Chapter VI.The Girl in GrayThe following afternoon I had an engagement for tea with Mrs. Furneau. She had told me to come early, ostensibly because we were to have a quiet talk over some plans for amateur theatricals. But since our second meeting I had made a good deal of an effort to please her, and our friendship was on a more or less intimate basis at this time.It had not been necessary to pretend to much admiration, for Mrs. Furneau was a charming woman. But where Margaret’s fate might be even slightly concerned I had none of the scruples I might otherwise have felt. Therefore, I had made my admiration for the lady more evident than was perhaps necessary, hoping for the time when our growing intimacy might give me the opportunity to question her suddenly about my sister and possibly learn something, if there were anything to learn, for my former suspicion of her had somehow faded, as I knew her better.So, about half-past three, I pulled myself together, assumed a most cynical and disillusioned expression, and set forth for her house.Our conversation that afternoon, before the arrival of her other guests, was of a more or less personal nature and consisted mainly of subtleties, of which the lady was a past mistress.Once, however, she referred to the subject never absent from my thoughts: “Jack,” she said, after a pause and speaking a little wistfully, I thought, “have you really given up all hope of finding your sister?”She reached out and touched my hand delicately, to soften the reminder if she could.I nodded. “What’s the use? I’ve looked everywhere and it’s hopeless. Don’t let’s talk about it. Don’t worry about it, but let me go to the devil in my own way.” I smiled bitterly.I glanced away from her, but when I looked back again her eyes were on me with a keenness of scrutiny that I had never seen before in them. There was a little furrow between her pretty brows too. But she contented herself with—“It doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”“Perhaps not!” I retorted. “But when there isn’t a single shred of a trace to go on, what can I do?”She hesitated a moment. “I didn’t ask just to hurt you. I expect Mrs. Fawcette here this afternoon, later on. It was at her house that I took Margaret to luncheon that wretched day, you remember. And I did not know whether you would rather see her again and perhaps question her further, or go away before she comes. She went away, you remember, soon after that, on one of her globe-trotting jaunts or something. And I thought, perhaps——”“Oh, I don’t mind seeing her again, if that’s what you mean,” I answered, though I had never even thought of questioning Mrs. Fawcette very closely, except to verify the fact that Margaret had left with Mrs. Furneau a little after five. And I realized at that moment that perhaps I had been careless there.“But as for questioning her again,” I added, “what’s the use?”Helen Furneau shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I thought I’d tell you, anyway.”“I appreciate that,” I told her.“She’s a queer woman,” Mrs. Furneau went on. “She used to be ultra-conservative, before her husband died. But since she’s been wandering around the globe, with nothing in particular to occupy her, she’s taken on a crowd that even I would call queer. And I don’t believe anybody ever accused me of conservatism.” She laughed whimsically.Naturally I pricked up my ears at that, though I don’t think I showed it. Anyway, I turned the conversation back to my charming hostess a moment later.Presently the guests began to arrive. They were the usual mixed lot of artists and professionals, with a rich sprinkling of foreigners, for whom Helen Furneau had a particularpenchant.I was deep in cynical platitudes with a round-bodied and rat-eyed little cubist who looked as if he needed scrubbing, when Helen called my name.She stood at my elbow and, turning, I found myself facing the loveliest girl I had ever seen. She was dressed in gray—clinging, filmy stuff—with a big gray floppy hat. I took that much in before Mrs. Furneau completed the introduction. Then the girl’s big gray eyes met mine gravely, lingered a moment taking me in, and fell away from mine with just a hint of shyness. She was obviously quite young and obviously out of place in thatgalère.I was introduced in turn to her aunt, a fussy and voluble person, by all external signs; of the kind that rushes in and so forth. That over, I turned to the girl again with an inward sigh of relief. If I must talk to rat-eyed cubists for the sake of my search, there could be no harm in a few moments off duty in such obviously wholesome company.During my introduction to her aunt, Miss Van Cleef had stood close to our hostess, and while I made the remark or two to her aunt which convention required, the girl was talking to Mrs. Furneau. She was speaking as I joined them.