, that might clarify the matter very much. Unfortunately Porshinger isn't cultivating death these days—he has quit shooting wells, you know."
"And he hasn't any cause to shoot himself," she remarked.
"He has plenty of causes but he won't recognize them!" Pendleton smiled.
The Postlewaite carriage drove up with a flourish, and Mrs. Postlewaite descended with heavy dignity and becoming condescension. Her arrival was an event at the Club-house—only equalled by the arrival of the other Queen P; and she was fully aware of the fact.
The doorman and a couple of "buttons" danced out—and continued to dance during the royal progress inward—while a crowd of her satellites, who were on the piazza, rushed forward to meet her.
"It is very amusing—Mrs. Postlewaite's assumption of greatness," Pendleton remarked.
"Not half so amusing as Society's according it to her," Stephanie returned.
"Bluff and arrogance wins mostly."
"If one has the requisite manner and cool nerve to carry them off," she amended.
"I don't see anything wanting in the lady immediately in our fore!" Pendleton smiled. "Only in her case, she has been doing it so long it has become part of her life—she actually does it naturally and by arrogation of divine right. It must be pleasant to have such a comfortable feeling about one's self."
Mrs. Postlewaite, in her progress down the piazza, glanced casually in and saw them.—She paused, considered an instant; then facing around, and dismissing her attendants she came over to the window.
"Stephanie, dear!" she purred, in her most gracious tones, "will you come out a moment. I've something I want to tell you."
Stephanie, dear!
It was the evidence of the return of the royal favor—the piazza had heard it—the entire Club-house would know it in a moment—it would spread like the wind.
Even Stephanie's equanimity was startled into a calm surprise, which showed in her face and in her heightened color. And comingnow—of all times!
"Certainly, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie answered.
"And bring Montague along. I want him to hear it too," thegrande damewent on.
"What does it mean?" Stephanie whispered, as she and Pendleton passed toward the door.
"You heard what she called you: 'Stephanie, dear'?"
"Yes!"
"Then there isn't much doubt."
"But at this juncture!" she marvelled.
"Mrs. Postlewaite knows the exigencies and the juncture too, never fear. The turn has come, sweeth—I mean, Stephanie."
She shot him a bewildering smile; the next moment they stood in "the presence."
"Stephanie, dear," began Mrs. Postlewaite, without any preliminary, "I have heard of Mr. Dolittle's nasty tale of what he saw last night in the Croyden conservatory; I have also heard of Harry's prompt prosecution of that unspeakable Porshinger, and I want to tell you that I and Mrs. Porterfield are ready to testify in your behalf. We were on the little balcony overhanging one side of the room; we saw Porshinger make the attempt, your indignant repulse, your seizure again, your freeing yourself, and then your making him take you back to the ball-room. The last was delightful! I saw it all, my dear—and I'm proud of Harry Lorraine, because he chose to believe your story rather than that horrid Dolittle's, and to prosecute Porshinger instead of a disgraceful use of physical violence."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie replied—"very kind——"
"Not at all, my dear, not at all! We shall take particular care to tell it. It is fortunate we happened to see everything, and so can vouch for your story in the face of Dolittle's scandalous tale and Porshinger's lie—he will lie, of course. Now, if you don'tmind, we will let by-gones be by-gones—and start fresh." She laid her hand intimately on Stephanie's arm. "And we'll have tea together here to bind it—just we three. Will you, my dear?"
"Of course, I will, Mrs. Postlewaite!" Stephanie responded, with a happy little laugh. The Porshinger episode was over—the victory was theirs.
Just then, from somewhere downstairs, came a voice calling so loudly the whole piazza heard:—
"I say, fellows, do you know that Amherst is in town—got back this morning? I shouldn't be surprised if the damn scoundrel would actually have nerve enough to come up here and ask us all to take a drink!"
Pendleton deliberately leaned forward and took Stephanie's hand in his—and held it, with a reassuring pressure.
"As you were saying, Mrs. Postlewaite," he remarked, "I hear that the Croyden ball was a charming affair, though I was so unfortunate as to miss it."
When tea was over Mrs. Postlewaite arose.
"Come around soon and see me, Stephanie!" she smiled, and with an intimately gracious nod, she resumed her progress down the piazza.