“. . . most wonderful stuff I ever tasted. You must go and get them to give you some. Theywerefunny people, though. I don’t believe I like them very——”She stopped as I came up to them. Clearly she and my hostess were on the best of terms.The three of us talked about nothing in particular for a moment, and then Mrs. Furneau hurried away to greet newer arrivals and I led the girl to a seat.She came from Utica, I learned, had never been in New York before this visit to her aunt, and before long I had her embarked on a description of her impressions of the people she had met in her aunt’s circle. In the meantime I studied the lovely face. From the point of view of a painter of portraits the features were almost perfect. And with all the beauty of wide gray eyes, straight, delicate nose and crimson, sweetly curving lips, she had that added something—expression, spirit, feeling, call it what you will—that made the lovely features really beautiful. I could hardly credit her, even as I sat and watched her.Presently she faltered and colored faintly and I drew my eyes hastily away. Then, more to cover the momentary embarrassment than anything else, I reverted to the remark which I had overheard.“Won’t you tell me what was the most wonderful stuff you ever tasted?” I inquired.She laughed gayly. “Oh, my aunt took, me to a funny party this afternoon, before we came here. There were all sorts of queer people there, and I—I didn’t care for it very much. But they gave me some of the most wonderful tea you can imagine. It almost reconciled me to the people for a while. I felt sort of dreamy, as though I loved the whole world. And then afterwards”—she laughed a little shyly—“I liked them all less than ever. There must have been something queer in it.”My first thought was delight at the girl’s entire ingenuousness. But a moment later the full significance of her words came to me, and I realized that here might be the clew for which we had been searching for so long.“How extraordinary!” I laughed. “But are you sure that it was the tea and not just a sudden mood?”My companion shook her head. “No,” she answered positively, “I know the sort of mood you mean, But this was something much more distinct and engrossing. Why, for a little while everything seemed to expand or contract in the queerest way. I’m afraid I can’t explain very well. But everything there—all the people and even the things in the room—seemed to have delightful and wonderful qualities, and—— I’m afraid that doesn’t sound very coherent?” she broke off, laughing.“It is quite coherent,” I responded, “though strange enough, surely. But——” I broke off and looked into her eyes.“But what?”I was silent a moment. “But I wonder,” I went on, “whether I might become socially impossible for a moment and say something serious?”The lovely eyes met mine in frank surprise and inquiry.“. . . and I wonder whether that sort of thing is good for one?” I finished.She laughed. “That’s not very serious, Mr. Clayton. No, I don’t suppose that sort of thing is at all good for one. But you New Yorkers do not make that a criterion of your actions, surely?”“Perhapswedo not!” I answered gravely.“But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t?” she demanded, smiling. “There you go, trying to keep all the privileges for yourselves. I think I like New York and I want lots of privileges!”I laughed. “Do you expect to be here long?” I asked.“About a month, I think.”“Well, you ought to see about enough of New York in that time. And I hereby extend you the freedom of the city with all its privileges. But I hope you will extend me one in return?”At this moment her aunt bustled up to us. “Natalie, my dear, you must come and meet the Jordans. Such dear people andsounusual. Two of my best friends, you know.”She turned to me, beaming. “You will excuse us, Mr. Clayton?”Miss Van Cleef rose gracefully to her feet. In spite of a little momentary trick of shyness now and then, she was clearly a young lady with a good deal of natural poise. She turned to me for an instant, before following her aunt.“And the boon you ask?” she inquired, laughing.“Just to see something of you while you are here,” answered I gravely.Again the lovely eyes met mine in surprise. I tried to make my glance express nothing more than a friendly interest, but it is possible that a little of my growing wonder and admiration showed for an instant.“Natalie!” her aunt called her a little impatiently.My companion colored adorably and dropped her eyes. “I—why, of course, if you—wish it,” she murmured.An instant later she had joined her aunt. But I stood still, conscious of quickening pulses. And for an instant, before I was drawn into the general conversation about me, I forgot my mission there and the work I had set myself to do and became enmeshed in a day-dream, full of vague thoughts and fancies, leading I knew not whither.But not for long. In the middle of a discussion on Freud, my hostess moved past me with a smile that held something of meaning in it, and I looked up to see her welcoming a tall woman, strikingly handsome, whose face I recognized at once.But I should not have recognized her if her face had not been engraved on my memory by the force of association with tragedy. For I remembered Mrs. Fawcette as an ultra-conservative, conventional woman—a woman who was socially powerful and knew it, and one whose speech and attire were as conservative as her views. And now!She wore a long flowing “art” gown of the most amazing shade of orange fading into lavender. She wore long green earrings, hanging nearly to her shoulder. Her chestnut hair, once so beautifully coiffured, now escaped in wisps from beneath her big, flopping hat, and from her head to her heels she was “of art, arty”!But after a second glance I realized that the change in her attire was perhaps not the most striking change after all. The handsome face was still hard—still held something of dominance in its level glance—but the mouth had sagged a little, there were heavy lines under the eyes, the eyes themselves were less clear, and the whole face had deteriorated. It was much like approaching a house, handsome in the distance, only to find it deserted and falling into ruins on closer inspection.As a portrait painter, I have naturally studied faces. But I have never before or since seen so great a change in a face without a definite cause to which the change could be ascribed. It was not a good face, at all events, of that I was very certain.Mrs. Furneau smilingly signed to me to join her, and I was presently shaking hands with Mrs. Fawcette. Her manner was most cordial, but I did not feel that she was particularly glad to see me.“I hear you have been round the world since last we met,” I told her.“Oh, no! Just a fairly long stay in Egypt, a little off the beaten track.”“What enthusiasm!” I remarked. “Life is a poor shabby thing at best, so I don’t see that it matters much where we spend it. But I dare say you enjoyed yourself?”My manner was languid and my words evoked a glance of surprise from my hostess. But I imagine that she took it into her head that my attitude had some sort of a purpose—as indeed it had, though not the humorous one she suspected—for she smiled slightly and moved away.Mrs. Fawcette had found a seat on a sofa while we were talking, and I sat down beside her without an invitation.“Oh, yes, thank you, I enjoyed myself,” she answered a little sharply.“How extraordinary,” I answered; “I thought that faculty was—dead, in most of us.”She turned and stared at me, suspiciously. “Well, it isn’t dead in me, at all events!” she snapped; “although your remarks might imply that you think it ought to be!”I was secretly delighted to find that she had so quick a temper. For I hoped that reaction might loosen her tongue, if there was anything to learn from her.I sat up as though stung. “My dear lady, I had no thought of implying any such thing. If my words sounded discourteous I beg that you will pardon them. To tell you the truth, you may remember that I suffered a terrible loss some months ago, and I’m afraid that that has made me self-centered as well as costing me my own capacity for enjoyment. You remember?”It seemed to me that my companion started slightly, and for an instant my heart stood still with a sudden fierce hope. But she answered smoothly enough:“You poor man, of course I remember it. But surely you found your sister again. I have been away, you see, and——”I shook my head. “No, I never found her—and now I am trying to forget.”I glanced at my companion, but she was looking down at her hands. “You have stopped trying to find her?” she inquired, without looking up.“What is the use?”There was a moment’s silence.Then: “I think, perhaps, you are wise!” said my companion. “After all, she probably ran away with some one and is quite happy.” She looked up at me at last. “And I am sure you will regain your capacity for enjoyment.”Her glance lingered a moment, and for the first time I became aware of a queer fascination of which she seemed to have the power. She was undoubtedly a handsome woman, and her long, narrow eyes could express a great deal in a queer, elusive way.