"Where is Gladys?" Pendleton asked.
"On the other side, playing Auction, I think; don't disturb her, Montague—and if you will call my car, I'll go home. I've had about enough excitement for one afternoon." She breathed a sigh of intense relief. "The last is very gratifying, isn't it, my friend?"
"Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield, of all others!" exclaimed Pendleton. "The best witnesses you could possibly have. It's too lucky for words! Your rehabilitation is effected and Porshinger is undone. He will be cut by everyone and expelled from the Clubs. It is a social Waterloo for him."
"But it doesn't relieveyouof his revenge," she objected. "It will make him all the more determined to square off."
"Don't let that bother you, dear—I mean, Stephanie!" he laughed. "You're free of him—he won't try his dirty tricks on you—and I'm a man, and it doesn't matter. I can meet him half way and then some. In fact, I'm hoping he will be kind enough to give me the opportunity."
"I'm afraid for you, Montague—indeed I'm afraid!" she repeated.
"Nonsense, little woman. Don't you worry about me—I tell you there is no need.You'reout of it now.—I admit Iwasmightily concerned for you; that is why I didn't favor Gladys' and your scheme to placate him: because it involved you. He could have made it most unpleasant—as he did—and as he didn't, thanks to Mrs. Postlewaite."
He put her in her car, with the courteous deference he always had for a woman—were she but a beggar who accosted him on the street—and which was always just a shade more courteous and more deferential toher.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked, as he bent over her hand.
"This evening, if you wish!" she smiled, with just the faintest pressure of her fingers.
"You are very good," he murmured. "I most assuredlydowish."
"I'll expect you then—at nine, Montague. I want to—talk over—matters—Amherst, you know."
"At nine!" he answered, and the car rolled away.
Pendleton went in through the Club-house, and out again on the east piazza where Miss Chamberlain was playing Auction. She saw him coming and motioned to a chair beside her. Mrs. Postlewaite was a little way off, holding her usual court. Gladys glanced toward her and smiled.
"We all know it, Montague," she said. "Everyone in the Club-house and on the links knows it—andit has been telephoned to town, I dare say: Mrs. Postlewaite asked Stephanie to have tea with her here. It's the sensation of the—year."
"And for a sensation mighty satisfactory," Pendleton returned.
"Those of us who have been for Stephanie all through can take courage—our course has been approved by the ultimate authority," Gladys observed. "If we hadn't been staunch for our friend, the Queen wouldn't have come around."
"She'll hear you, Gladys," warned Mrs. Burleston.
"Let her—I would confide the same thing to her, if she asked me.—I've never come under her authority. I'll double your three hearts, Helen."
"By!" said Miss Tazewell, after a pause to consider whether she should take her partner out of it.
"By!" said Miss Rutledge promptly.
"I'll go back—your lead, Gladys," said Mrs. Burleston.
There was silence until the last card fell—Mrs. Burleston had made good her contract.
"That's ninety-six below, and a hundred above, and simple honors," said Miss Chamberlain, as she put down the score. "You had a bully hand, Helen."
On the next deal, Miss Rutledge was the declarant. Gladys spread out her cards; then, with a significant look at Pendleton, arose and moved out to the rail.
"What else have you to tell me?" she said, as he joined her.
"How did you know?" he smiled.
"I guessed it—from your manner!" she laughed. "A woman's intuition, if you please."
"It's more than tea for Stephanie," he said. "You have only part of it.—The Porshinger matter is won."
"He has plead guilty!" she marvelled.
"Better than that."
"What—better! How can that be?"
"Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield witnessed the whole episode, and have voluntarily come to Stephanie's assistance—to deny Dolittle's story, and with an offer to testify against Porshinger."
"Oh, delightful!" Gladys cried. "The Queen P's actually witnessed the whole occurrence?"
"Yes—from the little balcony which, you know, runs along one side of the conservatory."
"Does Lorraine know it?"
"No."
"Where is Stephanie?"
"Gone home."
She looked at him thoughtfully.
He looked at her and smiled.
"I'm sorry for you, Montague.—Lorraine will be the more determined than ever on a reconciliation."
"I've a bit more news," he replied seriously. "I was so pleased with the Postlewaite matter it clean escaped me, for the moment.—I've just heard that Amherst is back."