“I feel that I am regaining it momentarily,” I answered. I could have taken her and cheerfully choked her for the callous way in which she had referred to my sister, fascination or no fascination, but that would not have advanced my cause at all. I was beginning to be suspicious of every one, and Mrs. Fawcette had been one of the last people to see Margaret.She smiled into my eyes then, a strange, elusive smile that was yet vaguely repellent. “You are pleased to be facetious,” she said.“Indeed, no. Of all interests a human interest is the keenest. And when that interest is beautiful——” I sighed.I felt her hand touch mine for a fleeting instant. “Come,” she answered, “you must not flirt with me on such short acquaintance!” But she smiled into my eyes.“And when our acquaintance is not so short?” I demanded.She rose to her feet and I got up and faced her, “—If you will permit me to lengthen it,” I added.She laughed provocatively. “Why, then we shall see what we shall see,” she answered.She left me then, and presently I took leave of my hostess and came away. I had learned little or nothing either from Mrs. Fawcette or from any one. But I was anything but ill-pleased with my afternoon. For at least I had paved the way for a closer acquaintance with that rather dangerous-looking lady. And I had learned something of interest from the Girl in Gray. My pulses quickened again reminiscently at the thought and I shook myself impatiently. Such things and such thoughts were not for me until I had solved my problem and found Margaret.Larry met me at my door in high excitement. “Sure ’tis glad I am you’re back agin, sor. That there private ’phone’s been ringing like mad fer the last hour. Ivery minute, Misther Moore wants to know are ye back yit. He must have something important to tell ye, sor. There! There it goes again.”I gave my hat, stick and gloves to Larry and hurried into my bedroom. Yes, the tiny ’phone bell was ringing faintly.“Hello, Moore? This is Clayton. You want me?”“At last,” came Moore’s voice over the wire. “You bet I want you. Clayton, I believe we’re on the right track at last!”“How’s that?”“You remember my telling you about the young drunk I met up on Riverside Drive last night?”“Of course!”“Well, I went up to his place this afternoon—on West 44th Street—and found everything at sixes and sevens. There were a lot of young fellows of his type hanging around in the flat, to say nothing of three or four peroxide blondes, and his man was nearly in tears. It seems this chap can’t be found. He didn’t come home at all last night and they haven’t heard from him. In short, he has disappeared. He had appointments with a lot of them for the morning and afternoon and evening, and one of the beauties remarked tearfully that it wasn’t like Jimmy to break a date with a bit of fluff. But there it is. He’s gone. His valet was just about to get in touch with the police when I left.”“What do you make of it?” I inquired.“I’ll tell you, Clayton. Of course I may be wrong. The young rip may have been worse soused than he looked, and may be sobering up in some local police station. But I don’t think it was that. I didn’t like the way the other fellow looked at him in the cloak-room last night while he was talking about that party. The young fellow didn’t like it either. And he told me that he had been forbidden to talk about that party. I think that that had something to do with his disappearance. Of course all this is only guess-work, but it looks queer, doesn’t it?”“Well,” I answered, “if he disappeared because he talked at that party and he disappeared last night, the people he offended and who gave the party must be fast workers.”“That’s just it. If he has disappeared completely and doesn’t turn up, I think that’s the most probable explanation. And only a well-organized gang could work that fast. So it may be the same gang.”“What about the other fellow? Did you trace him?” I asked.“The man who overheard us? Yes. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to him or get acquainted yet. His name is Vining, as I thought, and he’s a young doctor with independent means. I guess he’s a better cocktail mixer than a surgeon. Has an office on West End Avenue. They say he limits his cases to attractive women. But every one agrees that he is clever.”“I hope he’s not too clever for us!” I answered. “But we can’t tell much about it until we see whether the young man turns up or not. What do you think?”“Well,” Moore answered, “I hate to lose time, but I suppose it’s no use jumping to conclusions. What’s your news?”I told him what had happened to me that afternoon, including my own clew, which I believed I had found in the description of the tea which the Girl in Gray had had.Finally we agreed to follow each his own line for the present, always keeping the other informed of the progress made. Indeed there was little else that we could do as yet.
The following afternoon I had an engagement for tea with Mrs. Furneau. She had told me to come early, ostensibly because we were to have a quiet talk over some plans for amateur theatricals. But since our second meeting I had made a good deal of an effort to please her, and our friendship was on a more or less intimate basis at this time.
It had not been necessary to pretend to much admiration, for Mrs. Furneau was a charming woman. But where Margaret’s fate might be even slightly concerned I had none of the scruples I might otherwise have felt. Therefore, I had made my admiration for the lady more evident than was perhaps necessary, hoping for the time when our growing intimacy might give me the opportunity to question her suddenly about my sister and possibly learn something, if there were anything to learn, for my former suspicion of her had somehow faded, as I knew her better.
So, about half-past three, I pulled myself together, assumed a most cynical and disillusioned expression, and set forth for her house.
Our conversation that afternoon, before the arrival of her other guests, was of a more or less personal nature and consisted mainly of subtleties, of which the lady was a past mistress.
Once, however, she referred to the subject never absent from my thoughts: “Jack,” she said, after a pause and speaking a little wistfully, I thought, “have you really given up all hope of finding your sister?”
She reached out and touched my hand delicately, to soften the reminder if she could.
I nodded. “What’s the use? I’ve looked everywhere and it’s hopeless. Don’t let’s talk about it. Don’t worry about it, but let me go to the devil in my own way.” I smiled bitterly.
I glanced away from her, but when I looked back again her eyes were on me with a keenness of scrutiny that I had never seen before in them. There was a little furrow between her pretty brows too. But she contented herself with—“It doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”
“Perhaps not!” I retorted. “But when there isn’t a single shred of a trace to go on, what can I do?”
She hesitated a moment. “I didn’t ask just to hurt you. I expect Mrs. Fawcette here this afternoon, later on. It was at her house that I took Margaret to luncheon that wretched day, you remember. And I did not know whether you would rather see her again and perhaps question her further, or go away before she comes. She went away, you remember, soon after that, on one of her globe-trotting jaunts or something. And I thought, perhaps——”
“Oh, I don’t mind seeing her again, if that’s what you mean,” I answered, though I had never even thought of questioning Mrs. Fawcette very closely, except to verify the fact that Margaret had left with Mrs. Furneau a little after five. And I realized at that moment that perhaps I had been careless there.
“But as for questioning her again,” I added, “what’s the use?”
Helen Furneau shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I thought I’d tell you, anyway.”
“I appreciate that,” I told her.
“She’s a queer woman,” Mrs. Furneau went on. “She used to be ultra-conservative, before her husband died. But since she’s been wandering around the globe, with nothing in particular to occupy her, she’s taken on a crowd that even I would call queer. And I don’t believe anybody ever accused me of conservatism.” She laughed whimsically.
Naturally I pricked up my ears at that, though I don’t think I showed it. Anyway, I turned the conversation back to my charming hostess a moment later.
Presently the guests began to arrive. They were the usual mixed lot of artists and professionals, with a rich sprinkling of foreigners, for whom Helen Furneau had a particularpenchant.
I was deep in cynical platitudes with a round-bodied and rat-eyed little cubist who looked as if he needed scrubbing, when Helen called my name.
She stood at my elbow and, turning, I found myself facing the loveliest girl I had ever seen. She was dressed in gray—clinging, filmy stuff—with a big gray floppy hat. I took that much in before Mrs. Furneau completed the introduction. Then the girl’s big gray eyes met mine gravely, lingered a moment taking me in, and fell away from mine with just a hint of shyness. She was obviously quite young and obviously out of place in thatgalère.
I was introduced in turn to her aunt, a fussy and voluble person, by all external signs; of the kind that rushes in and so forth. That over, I turned to the girl again with an inward sigh of relief. If I must talk to rat-eyed cubists for the sake of my search, there could be no harm in a few moments off duty in such obviously wholesome company.
During my introduction to her aunt, Miss Van Cleef had stood close to our hostess, and while I made the remark or two to her aunt which convention required, the girl was talking to Mrs. Furneau. She was speaking as I joined them.