"Here—in town!" she cried.
"So I understand—he arrived this morning."
She held up her hands helplessly.
"What a complication!" she breathed.—"What will Lorraine do, do you suppose?"
"I give it up," he replied, with a shake of his head. "No one can depend on him for anything—but if he is still of the mind he was this afternoon, it would be just as well for him and Amherst not to meet."
"We're waiting, Gladys!" came Mrs. Burleston's voice.
"Coming!" Gladys replied.—"You'll do your best to keep them apart, Montague?"
"Yes—I'll do what I can; but I may have a devil of a job, and then not succeed. Lorraine's himself again, you know—which means he is as erratic as a crazy man. However——"
"Where is he now, do you know?"
"He said he was tired and was going home."
"Then let us hope he'll stay there until morning," she said.
"And that some kind friend won't call him up and put him wise," he added—and they went back to the game.
"Montague, will you either stay here or go away—faraway, that is," Dorothy Tazewell requested—"down to the grill-room would be about right."
"Wherefore this happy consideration!" Pendleton laughed.
"So we can continue our game, stupid, without the attendant interruption of having Gladys desert us every time she's dummy."
"By which I might infer——" Pendleton began.
"Whatever you wish that is complimentary—or otherwise; it's a free for all.—Two royal!" and she smiled at him with roguish demureness.
"I'm squelched," said he, with affected sadness. "Iwasjust about to ask you all to take dinner with me here this evening, but of course it is out of the question now. I'm awfully sorry it happened, you know. It's the——"
"Go 'long with you, Montague!" Mrs. Burleston exclaimed. "How can one remember the cards while that sirenly seductive voice of yours is playing on the diapason."
"Yes, run along, Montague!" agreed Dorothy—"or you'll have to pay my losses; it's a quarter of a cent a point, too, and I can't afford to lose."
"Me for the tall timber," he declined.
"Mercy! Montague," Gladys exclaimed. "One would think you were Warwick Devereux."
"I was wondering if anyone would recognize the impersonation!" Pendleton laughed.—"What is it," he asked, as a servant stopped beside him and stood at attention.
"Mr. Cameron is waiting in the grill-room, sir," the man replied.
Pendleton nodded in dismissal.
"How about having the dinner to-morrow evening?" he asked.—"Good! That's very nice indeed—will seven-thirty be convenient? All right—seven-thirty it is."
The grill was comfortably filled; the talk was ofbut one subject:—Amherst's return, what it signified and what would follow.
"It's too late to kill him," said Devonshire, as Pendleton entered the room, "but if I were Lorraine, I should get me a good hefty raw-hide and beat him within an inch of his life, paying particular attention to his handsome face. When I was through with him there wouldn't be much beauty left, I can tell you."
"But can Lorraine do it—has he the strength?" asked Smithers.
"In such a case the rightness of his cause would give him strength," Devonshire returned—"and any decent chap who was handy would lend him assistance if it was needed."
"The trouble is with Lorraine himself, I think," Carstairs remarked. "It isn't that he hasn't the nerve, but that he hasn't the determination, the stability, the something essential in the man whodoes. I fancy he has changed his mind on the subject of what to do in this matter as often as he has changed his clothes. He is a queer compound—none other like him."
"And yet he is a mighty attractive fellow at times," Smithers observed.—"It wasn't until this Amherst affair that he revealed anything particularly vacillating."
"He never before had occasion to reveal it," Devonshire explained. "The trial came—and he wasn't equal to it. Some of us might not be equal to it either, if we were in similar case. It's a mighty difficult case, my friends. Moreover, Lorraine hasdone the decent thing now—he is anxious for a reconciliation."
"It's decent, after a fashion," Smithers agreed—"it would be decenter if he first followed your notion and beat up Amherst—beat him until he couldn't walk; half killing would be about right, to my mind."
"This is all very well by way of discussion but what by way of prophecy?" said Carstairs. "I'll lay a bottle of wine that Lorraine doesn't do a damn thing."
"So will I," Smithers agreed. "That is why Amherst has the courage to come back. He despises the man he has wronged."
"He may be fooled," said Devonshire.
"I trust he will be," Carstairs remarked—"but I doubt mightily."