“. . . most wonderful stuff I ever tasted. You must go and get them to give you some. Theywerefunny people, though. I don’t believe I like them very——”
She stopped as I came up to them. Clearly she and my hostess were on the best of terms.
The three of us talked about nothing in particular for a moment, and then Mrs. Furneau hurried away to greet newer arrivals and I led the girl to a seat.
She came from Utica, I learned, had never been in New York before this visit to her aunt, and before long I had her embarked on a description of her impressions of the people she had met in her aunt’s circle. In the meantime I studied the lovely face. From the point of view of a painter of portraits the features were almost perfect. And with all the beauty of wide gray eyes, straight, delicate nose and crimson, sweetly curving lips, she had that added something—expression, spirit, feeling, call it what you will—that made the lovely features really beautiful. I could hardly credit her, even as I sat and watched her.
Presently she faltered and colored faintly and I drew my eyes hastily away. Then, more to cover the momentary embarrassment than anything else, I reverted to the remark which I had overheard.
“Won’t you tell me what was the most wonderful stuff you ever tasted?” I inquired.
She laughed gayly. “Oh, my aunt took, me to a funny party this afternoon, before we came here. There were all sorts of queer people there, and I—I didn’t care for it very much. But they gave me some of the most wonderful tea you can imagine. It almost reconciled me to the people for a while. I felt sort of dreamy, as though I loved the whole world. And then afterwards”—she laughed a little shyly—“I liked them all less than ever. There must have been something queer in it.”
My first thought was delight at the girl’s entire ingenuousness. But a moment later the full significance of her words came to me, and I realized that here might be the clew for which we had been searching for so long.
“How extraordinary!” I laughed. “But are you sure that it was the tea and not just a sudden mood?”
My companion shook her head. “No,” she answered positively, “I know the sort of mood you mean, But this was something much more distinct and engrossing. Why, for a little while everything seemed to expand or contract in the queerest way. I’m afraid I can’t explain very well. But everything there—all the people and even the things in the room—seemed to have delightful and wonderful qualities, and—— I’m afraid that doesn’t sound very coherent?” she broke off, laughing.
“It is quite coherent,” I responded, “though strange enough, surely. But——” I broke off and looked into her eyes.
“But what?”
I was silent a moment. “But I wonder,” I went on, “whether I might become socially impossible for a moment and say something serious?”
The lovely eyes met mine in frank surprise and inquiry.
“. . . and I wonder whether that sort of thing is good for one?” I finished.
She laughed. “That’s not very serious, Mr. Clayton. No, I don’t suppose that sort of thing is at all good for one. But you New Yorkers do not make that a criterion of your actions, surely?”
“Perhapswedo not!” I answered gravely.
“But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t?” she demanded, smiling. “There you go, trying to keep all the privileges for yourselves. I think I like New York and I want lots of privileges!”
I laughed. “Do you expect to be here long?” I asked.
“About a month, I think.”
“Well, you ought to see about enough of New York in that time. And I hereby extend you the freedom of the city with all its privileges. But I hope you will extend me one in return?”
At this moment her aunt bustled up to us. “Natalie, my dear, you must come and meet the Jordans. Such dear people andsounusual. Two of my best friends, you know.”
She turned to me, beaming. “You will excuse us, Mr. Clayton?”
Miss Van Cleef rose gracefully to her feet. In spite of a little momentary trick of shyness now and then, she was clearly a young lady with a good deal of natural poise. She turned to me for an instant, before following her aunt.
“And the boon you ask?” she inquired, laughing.
“Just to see something of you while you are here,” answered I gravely.
Again the lovely eyes met mine in surprise. I tried to make my glance express nothing more than a friendly interest, but it is possible that a little of my growing wonder and admiration showed for an instant.
“Natalie!” her aunt called her a little impatiently.
My companion colored adorably and dropped her eyes. “I—why, of course, if you—wish it,” she murmured.