"You hear what they are saying, Pendleton?" Cameron asked, with a jerk of his head toward the other table.
"I hear," said Pendleton. "Have you seen Lorraine today?"
"No—only talked with him over the telephone."
"He hasn't heard of Amherst's return?"
"He didn't mention it."
"The evening papers will likely have it."
"I suppose so—I didn't know of it until I came up here—where it's the event of the day."
"You can't much blame them—knowing all the circumstances and the parties as club-mates do."
"What doyouthink Lorraine will do—anything?" asked Cameron.
Pendleton carefully knocked the ashes from his cigarette and studied the bare coal a moment.
"I think," said he slowly, "that it would be just as well for Amherst to keep out of Lorraine's way."
"You do?" said Cameron quietly. "Why?"
"Because Lorraine seems to have become possessed of two ideas—and like all weak men he is becoming obsessed by them. One idea is to effect a reconciliation with Stephanie; the other is to be revenged on Amherst. I have tried to persuade him that if he would do Stephanie a service, he must do Amherst no physical hurt—it would simply revive the scandal and react upon her, and probably terminate any chance he has to have her return to him."
"What chance has he?" Cameron asked. "None, to my mind."
"Not the slightest in the world, to my mind either," Pendleton replied. "But the question now is, I think, which idea will prevail:—the hope of reconciliation with Stephanie, or vengeance on Amherst. I admit I won't even attempt to predict. It will depend on the circumstances of the moment."
"With the chances in favor of violence," said Cameron instantly. "I fear it—I've feared it ever since Stephanie's return. Why the devil does Lorraine do everything too late?"
"It is the nature of the animal, I suppose. Some men seem to do everything backward."
"What do you say to both of us going to see him after dinner, and—well, trying what we can do? He may listen to us."
"If you wish I'll go—but I've given him my views on it once to-day; and while he seemed to agree, I know it was only half-heartedly. However, it will do no harm for you to go.—Amherst's return may have set him wild. Lorraine at his worst is a crazy irresponsible—and I'm rather inclined to look for the worst."
"Very good!" said Cameron. "Now about this miserable Porshinger affair. We——"
"The Porshinger affair is easy," Pendleton interrupted. "Mrs. Postlewaite has cleared that up beautifully—and Stephanie also."
"What!" exclaimed Cameron, "Mrs. Postlewaite?"
Pendleton nodded.
"Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield were witnesses of Porshinger's assault on Stephanie," he replied—and he told the story.
When it was finished, Cameron's face wore a most satisfied smile.
"It is the end of Porshinger!"—he laughed, "he is busted for good. The case will never come to trial. Stephanie is completely vindicated by Mrs. Postlewaite's story. She need never think of him again. She has been a bit foolish in her conduct toward him, but that is only a passing matter, and will be lost in the general satisfaction at his complete discomfiture. What a fool he was—to risk his social life on a single throw!"
"He didn't imagine he was risking it," Pendleton rejoined. "He thought that she was dazzled by hismoney and quite ready to be his. The fellow is simply drunk with his financial success. He thinks anything is within his reach; that it is simply a matter of price, and he has the price. As between him and Amherst there is mighty little choice. Amherst is a seducer; Porshinger is a purchaser who trades on the other's crime to procure a victim."
"The truth is, Lorraine would be justified in killing both," Cameron declared.
"I think that I should start with Porshinger," said Pendleton—"to me he is the more contemptible and the more criminal. To try to drag a woman down after she has made a mistake, and is endeavoring to make amends for the past! Such a man is a monster."
"You're right!" said Cameron, "right as gospel! And yet Lorraine may not—because in Amherst's case he dallied too long, and in Porshinger's, the law would view it as absolutely unjustifiable."
"Oh, surely!" Pendleton responded, "I know that you're not recommending violence—just stating what, to my mind as well as to yours, the circumstances warrant."
"I wanted to discuss Lorraine's case with you, but it isn't necessary now," Cameron remarked. "Porshinger will be only too glad if it is dropped. Lorraine can't object, for Stephanie is cleared of Dolittle's nasty story."