An instant later she had joined her aunt. But I stood still, conscious of quickening pulses. And for an instant, before I was drawn into the general conversation about me, I forgot my mission there and the work I had set myself to do and became enmeshed in a day-dream, full of vague thoughts and fancies, leading I knew not whither.
But not for long. In the middle of a discussion on Freud, my hostess moved past me with a smile that held something of meaning in it, and I looked up to see her welcoming a tall woman, strikingly handsome, whose face I recognized at once.
But I should not have recognized her if her face had not been engraved on my memory by the force of association with tragedy. For I remembered Mrs. Fawcette as an ultra-conservative, conventional woman—a woman who was socially powerful and knew it, and one whose speech and attire were as conservative as her views. And now!
She wore a long flowing “art” gown of the most amazing shade of orange fading into lavender. She wore long green earrings, hanging nearly to her shoulder. Her chestnut hair, once so beautifully coiffured, now escaped in wisps from beneath her big, flopping hat, and from her head to her heels she was “of art, arty”!
But after a second glance I realized that the change in her attire was perhaps not the most striking change after all. The handsome face was still hard—still held something of dominance in its level glance—but the mouth had sagged a little, there were heavy lines under the eyes, the eyes themselves were less clear, and the whole face had deteriorated. It was much like approaching a house, handsome in the distance, only to find it deserted and falling into ruins on closer inspection.
As a portrait painter, I have naturally studied faces. But I have never before or since seen so great a change in a face without a definite cause to which the change could be ascribed. It was not a good face, at all events, of that I was very certain.
Mrs. Furneau smilingly signed to me to join her, and I was presently shaking hands with Mrs. Fawcette. Her manner was most cordial, but I did not feel that she was particularly glad to see me.
“I hear you have been round the world since last we met,” I told her.
“Oh, no! Just a fairly long stay in Egypt, a little off the beaten track.”
“What enthusiasm!” I remarked. “Life is a poor shabby thing at best, so I don’t see that it matters much where we spend it. But I dare say you enjoyed yourself?”
My manner was languid and my words evoked a glance of surprise from my hostess. But I imagine that she took it into her head that my attitude had some sort of a purpose—as indeed it had, though not the humorous one she suspected—for she smiled slightly and moved away.
Mrs. Fawcette had found a seat on a sofa while we were talking, and I sat down beside her without an invitation.
“Oh, yes, thank you, I enjoyed myself,” she answered a little sharply.
“How extraordinary,” I answered; “I thought that faculty was—dead, in most of us.”
She turned and stared at me, suspiciously. “Well, it isn’t dead in me, at all events!” she snapped; “although your remarks might imply that you think it ought to be!”
I was secretly delighted to find that she had so quick a temper. For I hoped that reaction might loosen her tongue, if there was anything to learn from her.
I sat up as though stung. “My dear lady, I had no thought of implying any such thing. If my words sounded discourteous I beg that you will pardon them. To tell you the truth, you may remember that I suffered a terrible loss some months ago, and I’m afraid that that has made me self-centered as well as costing me my own capacity for enjoyment. You remember?”
It seemed to me that my companion started slightly, and for an instant my heart stood still with a sudden fierce hope. But she answered smoothly enough:
“You poor man, of course I remember it. But surely you found your sister again. I have been away, you see, and——”
I shook my head. “No, I never found her—and now I am trying to forget.”
I glanced at my companion, but she was looking down at her hands. “You have stopped trying to find her?” she inquired, without looking up.
“What is the use?”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then: “I think, perhaps, you are wise!” said my companion. “After all, she probably ran away with some one and is quite happy.” She looked up at me at last. “And I am sure you will regain your capacity for enjoyment.”
Her glance lingered a moment, and for the first time I became aware of a queer fascination of which she seemed to have the power. She was undoubtedly a handsome woman, and her long, narrow eyes could express a great deal in a queer, elusive way.
“I feel that I am regaining it momentarily,” I answered. I could have taken her and cheerfully choked her for the callous way in which she had referred to my sister, fascination or no fascination, but that would not have advanced my cause at all. I was beginning to be suspicious of every one, and Mrs. Fawcette had been one of the last people to see Margaret.