"Our trouble, it seems, isn't any longer with Porshinger, but with Amherst and Lorraine—either to keep them apart or to persuade the latter to besensible," Pendleton observed. "I confess that, if it were not for Stephanie, I wouldn't meddle in the affair. They might go their own gait. I'm disgusted with Lorraine."
"I don't blame you," the other nodded. "But, you see, Lorraine is a client of mine and I've always been fond of him, though naturally I don't approve of his course with Stephanie."
"You can go to him this evening—I shall refrain," Pendleton decided. "If you need me for anything, I'll be at the Mourrailles'. For heaven's sake! don't tell him—he may veer around and get notions as to me.—Let us have dinner. Shall I order, or do you want anything in particular?"
"Only a pint of Sparkling Burgundy—anything will do for the rest," Cameron answered. Then he raised his hand for the captain of the waiters. "Will you please have Mr. Lorraine telephoned at his apartments that I'll be in to see him on an important matter at eight o'clock this evening."
Stephanie dressed with more than usual care that evening. It was the first time in two years that she had really wanted to dress for anyone—to look her best as a woman.
The gown she chose—after much deliberation—was black, unrelieved by any color and made severely plain; against it the dead white of her arms and shoulders shone like ivory. She stood a moment looking in her mirror; then she took from her jewel-case a sapphire necklace—smiled at it in recollection—and clasped it about her slender throat. They were the only jewels she wore—even her rings were laid aside. She wondered ifhewould notice the sapphires—and the absence of all other ornaments. It had beenhiswedding gift, and he might have forgotten—yet she would wear it on the chance that he would remark it and remember. She might not permit him any liberties, but she would grant him the privilege of inferences.
She laughed softly to herself—and ran her fingers caressingly over the jewels. His wedding gift! The only one, of all the hundreds, that she cared for now—the only one that did not suggest to her the memories of the past—of her mistake in choosing—of her broken vows—her hideous experience. But his sapphires brought only the joy of living—the hopethat some day, by some means, her freedom would be won and she would be permitted to yield herself and all she had to him. For she realized now—as she had long known, indeed—that he was the only man she cared for—the only man who cared for her and had cared through all the horrible past.
She took one last look in the mirror—at the tall, slender figure in the clinging black gown; the lovely neck and arms and shoulders; the flawless face with its proud, cold beauty, that to-night was warm with tenderness; the glorious hair piled high on the aristocratic head like a gleaming crown of gold—and then went slowly down the stairway, as joyous as though she were to be married to Pendleton that very night.
All through dinner—which she had alone, Mrs. Mourraille being absent—she thought of Montague. Not hopelessly as heretofore, but with a satisfied anticipation of present property. She did not attempt to analyze it—indeed, she was quite aware it did not admit of analysis; it was the intuitive knowledge that comes at rare intervals to women—never to men.
Near the end of the meal, the desk 'phone in the living-room rang. The butler answered it. In a moment he returned.
"Mr. Pendleton wants to know, madam, if you will be at home at a quarter to nine this evening?" he said.
"Say to Mr. Pendleton that I shall be here and very glad to see him!" Stephanie replied.
The man went to deliver the message.
"Montague is impatient," she reflected, "though,as I never before knew him to be impatient, he must have a very good reason for coming a quarter of an hour earlier.... Yet why did he telephone at all—why didn't he just come?—Tompkins, was that all Mr. Pendleton said?"
"Yes, madam!" Tompkins answered, "but, if you please, it wasn't Mr. Pendleton himself; leastwise, I didn't recognize his voice."
She nodded in answer and finished her ice.
"I'll have coffee on the piazza," she said, and arose.
As she did so, the ship's clock in the hallway chimed one bell.
"Half after eight!" she thought. "Fifteen minutes more until I see him. I'm as nervously anticipatory as a débutante about to receive her first proposal. Whatisthe matter with me! I'm actually becoming afraid to meet him—to meet an old friend—the best friend a woman ever had!"
She laughed to herself, and sat down where, from the electric light at the corner, she could see his car draw up at the curb.
Tompkins brought her coffee, served it, and was dismissed. She drank two cups eagerly—to steady her nerves—then poured a third, and sipped it slowly.... Presently the butler came out to deliver a telephone message from Miss Chamberlain; when she turned again, she was just in time to catch sight of a man coming up the walk and almost at the steps.