She smiled into my eyes then, a strange, elusive smile that was yet vaguely repellent. “You are pleased to be facetious,” she said.
“Indeed, no. Of all interests a human interest is the keenest. And when that interest is beautiful——” I sighed.
I felt her hand touch mine for a fleeting instant. “Come,” she answered, “you must not flirt with me on such short acquaintance!” But she smiled into my eyes.
“And when our acquaintance is not so short?” I demanded.
She rose to her feet and I got up and faced her, “—If you will permit me to lengthen it,” I added.
She laughed provocatively. “Why, then we shall see what we shall see,” she answered.
She left me then, and presently I took leave of my hostess and came away. I had learned little or nothing either from Mrs. Fawcette or from any one. But I was anything but ill-pleased with my afternoon. For at least I had paved the way for a closer acquaintance with that rather dangerous-looking lady. And I had learned something of interest from the Girl in Gray. My pulses quickened again reminiscently at the thought and I shook myself impatiently. Such things and such thoughts were not for me until I had solved my problem and found Margaret.
Larry met me at my door in high excitement. “Sure ’tis glad I am you’re back agin, sor. That there private ’phone’s been ringing like mad fer the last hour. Ivery minute, Misther Moore wants to know are ye back yit. He must have something important to tell ye, sor. There! There it goes again.”
I gave my hat, stick and gloves to Larry and hurried into my bedroom. Yes, the tiny ’phone bell was ringing faintly.
“Hello, Moore? This is Clayton. You want me?”
“At last,” came Moore’s voice over the wire. “You bet I want you. Clayton, I believe we’re on the right track at last!”
“How’s that?”
“You remember my telling you about the young drunk I met up on Riverside Drive last night?”
“Of course!”
“Well, I went up to his place this afternoon—on West 44th Street—and found everything at sixes and sevens. There were a lot of young fellows of his type hanging around in the flat, to say nothing of three or four peroxide blondes, and his man was nearly in tears. It seems this chap can’t be found. He didn’t come home at all last night and they haven’t heard from him. In short, he has disappeared. He had appointments with a lot of them for the morning and afternoon and evening, and one of the beauties remarked tearfully that it wasn’t like Jimmy to break a date with a bit of fluff. But there it is. He’s gone. His valet was just about to get in touch with the police when I left.”
“What do you make of it?” I inquired.
“I’ll tell you, Clayton. Of course I may be wrong. The young rip may have been worse soused than he looked, and may be sobering up in some local police station. But I don’t think it was that. I didn’t like the way the other fellow looked at him in the cloak-room last night while he was talking about that party. The young fellow didn’t like it either. And he told me that he had been forbidden to talk about that party. I think that that had something to do with his disappearance. Of course all this is only guess-work, but it looks queer, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” I answered, “if he disappeared because he talked at that party and he disappeared last night, the people he offended and who gave the party must be fast workers.”
“That’s just it. If he has disappeared completely and doesn’t turn up, I think that’s the most probable explanation. And only a well-organized gang could work that fast. So it may be the same gang.”
“What about the other fellow? Did you trace him?” I asked.
“The man who overheard us? Yes. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to him or get acquainted yet. His name is Vining, as I thought, and he’s a young doctor with independent means. I guess he’s a better cocktail mixer than a surgeon. Has an office on West End Avenue. They say he limits his cases to attractive women. But every one agrees that he is clever.”
“I hope he’s not too clever for us!” I answered. “But we can’t tell much about it until we see whether the young man turns up or not. What do you think?”
“Well,” Moore answered, “I hate to lose time, but I suppose it’s no use jumping to conclusions. What’s your news?”
I told him what had happened to me that afternoon, including my own clew, which I believed I had found in the description of the tea which the Girl in Gray had had.
Finally we agreed to follow each his own line for the present, always keeping the other informed of the progress made. Indeed there was little else that we could do as yet.