She sprang up and glided quickly into the house. She wanted to meet Pendleton in the brightness ofthe living-room rather than in the subdued light of the piazza. She wanted him to have the benefit of the first impression. She was quite aware of her exquisite loveliness—more alluring to-night than ever before. And of the sapphires—hissapphires alone adorning her. She flung herself in an easy chair, crossed her silken knees with fetching abandon and caught up a magazine.
There was no ring at the bell, however—and she waited, impatiently. He should have rung—should be in the hall-way now—and yet Tompkins was not even come front! It was very strange!—Possibly he had gone around to the piazza, thinking that she might be there. She half turned—one hand on the chair arm, the other on her knee—and glanced toward the piazza door.
There came a step—and a smile of happiest greeting sprang to her face—to be chilled the next instant into frigidity.
"You!" she exclaimed indignantly.—"You!"
Garrett Amherst bowed low.
He was a trifle over the medium height and slender, with black hair just turning gray, and a face that women would call handsome, but that men would call effeminate because too flawless. The eyes had a peculiarly cynical expression about the corners, and the clean-shaven lips, while firm set and classic, were full and red.
"Yes, I!" he answered, and the voice was wondrously low and musical. "I am fortunate indeed to find you alone, Stephanie."
"I cannot say as much, Mr. Amherst!" she scorned.
He laughed lightly. "Time was when you were more than glad when I found youalone."
She glided swiftly toward the bell—but he was before her and blocked the way.
"Don't!" he said gently. "Consider—and don't. You may call—yes, you may even ring for the servants—and what, think you, will be the inference withme—me alone with you here—by appointment?"
"My servants never infer what it is impossible for them to believe!" she spurned. "They know I left you in disgust with myself and loathing for you—you unspeakable poltroon."
He put out his hand as though to stay her.
"You misunderstand, Stephanie dear," he said softly. "I've not come to reproach you, nor to find fault, nor to cast up the few unpleasant things in an exquisite past. I've come——" he took a step toward her—"I've come, dearest, to beseech you to forgive—to come back to me—to let me make amends." He held out his arms. "You're the only woman in the world for me—I know it now—I knew it as soon as you had left me. I've come clear from India to tell you—to take you away with me. Won't you come, dearest, won't you come?"
"You would dare!" she exclaimed tensely. "You would——"
"I would dare the gates of hell for you, sweetheart!—to hold you once again in my arms, topillow your dear head upon my shoulder, to bury my face in your ruddy tresses, to have you——"
"What folly—what silly folly!" she interrupted. "I am no longer your paramour, thank God! I am trying to be an honest woman—to regain the place I lost by reason of your seductions and false tongue. Do you think I would forfeit it again even though I loved you to distraction?"
"Youdolove me, Stephanie—you——"
"I loathe you!—your honeyed words and pretty beauty that once led me astray are now simply reminders of your abominations, and the proofs of your depravity.—I ask you to leave the house at once, Mr. Amherst."
"You mean it?" he whispered. "You actually mean it?"
"Idomean it," she replied. "It may be difficult for such as you to comprehend—butI mean it. Now go."
He looked her in the eyes a moment, then he humbly bowed his head.
"I will go," he said contritely. "I will go——"
Suddenly he leaped forward—and his arms closed around her, pinioning her hands to her sides.
"But I will kiss you another time before I go—and maybe I shall——"
She fought him silently—unwilling even for the servants to see her in this man's embrace. She evaded his every attempt at her lips—she struggled—she buried her hair in his face—she felt his breath on her neck—she was carried slowly across the room—herhair burst free and fell in waves around her, enveloping her face and shielding it somewhat from his attempts.
"You siren!" he panted. "You siren!"
"You devil!" she gasped. "You worse than devil!—Loose me! I tell you—loose me!"
"I'll loose you," he breathed,—"I'll loose you—when I've had—my——"
He raised her in his arms and bore her toward a couch—crushing her to him in a mad ecstasy that left her well-nigh senseless.
She felt herself strike the couch—felt herself flung upon it—tried to cry out and could not! With a final desperate effort that exhausted her last atom of strength, she strove to thrust him from her.
But he only laughed—and shifted his hold.
"Not yet, sweetheart!" he panted.—"Not yet——"
She closed her eyes in helplessness and sickening fear. It was useless—she could not——
Then she felt Amherst's grip on her torn loose. She opened her eyes—to see him and Harry Lorraine grappled in furious fight.
She struggled up—and watched—fascinated and silent; forgetting either to summon help or to flee.
Round the room the men reeled, locked in each other's arms—staggering against chairs and tables—hurling them aside—overturning them—crushing the bric-a-brac under foot. They were down and up, and down and up—they rolled over and over, fighting without method—Lorraine striking wildly in the furyof insane rage, which gave him strength but deprived him of the power of thought. Amherst—taken unaware and weakened by his unhallowed passion, but with a trifle more deliberation in his manner, prevented the other from doing him serious harm.... Both had been cut by the broken ornaments or by corners of the furniture. Neither man spoke. Lorraine's face was set in the fury of hate—Amherst's in the fury of desperation. Lorraine was venting the pent up wrongs of months of brooding—Amherst was fighting for his life! he had no doubt of the other's intent to kill. He was trying to get away—to break his assailant's hold.... But through it all Lorraine managed some way, somehow, to keep his hold—and slowly to work his hands toward Amherst's throat—one of them was already there. Amherst made a frantic effort to unloose it. They staggered down the room—swept a cabinet bare of antiques—swayed a moment back and forth—then went down, Amherst underneath.
As they writhed on the floor amid the fallen débris, Lorraine's hand touched a heavy, silver candlestick.—He seized it by the stem—there was a flash—and with all the strength of his insane fury, he brought it down on his enemy's head.
Amherst's arms relaxed—his eyes closed and the blood gushed forth. Again the candlestick rose, and fell; this time squarely on the temple—and with crunch of metal on bone, the fresh spurt of blood, Amherst's body crumpled into an inert mass.
Once more Lorraine's arm went up——
"Don't hit him again!" said Pendleton quietly—yet sharp as the crack of a whip. "You are striking a dead man, Lorraine."
The candlestick slipped from Lorraine's fingers and he staggered up—the frenzied look on his face slowly faded into one of unrelenting comprehension.
"Yes!" said he, glancing down unmoved at Amherst's body. "He is dead—damn him! I'm glad I killed him! The beast!—— Thank God! I came in time, dear," he exclaimed, turning to Stephanie.
But Stephanie had fainted.
Lorraine sprang toward her—to be brought up by Pendleton's quick command:
"Let her alone for a moment—she has only fainted—and tell me how this happened."
Lorraine, suddenly weak, collapsed on a chair.
"Never mind—I'll get some brandy——"
"No—I'm all right," Lorraine said huskily.—"It is well for you to hear before she wakes.—I was restless after dinner. I didn't wait for Cameron; I went for a walk, leaving word for him to remain until I returned. I don't know how long I walked, but presently I was aware that I was before Stephanie's home.—The lights were burning—the shades were drawn. I went in on the piazza, with no purpose, nothing but a desire to see her—you understand? As I passed this window, I noticed the door to the enclosed piazza was ajar.—I pushed it open and entered. I heard a queer sound in this room, like persons in a struggle. I dashed across—and saw—saw Stephanie flung uponthat couch, and Amherst bending over her. For an instant I was paralyzed! I saw Stephanie try to force him back; heard him laugh in triumph and say something. Then action came to me and I hurled myself upon him. We fought all over the room—you can see how we fought—he to get loose, I to get a grip on his throat and choke the life out of him. I must have had the strength of a demon, for Amherst, I think, is the stronger man. How often we fell, I do not know—sometimes he was under, sometimes I was. And all the while, 'Kill him! Kill him!' was ringing in my ears.... We went down again, I on top.—My hand touched the candlestick—I grasped it and struck.—I would be striking him yet if you had not stopped me." He got up slowly, his face unnaturally flushed.—"I'll go to the police station and give myself up. Let the carrion lie where he is until the officers come. You look to Stephanie—it's better——"
He staggered, put his hands to his head, swayed a moment, then pitched forward to the floor, and lay quiet.
"Good God!" cried Pendleton.
Springing to Lorraine's side, he tore open his waistcoat and placed a hand over his heart—no beat responded. He listened!—It was silent.
Lorraine was dead.
He looked at Stephanie—she was still insensible. What should he do? Two dead men, an unconscious woman, and himself! What was best forher?
An instant he thought.—Then he strode across, and was gathering her in his arms to bear her from the room when she opened her eyes.
She gave a gasp—saw who held her—the startled look vanished—and she smiled.
"Montague!" she said weakly. "Montague! How did you get here—how——"
She caught sight of the two forms on the floor—stared—then shuddered in sudden remembrance.
"Dead!—Both dead!" she whispered. "Let me down, dear—I'm not——"
"You must come away," he said, putting her down but keeping his arm around her. "This is no place for you, sweetheart."
She suffered his arm to remain, and stood looking at Lorraine—Amherst she had recoiled from in horror!
"They killed each other?" she questioned faintly.
"No—Lorraine killed Amherst—and then was stricken either by apoplexy or a heart attack—the victim of his own frenzied emotions."
"I see!" she whispered.—"I see!"
"Come outside, dear—you need air, and I must summon a physician and the police."
"Can't we do—anything for Harry?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"At least, we can put him on the couch."
"It is wiser not."
"Must we let him lie on the floor?"
"Since he is dead, it is best not to disturbanything until the police come," he replied—and slowly led her from the room.
As he did so, steps crossed the piazza and the entrance bell rang.
"They must not enter, Montague!" Stephanie exclaimed—"they must not enter!"—She sank on a chair.—"Go—tell Tompkins I am not at home to anyone!"
He met the butler at the rear of the hall.
"Mrs. Lorraine is not at home—whoever it is must be sent away," he directed.
"Yes, Mr. Pendleton!" the man bowed.
Passing the doorway to the living-room, Tompkins glanced in—and straightway his immobility of countenance vanished. He stopped, staring—terror and amazement blended on his face.
"The door, sir, the door!" said Pendleton sharply.
"Yes, sir—yes, sir!" the butler answered—and sprang to obey.
"Is Mr. Pendleton here?" came Cameron's voice.
"No, sir; Mr.——" Tompkins began—when Pendleton cut him short.
"Come in, Cameron," said he, "you're just the man I want."
"Lorraine didn't keep his appointment with me," explained Cameron, as he entered. "And——"
"Lorraine is here!" Pendleton answered, drawing the other over to the living-room door.
"Good God!" was Cameron's amazed cry.—"Lorraine!and who is the other?—Amherst!Amherst!Dead!—what does it mean?"
"They both are dead," said Pendleton. "Lorraine killed Amherst with yonder candlestick—and then, a moment after, was stricken by apoplexy or a heart attack."
"You were here?" Cameron marvelled.
"I came in just as Amherst received the fatal blow.—Lorraine was explaining how it all happened when he himself was seized and died instantly."
"And Stephanie?"
Pendleton turned sharply to the butler, who was standing open-mouthed behind them, and said:—
"Tompkins, call up Dr. Hubbard at once and ask him to come over immediately."
He waited until the man had gone and the door was closed behind him—then he lowered his voice.
"Stephanie was here through it all—she had fainted on the couch."
"Where is she now?"
"In the piazza-room!"
"How much does she know?"
"Everything."
"Who else knows it?"
"No one."
"Not even Tompkins?"
"Not even Tompkins. He and the other servants were at dinner—their dining-room is in the rear downstairs."
"You are positive? They," with an expressivegesture toward the floor, "must have made considerable noise."
"If you had seen Tompkins' face when he came to answer your ring, you would not doubt," Pendleton replied.
"Then why bring Stephanie into the affair? Let her know nothing—let her be upstairs—anywhere—so long as she isn't onthis floor.—How didyouenter?" he asked suddenly.
"Through the piazza-room."
"Are you prepared to take the risk of being—implicated—to relieve Stephanie?" Cameron asked.
"I understand," Pendleton answered. "I am willing to take the risk."
"And Stephanie can—if the extremity arise," Cameron went on, "tell the facts and relieve you. We may have to confide in the front office, but I think even that will not be necessary. Fix up the story with her while I notify the police. I'll use the upstairs telephone."
"What do you want me to tell?" asked Stephanie, entering the hall from the dining-room door.
She had regained her composure—and save for a slight flush on her cheeks she appeared as calm and self-contained as ever.